Iris POV:

Quinn grinned, her fingers already twirling a lock of my hair before I could even think to stop her.

She pinned it into a bun, all quick and neat like she was styling a doll. I sat there, stiff as a board, and shot her a glare.

The irritation that had been simmering beneath the surface was clearly etched across my face, and she noticed.

"Okay, okay," she said, hands flying up in mock surrender. "But seriously, the way you and Ace act around each other? Not exactly 'just friends' behavior."

Her voice was light, teasing.

Mine stayed quiet.

I didn't say anything. What was I supposed to say to that?

She was right, anyway.

Friends didn't look at each other like they wanted to kill each other and kiss each other in the same breath.

Friends didn't make your heart twist so tight you couldn't breathe when they walked away.

Those two days with Ace—if you could even call them that—had been a mess.

A blur.

My head still hadn't caught up. My heart definitely hadn't.

One minute it was pure agony. The next, maybe five minutes of... something good.

Then my brain would ruin it. Like always.

But it was over now. I had to remind myself of that.

Ace and I?

We weren't meant to last.

I'd known it from the very beginning.

The first second I started to like him—stupid me—I should've stopped.

But no.

I got greedy. Selfish. Thought maybe I could have just one thing for myself.

And now?

I wasn't really living.

I wasn't really dying.

Just somewhere in between, stuck.

From now on I'd be a widow in spirit— yeah, sounds dumb, but that's how it felt.

He'd move on.

Find someone new, better, stronger.

And I'd be left behind. Some chapter in his past he'd flip through one night when he was bored.

Five days.

It had been five days since I left the mansion. Five days since I told myself I wasn't going back.

Five days since I'd seen him— and already I was counting them like an idiot.

And Ace...

He was different now.

I wasn't trying to notice, not on purpose. God knew I didn't want to.

But when you've spent so long memorizing someone—every angle, every breath—you notice when things shift.

Whether you want to or not.

It had only been a year. Twenty-five to twenty-six—how much could that even change?

But with him?

Turns out, a lot.

Ace never looked his age, not really. Not when I first met him, not ever.

He always carried himself like he was in his thirties– late thirties, maybe older on some days.

And now... he looked even older.

His eyes hit me first. Dark hazel, but now they looked... heavy. Tired.

Like he hadn't slept in forever. Or like sleep just wasn't working for him anymore.

He was bigger too. Not soft—no, never that. Just... wider.

His shoulders looked broader, chest thicker, like he'd been punishing himself in the gym or somewhere worse.

But there was this tension in the way he held himself— like every muscle was knotted tight and ready to snap.

The veins in his neck and forearms stood out more now—tight, strained.

And his face— God.

His cheekbones looked sharper. Hollow under his eyes. Faint dark circles bruising the skin there.

There was stubble on his jaw—more than usual. The kind of scruff you get when you stop caring if you look clean.

And his hair—longer, messier. It kept falling into his face, and he didn't even bother to push it back.

Like everything in him was wound tight. Too tight.

And still... precious.

And still—damn him—beautiful.

The fact that he said he loved me?

It made my stomach twist, my throat close up.

That was supposed to be all I ever wanted. Right?

I used to imagine it, stupid as that sounds.

Like some fairytale.

But when it really happened, it didn't feel like a fairytale.

It felt... nauseous.

Maybe it's normal to feel this way.

When your one-sided love suddenly loves you back.

When the thing you wanted for so long shows up in your hands and all you can think about is— what if it slips away?

Or worse— what if it cuts me before it does?

But in my case... I was afraid for a different reason.

I didn't want to be used.

Not again.

Not like last time.

Not the way Isaac did.

I didn't want to hand over every piece of myself and then get tossed away once the person got what they wanted.

And if that person was Ace— God. I didn't think I could survive that.

"Iris?"

Quinn's voice broke through my fog.

I blinked. Looked up.

She was watching me now, her teasing smile gone.

Her face was softer, her eyes worried.

Her hand landed on my shoulder, warm.

Too warm for how cold I felt inside.

"You sure you're okay?" she asked gently.

I nodded. Forced a smile that didn't reach my chest, let alone my eyes.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Lie. Big fat lie.

I stood.

Grabbed my bag quick.

Made a fast exit, not wanting to answer more questions.

The air outside hit my face, cool but sticky.

The streets of Newark looked the same.

Same cracked sidewalks. Same too-loud traffic. Same people moving fast, like if they stopped, they'd fall apart.

Five minutes.

That's all it took to get here.

Five stupid minutes.

But God, those five minutes felt heavy. Like my feet weighed a ton or something.

When I pushed the door open and stepped inside, the staff looked up at me—half surprised, half confused.

Like they didn't know who I was anymore.

Okay... That hurts. A bit.

Maybe they forgot what I looked like after five days. Wouldn't blame them, though. Felt like five years to me.

If one of them told me to wash dishes for them today, I swear I'd bite their neck.

I walked further in, pushing through the swinging back door that led from the dining area to the kitchen.

The door smacked against my hip. Ouch.

The early crew was already here—jackets hanging on hooks, kitchen shoes squeaking on the tile.

I went to the cubby and grabbed my apron. Ugh. That criss-cross thing looked as crumpled as I felt.

I hated aprons. They are confusing.

I went to the sink and rolled up my sleeves.

Soap. Lots of it.

Palms, backs, between my fingers, thumbs, wrists. Rinse. Again, just to be sure.

I yanked out a paper towel, dried my hands fast, and tossed it in the bin.

Only then did I touch my station. Wiped it down with sanitizer and a clean cloth, nice and neat.

I glanced at the clock.

Okay... Let's survive.

I reached for the first batch of dough.

It felt soft and heavy under my fingers. The flour stuck to my skin, cool and powdery.

Push, fold, turn.

Push, fold, turn.

"Hey."

I blinked. Looked up. Caleb. Of course.

I looked at him, deadpan. "Hello."

"So how was your family visit?" Caleb asked, dragging my attention back to him.

I almost snorted.

"Hmm. Good," I murmured, sarcasm dripping from every letter.

Yeah, real good. Everyone had looked about ready to tear each other apart when I left in two days. Aiden. Hud.

Even Ace...

God. Don't go there.

"So," Caleb started again, way too casual for my mood. "Are you free tonight?"

I didn't even think twice. Shook my head before he even finished the sentence.

Nope. Not tonight. Not ever.

I just want to go home and become a burrito in my blanket.

"Really? But Quinn told me you both are free today." Caleb frowned, looking confused.

Damn it, Quinn.

I shot her a mental glare so sharp it could slice metal.

She had this thing—signing me up for stuff without asking. Every. Single. Time.

"If she said it, then why are you asking me, genius?" I deadpanned, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

"Great!" Caleb's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Party tonight, then!"

He grinned and walked away, completely ignoring my words.

What an idiot.

I wasn't going to any party. Zero chance.

Loud music, bodies pressing too close, and alcohol– my personal nightmare and my mom's too.

So, no, thank you.

With a sigh, I pressed my hands deeper into the dough.

Push. Fold. Turn.

But no matter how hard I tried, the rhythm couldn't silence the thoughts creeping into the edges of my mind.

Ace.

His face flickered behind my eyelids—the dark hazel eyes, the cracked voice.

Stay, Mini. The words still echoed in my ears.

My hands faltered for a beat, breath hitching.

I shook my head sharply.

No.

Not Again.

But it was easier said than done.

The memory clung like a second skin, impossible to peel away.

The moment I stepped through the door at 7:30, I got that feeling.

You know, the sinking one. The turn-back-now, pretend-you're-dead kind.

Sure enough—there was Caleb.

Sprawled across the old couch like he owned the damn thing, one arm flopped dramatically over the armrest, the other clutching a bag of chips.

The TV was playing something loud and stupid.

I shot him a look that could've curdled milk, my mood going from meh to murder in just two seconds.

Dropped my bag by the door with a thud and headed straight for my room.

And that's when my heart nearly stopped.

Five girls. Five. On my bed.

On my bed.

Laughing, giggling, tossing dresses around like it was their room, their house, their world—while I just stood there, dripping exhaustion and regret for being a roommate with Quinn.

Quinn stood in the middle of it all like some evil fairy godmother, gleefully holding up a pink sparkly dress that honestly looked like it might commit crimes.

"Thanks for finally joining us. Caleb gets home faster than you," Quinn chirped, smug little glint in her eye, clearly feeling superior.

I blinked.

Oh, she's being mean today.

"He just cooks. Only cooks. But I have to clean up everything there. So I am sorry for not coming fast like his stupid butt," I replied, voice as flat as the pancake I didn't get to eat today.

She rolled her eyes. Big, dramatic. Theatrical. Oscar-worthy.

And then—without warning—whap—she chucked a dress at my face. Square hit.

I yanked it off with a scowl.

"Put this on," she ordered, arms folded like she ran the whole damn government.

"And if I don't?" I asked, just to be annoying, because being annoying was the only power move I had left tonight.

Her lips curled into a smug little smirk. "Then I'll spill the beans about your rich friends. Especially Ace."

I froze.

Oh, you did not just say that.

My stomach did this weird flippy thing—half panic, half rage.

"You're joking," I said, trying to sound bored, like I couldn't care less, but my palms were already getting clammy.

"Try me," she shot back smugly, chin lifted like a smug cat about to knock over a glass.

I ground my teeth so hard it was a miracle they didn't crack.

Dress in hand, I stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

Quinn was relentless.

Always determined to have things her way, no matter how low she had to stoop.

I took a quick shower, scrubbing so hard I half expected my skin to come off. The day clung to me—sweat, flour, the smell of kitchen soap.

When I finally emerged, dripping and scowling, I stared at the blue dress Quinn had tossed at me.

Simple...Cute. But barely reached past my knees.

Great. Now I looked like a very uncomfortable blueberry.

Out of pure spite, I yanked on my old shoes. Scuffed. Faded. Comfortable.

I sighed and combed my hair, tied it half up, half down. Loose enough to say I don't care.

As soon as I opened the bathroom door, there she was.

Quinn, leaned back, cigarette hanging off her lips like a 50s movie star.

She gave me one long look—drag of the cigarette—huff of disapproval.

"Girl, relax. Can't you wear sandals or heels or...do a better hairstyle?" she teased, smoke curling around her words.

My patience was hanging by a string.

I slammed the comb down on the dresser with enough force to rattle the cheap mirror, then walked right out without saying a word.

I wasn't in the mood for any more of Quinn's antics.

When I got back to the hall, Caleb was still there—still on that couch like it was his life mission.

His eyes widened when he saw me.

"Why are you still here?" I snapped, the words flying out before I could stop them.

"Calm down," he said softly, brows drawing together like I was some fragile thing.

I clenched my jaw and looked away.

Quinn came bounding out of the room, like a tornado in a mini skirt, voice loud enough to shake the walls.

"Let's go!" she shrieked, like this was the best idea she'd ever had.

I stared at her. Blinked. Debated faking my own death.

But her stupid threat about Ace still sat heavy in my chest.

With a long, slow exhale—the kind that said I already hate this—I followed her out the door, dragging my feet like I was walking to my own funeral.

I knew, deep down, I was going to regret this.

Soon.

Very soon.

The club was worse than I imagined.

The moment we stepped inside, it hit me—hot, suffocating air thick with the stench of sweat, cheap cologne, and spilled drinks.

The bass from the speakers thudded through my chest, like someone was punching my heart from the inside.

People swayed and stumbled everywhere, a moving, sticky mass of bodies pressed too close together.

I was seventeen.

I wasn't even supposed to be here.

But no one seemed to care. No bouncer, no server, no one.

Another reminder that life didn't really give a damn about rules—not in this city, not in these circles.

Quinn looked like she was born for this.

She glided through the crowd like she owned the place, hair bouncing, hips swaying, eyes gleaming with the thrill of it all.

She yanked my wrist hard—her nails digging in like tiny knives—as we shoved our way through the crowd of half-conscious dancers.

By the time we reached a table in the back, I was already sweating and half-ready to murder someone.

Or cry.

I wasn't sure which.

The group at the table didn't help.

They were younger, louder, and drunk out of their minds.

Shots flew across the table—half of them spilling, none of them making it neatly into glasses.

They kept yelling "sHoTs!" in voices that made me want to claw my ears off.

I scowled before I could help it.

Idiots. Stupid freaking idiots.

Dropping into a chair, I palmed my head and stared at the sticky table in front of me.

If this was fun, then I was a sandwich.

Forwarding my hand, I grabbed a glass of orange juice— the one thing in this hellhole that wasn't soaked in poison.

I swirled it slowly, bored out of my mind.

Then the thought came, uninvited, as always:

What would happen if someone drank too much and fell into a toilet and covered themselves in poop?

Chi.

Chi, chi, chi, chi. I almost choked on my juice.

Quinn was gone, probably giggling with some random guy again— she always had a way of disappearing at the worst times.

An hour passed.

Or maybe five years.

I couldn't tell anymore.

I was on my fourth glass of juice, sucking the life out of a bitter lemon wedge like it owed me money.

The music was still pounding through my skull, one annoying beat at a time.

Everywhere I looked— people stumbling, slurring, arms waving like broken noodles, completely lost in their own messy little worlds.

I leaned my elbow on the sticky table, cheek resting in my palm.

Why am I here again? Oh right.

Because blackmail apparently works.

I picked at the edge of my glass when suddenly—

"Iris!"

I turned slowly, a cold, detached stare fully activated.

Caleb.

I didn't bother answering, too tired to deal with any more nonsense.

He was weaving through the crowd like a very drunk snake, his eyes hazy, mouth curled into a lopsided grin.

As soon as he reached me, before I could even blink— his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.

"Caleb—" I started, voice sharp.

But too late.

He yanked me toward him, his arm suddenly snaking around my waist like a vice.

My stomach dropped and panic flared hot in my chest.

His grip wasn't painful. Not yet.

But it was too close. Too fast. Too wrong.

I could feel the weight of his body pressing into mine, the heat of his breath too close to my ear.

No. No, no.

I pushed at his chest with both hands, squirming, trying to wedge some space between us.

What the hell is wrong with him?

"Caleb, stop!" I snapped, panic edging my voice now.

But he only leaned in closer, his breath hot and heavy against my neck.

I could feel the sweat on his skin, the sickly warmth of it making my stomach twist.

The reek of cheap liquor hit me like a punch—sharp, sour, clinging to the air between us.

He grinned wider.

A drunken, lopsided grin that made every instinct in me scream to run.

"Come on, Iris, relax," he slurred, voice thick and slow. "I'm not letting you sit here all night looking so sad..."

Sad? SAD?!

I was about two seconds from kicking him where it really mattered.

My stomach knotted tighter, disgust bubbling up in my throat.

I twisted again, trying to break free.

"Leave me, Caleb!" I shouted, my voice rising over the deafening music.

Finally—his face left my neck

A tiny breath of relief slipped out— thank God—

Then—

His eyes dropped to my lips.

And back to my eyes.

I froze.

The blood drained from my face.

No. No no no no no—

Without thinking—pure instinct—I shot my hand up, clapping it over his mouth before he could do whatever the hell was going through that thick, drunken skull of his.

"Caleb, are you out of your mind?!" I yelled, my voice breaking with a mix of fear and fury.

He mumbled something against my palm, the wetness of his breath making me recoil in disgust.

That was it.

I shoved him. Hard.

He staggered back, arms flailing, nearly losing his balance as he knocked into a chair.

Good. I hoped he fell flat on his stupid face.

But the panic didn't ease.

My heart was still pounding against my ribs like a wild animal.

My hands were shaking.

My breath came in sharp bursts, too fast, too shallow.

Caleb was drunk. Completely wasted.

He couldn't even stand properly, and yet—he had almost—

I wiped my hand on my dress, stomach churning.

Without a second glance at Caleb, I darted out of the club, my pulse racing as I shoved past bodies, the music still pounding behind me like a cruel echo.

My only thought— get out. Just get out.

The second I hit the front door, the night air slapped me across the face— cold, sticky, laced with exhaust and cigarette smoke.

I shivered hard, wrapping my arms around myself, sucking in deep breaths that barely filled my lungs.

My heart was thumping way too fast, my legs trembling beneath me.

Idiot. Stupid, drunk idiot—

I scanned the parking lot, groups clustered here and there under flickering lights, laughing, yelling.

And then—

"IRIS!"

I stiffened.

I didn't even turn— I started to walk faster.

I sprinted toward the main road, weaving between people, every instinct screaming don't stop.

But his footsteps pounded behind me, uneven, faster than I'd thought he could manage.

And then— yank.

A sharp pull on my wrist, hard—wrenching me backwards so suddenly my breath caught in my throat.

I whirled around—Caleb.

Drunk out of his mind, eyes glassy, face flushed, sweat glistening on his forehead.

He stumbled right into me, heavy as a collapsing wall, his whole body sagging against mine like dead weight.

"Caleb," I groaned, staggering under him, every muscle screaming.

He was heavy—like a fat dead pig—why does he weigh this much?!

"Why're you always runnin'?" he slurred against my ear, hot, disgusting breath making my skin crawl.

His head lolled against my shoulder, limp and burning. I shivered in revulsion.

I exhaled sharply, grinding my teeth—don't break his nose, don't break his nose—he won't remember anyway.

"Caleb," I hissed, forcing my voice calm, barely, "let's go home."

I steadied his head with both hands, fingers twitching with the urge to shove him off.

His neck was slick with sweat under my palms.

Gross gross gross—

"Why?" he slurred again, voice thick, guttural. "You love someone else, don't you?"

I blinked.

What? What the hell is he talking about?

Confusion knotted in my stomach. I bit it down, fast.

"Let's just go home," I said, firm but soft, like talking to a deranged child. "We'll talk there. Deal?"

His eyes fluttered lazily, his drunken brain trying to process.

"Mmh..." he hummed, swaying dangerously.

Finally, finally he loosened his grip.

I shoved him back just enough to flag down a passing taxi, arm waving frantically.

Please stop, please stop, please—

One screeched to a halt. I yanked the door open and practically shoved Caleb inside and told the driver my address.

Caleb slumped against the seat, head lolling forward with every bump on the road, mumbling nonsense under his breath.

I kept glancing at him, my heart still racing.

He looked... ruined. Unconscious almost.

A complete mess.

I clenched my jaw and stared out the window, watching the city lights smear by like ghosts.

When we finally pulled up in front of the apartment, I paid the driver with a heavy heart– I had to pay for his ride too– and hauled Caleb out of the car, fighting to keep him upright.

The stairs felt endless as we climbed, each step a punishment.

Caleb was practically dangling from my shoulder now, dead weight dragging me down.

His breath hit my ear, sour and hot.

"Iris... why... why you always run from me..." he slurred, head rolling against my neck.

"Because you're drunk," I hissed through gritted teeth.

"And if you puke on me, I will throw you off this stairwell myself."

He laughed—hoarse, messy.

"You... you like me, right?" he mumbled. "I know you do... you just... scared..."

My patience snapped.

"Caleb, shut up and walk," I growled, yanking him up another step.

But he just sagged harder.

"You're always runnin'.....You love someone else, don't you?" His voice dropped lower, almost a whine.

I stopped cold.

One foot on the next stair, pulse racing, breath shallow.

If I don't say it now– he'll keep going.

If I do– he won't remember.

I took a sharp breath.

"Yeah. I do."

His head wobbled up slightly, like a broken puppet.

I blew out a breath, lips tight.

"I love someone..." The words tasted bitter and electric. My heart thudded.

"I love someone who would literally burn a house down just because he's bored."

My voice cracked a little.

"Ace."

Caleb's brows squished together, confused. "Ace... funny name..." he mumbled. "Burn... like... fire?"

I socffed, yanking him up the next step.

"He drinks too much scotch. He's an idiot and dumb."

Another breath. Another stair.

"He makes me cry. Gives me hope. And then makes me laugh when I'm about to break."

Caleb's head lolled to the side.

"He... sits still, but he knows everything. Like—he doesn't check the door, he makes sure nobody ever gets to it." I hauled him up another stair.

"He watches everyone like he's planning to kill them. Sometimes he does."

I swallowed hard.

"He calls me Mini," I whispered, voice hitchin'. "Sometimes like I'm his whole world. Sometimes like I'm a curse he doesn't wanna get rid of."

By the time we reached the door, my legs and arms were shaking, breath coming in short gasps.

I pounded on the door like my life depended on it.

Come on, someone, anyone— open the damn door!

Finally—finally—the door creaked open.

A guy—probably Caleb's roommate—stood there. Tall, sharp-jawed, hoodie half-zipped, and eyes flat as a dead fish.

I practically shoved Caleb into him.

Without a word, the guy stepped forward and took Caleb from me, slinging his arm over his own shoulder.

Caleb mumbled something incoherent and promptly tried to rest his head on the guy's chest.

"Thank you," I muttered, straightening up and grasping my shoulder. AAAOuch.

"Wait here," His roommate said and got vanished with Caleb, probably to dump him in his bed.

"Ah...but," I trailed, confused. "I have to go."

I peeked inside but only I could hear Caleb's groans, mumbles and his roommate cursing him because he wasn't leaving him.

I have never seen Ace act like this when he's drunk.

Never.

Ace drinks.

A lot, sometimes. More than anyone should.

But even with a glass in his hand, even when the burn of scotch or whiskey must've hit his throat, he never slurs.

He stays sharp— dangerous sharp.

The kind of alertness that makes your stomach twist because you know he's still in control, even when he looks like he shouldn't be.

It's strange.

The more he drinks, the quieter he gets.

His voice lowers, deeper than before. His words become slower, but never soft.

His eyes turn darker, almost black sometimes—like you could fall into them and not find a way out.

His movements slow, too. But not lazy.

Calculated. Always calculated.

He rarely clings.

Not like how drunk people do—throwing their arms around you, swaying, talking too loud.

Ace doesn't do that. He never leans on anyone.

When drunk, he stays away.

Keeps a distance like the space between us is something sacred he won't cross.

Like if he touches me when he's not fully in control, he'll hate himself for it.

He doesn't touch me when he's drunk. Not even by accident.

That's the worst part, maybe.

Because when he's sober... It's a different story.

Sighing deeply, I turned around to leave.

Well, I will come tomorrow and ask him what he wanted to say, my shoulders were sore.

I turned around and took a step forward.

But a grip on my shoulder, made me halt, making my heart burst out in fear.

Startled, I glanced back, my heart skipping a beat. It wasn't Caleb who had stopped me— it was his roommate.

Mature

A twisted smile played on his lips as he inquired, "Where do you think you're going?"

His question sent a shiver of apprehension down my spine, leaving me feeling uneasy and disoriented.

"Sorry but I have to go home," I replied, my voice reflecting my growing discomfort.

Ignoring my response, he suggested, "Well, why don't you check out my home first?"

Suddenly, his hand resting on my shoulder went to my hair and fisted hard, making my eyes wide.

With a swift and forceful pull, he pulled me into the room, forcely, that made me scream and struggle against his grasp.

My scalp burned where he fisted my hair, like he was going to rip that part of my hair, the sound of the door locking echoing ominously behind us.

I turned around, groaning in pain and punched his stomach but he just chuckled.

Then—

In swift motion, he forwarded his ankle behind my thighs, made me fall back, hitting my head on the floor.

The back of my head struck the floor with a sickening thud, sharp and hollow.

A jagged bolt of pain shot through my skull, bright and nauseating. My neck snapped back instinctively; stars burst behind my eyes.

A raw gasp tore from my throat.

My arms flailed, fingers clawing uselessly at the air. My spine jolted as it hit, shoulders slamming down hard.

The shock rippled down my limbs—elbows buckled, knees jerked up, a trembling shiver skittered through me.

Sound pulsed in my ears, muffled and strange, as if underwater.

I couldn't tell if the ringing came from the room or my own skull.

Breath caught in my lungs, thin and ragged, while I tried to force my limbs to move— but they twitched weakly, as if detached.

As I opened my eyes, the world convulsed in and out of focus.

A copper‑metal taste flooded my mouth— blood from a bitten tongue or split lip, I couldn't tell— the flavor sharp as a knife edge.

The overhead bulb swayed, its sickly light flickering across his silhouette, turning him into a pulsing shadow that grew and shrank with every blink I forced through my stinging eyes.

His knees crushed into my hips, locking me in place. I couldn't move.

I felt the scrape of rough denim grinding against me, the coarse fabric burning through my thin dress.

My legs kicked wildly, stupidly, slamming into nothing—just air, just ground.

The back of my shoes hit the floor with useless thud.

My other foot dragged, my shoe squealing as it slid across the floor, loud but meaningless. Nobody was coming.

Then—

SLAP.

White fire erupted across my cheek, spreading from skin to bone in a pulse of hot, searing pain.

My head whipped to the side, strands of hair sticking to my lips.

Another slap followed—harder, wetter—and the sound was louder than my thoughts.

The burn sank deep, like it had a purpose.

I felt it settle into my jaw, my neck, my bones. My vision stuttered, blurring him into a grotesque smear.

His hand shot into my hair, fisting it so tightly I felt something rip at the root.

He yanked, and my neck strained back so hard it felt like it might snap.

I could feel strands tear away from my scalp, sliding down the side of my face in wisps.

My skin burned there too, from the pull, from the raw sting of it.

And then—

His fingers slid down to my neck.

And squeezed.

The first second was pure, dumb shock.

My throat clicked, searching for a way to swallow that didn't exist.

Air went the wrong way—panicked and stupid—and came back empty.

Then came the burn. A deep, rising fire in my chest, crawling up to my skull like it wanted to crush everything inside.

I tried to fight.

My hands, trembling and weak, scrambled toward his. I gripped his wrist—wet, hot, slick with sweat—but my fingers didn't feel like mine.

They were numb, shaking. Useless.

Black spots started to drift through my sight like floating ash.

My heartbeat slammed inside my skull—louder, louder—each thud a cruel drumbeat counting down to nothing.

I kicked again—harder.

My knee slammed against his back, then the floor, then somewhere else. It didn't matter.

It wasn't enough.

The room started folding in on itself.

The walls leaned closer, the floor pressed up, the ceiling dropped.

Everything smelled like stale beer and dirt and sweat, like a place that had forgotten what sunlight was.

And I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't breathe.

Only this thin, broken wheeze came out of me

My ribs jerked up—once, twice—as my body tried to steal in a breath.

None came.

Spots bloomed behind my eyes, red and white and electric.

Everything stung. My chest ached. My limbs twitched without meaning.

And I could hear it—his breathing. Calm. Smug. So loud.

While mine was ragged. Pathetic.

A weak, whimpering sound escaped from my mouth—barely a noise.

I felt his lips on my neck, leaving a trail of unwanted kisses that burned with the searing intensity of his malevolent intentions.

Each touch was a violation, a sickening reminder of the twisted pleasure he derived from inflicting pain and suffering.

Suddenly, his hand loosened— Abrupt. Sharp.

Air flooded back into my throat with a burning rush, and my eyes flew open, wild and wide.

I choked on the first breath—

Then another—

Then I was coughing, gasping, sucking in air like I'd never breathe again.

My chest heaved violently, the oxygen hitting my lungs like broken glass.

Every inhale felt like fire.

Every exhale was a shudder.

I clutched at my throat, the ghost of his fingers still burning into my skin.

I blinked rapidly, vision swimming. My ears rang. My body throbbed with a bruised kind of panic—

But I was breathing.

I was breathing.

Helplessly, I cried out, my voice crackin' at the end, a desperate sound beggin' for somethin', anything, to save me from this goddamn nightmare.

The sound bounced around the empty room, makin' it smaller, crushin'. My breath hitched, short, shallow gasps.

"Ca...leb," I whimpered, the name a broken prayer. Tears poured, hot, heavy, blurrin' my vision.

My whole body ached, a dull, throbbing pain that radiated from my abused muscles. But at least I could move now. I wiggled my fingers, just to make sure.

"Caleb passed out, little girl. So, it's just us," he whispered. I hated his voice. The way it lingered on the words.

Just us. My stomach churned.

I blinked at him, tryin' to get my head straight. My vision swam, the room tiltin' precariously.

"Think instead of panicking."

But all I could see was his face. Close. Too close.

He is going to hurt me...more than anyone else

That was a fact, cold and hard. It sat in my stomach like a lead weight

My heart hammered, a trapped bird fightin' to get out, as his hand shamelessly lifted the fabric of my dress, all casual and mean.

Like I was a doll and he was changin' my clothes, stripping me of my very dignity.

I bit my lip, hard enough to taste blood, the coppery tang fillin' my mouth.

Pain was better than panic. It was somethin' to focus on, somethin' real.

My eyes darted around the room, searchin' for somethin', anything. A lamp, a chair, even a goddamn fork..

Anything!

GOD! HELP ME!

"You know I always wanted to fuck you," he hissed, breathin' down my neck. His voice was a dirty thing, a violation.

My palms turned into fists, clenching so tight my nails dug into my skin, leavin' crescent-shaped welts.

The pain was sharp, grounding.

I let out a broken cry, a small, choked sound that caught in my throat like a shard of glass.

My Adam's apple bobbed frantically as I fought for air.

My eyes flickered toward the ceiling, trackin' the patterns of dust motes dancin' in the dim light.

Nothin'. Not even a loose piece of plaster I could chuck at him.

Just white paint and shadows.

I closed my eyes for a split second, tryin' to block out the smell of him, the feel of him, the sound of his voice.

His hips thrusted against my pelvis, all rough and ugly. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach, sendin' bile burnin' up my throat.

My heart pounded in my chest like a drumbeat of terror, a frantic rhythm against the oppressive silence.

I recoiled, a rush of adrenaline coursing through me, making my limbs tremble and my vision sharpen to a painful clarity.

With a guttural scream, I weakly pushed him away, the world around me beginning to blur and spin in a dizzying whirl.

"Ah-hh!" I cried out in desperation, the sound choked with pain and fear, a raw, animalistic plea lost in the suffocating air.

"Ah...come on. You don't want me to be gentle with you," he chuckled, gripping my thigh and spreading it wide. The pressure was agonizing, a vise tightening around bone. My leg trembled uncontrollably.

I cried out when he rubbed against me furiously and my wrists hurt from pushing his weight away from my body, each muscle fiber screaming in protest.

A hot, throbbing ache radiated from the pressure points, spreading like wildfire up my arms

"Stop! STOP! STOP!," I screamed, I thrashed my legs in a feeble attempt. My ankles twisted against the rough ground, sending jolts of pain shooting through my body.

"Ace! ACE! ACE!," I cried out, loud and raw, the sound tearing from my throat, leaving it raw and burning.

It was a desperate plea thrown into a void, a hope that maybe, just maybe—

Suddenly, he proceeded to tear my panties, leaving me exposed and wide eyed. The air against my skin felt suddenly, terrifyingly cold

"A tempting girl, I found this time," his words hung in the air, thick with malice, as he methodically roughly pulled down the straps of my dress.

His hands forcefully grazed across my chest, grasping and squeezing my clothed breasts with an unwelcome grip, making me cry out in pain. A sharp, stinging pain radiated from the pressure.

"..P-Please," I begged, struggling to take in deep breaths.

My voice was a mere whisper, barely audible even to myself. My lips trembled, and spittle flew with each desperate plea.

He just grinned, his eyes like chips of black ice, looking into my eyes, his hands tightening and hips pushing deeply against mine, making me gag. The pressure against my stomach was crushing

I closed my eyes, squeezing them shut against the horror, swallowing hard, the bitter taste of desperation lingering on my tongue like a cruel mockery of hope.

He roughly pulled down my bra, gripping my bare breasts with force.

My body screamed in protest, every nerve ending firing with a white-hot agony. My breath hitched in my throat, trapped between a sob and a scream.

A choked scream tore through the air, a primal cry of terror as I smacked his shoulder, anything, to back him away.

The impact stung my hand, a small, insignificant pain against the overwhelming violation.

The skin of his shoulder felt hard and unyielding.

He released his grip, making me gasp for air in fear, my lungs burning with each desperate intake.

"Sh..here you go," he said, stroking my cheeks. His touch was a slimy, unwelcome caress, leaving a trail of disgust in its wake.

"..P-P-Please, leave me," I pleaded, my throat burning with pain. Tears streamed down my face, hot and stinging, blurring my vision and making it hard to focus.

My eyes shifted nervously, scanning his face, his hands, any indication of what he'd do next.

"I just want to fuck you doll," he taunted, planting a chillingly lascivious kiss on my cheek.

My whole body clenched in revulsion, every muscle tensed against his touch.

I cried out and thrashed about, desperately trying to escape, every movement a desperate prayer for release. My body was a live wire, trembling with fear and adrenaline. My movements became frantic, uncoordinated, fueled by pure, unadulterated panic.

"Please! I want to go home," my voice cracked with desperation, a prayer for escape from the nightmare that had become my reality.

The sensation of something rubbing against my private parts sent a wave of revulsion coursing through me that made my skin crawl.

I knew what he was tryin' to do, and just the thought of it made my stomach churn.

Frowning in a mixture of disgust and realization, I, again, mustered the strength to push him away quickly, a feeble attempt at reclaiming a shred of control in a situation that had spiraled far beyond my grasp.

It was like tryin' to push back a landslide with just my bare hands.

"STOP! STOP IT! YOU BASTARD!" I yelled, my voice barely holding back the surge of panic.

His expression didn't change.

He merely groaned, leaning closer with a sickening smile curling on his lips.

It was a look that sent shivers down my spine, a look that told me he wasn't seein' me.

He was seein' something...else.

"Shh... just be a good girl and let me fuck you, doll," he whispered, his voice thick with revolting pleasure.

The words were ugly. I felt like I was gonna throw up.

I felt bile rising in my throat as his hot breath caressed my ear.

It smelled like cigarettes and somethin' rotten, like somethin' dead.

His tongue grazed my earlobe, sending a wave of disgust so intense I shuddered involuntarily.

It felt like a slug was crawlin' all over me.

A whimper escaped my lips before I could stop it, a small sound that only seemed to encourage him.

His hand crushed the back of my head, forcing my face flat into the cold, grimy floor.

My cheek scraped hard against it, my vision clouding with dust and tears. My lips were pressed to the ground, twisted sideways, my nose half-smashed against the floorboard.

I could barely breathe. My chest was squeezed beneath his weight, leaving my skin exposed to the stale, suffocating air and his disgusting breath.

He was breathing louder now. Fast and heavy. I heard the jingle of his belt buckle, the unmistakable rasp of a zipper.

No.

My whole body froze. I couldn't breathe. My throat closed up like I'd swallowed stones, and everything around me blurred into a mess of terror and pain.

No, no, no.

He was adjusting himself. His hips shifted, grinding against me in a vile rhythm, trying to press himself between my thighs. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

But then—he leaned forward to grab my wrist.

That's when his weight lifted off my lower body—just slightly, just enough.

Do it now.

Move, Iris. Move.

I twisted my hips with everything I had, swinging one knee outward.

My leg was still pinned under his thigh, but the angle changed—just barely enough room to move.

I clawed at the floor with my nails and let out a broken, animal sound—half-sob, half-growl—as I slammed the side of my foot upward, blindly aiming behind me.

It wasn't clean. It wasn't strong. But the heel of my foot connected with the soft flesh of his inner thigh—painfully close to his groin.

He shouted in pain, a ragged curse ripping from his throat, and his body recoiled just enough.

His grip on my wrist loosened. His balance wavered.

I twisted harder, ignoring the burn in my shoulder and the scream in my ribs.

I shoved up with my elbow and rolled to my side, half-covered and shaking.

Then I kicked again, this time with full force.

My heel landed square in his gut.

The impact jolted up my spine, and I heard him grunt—a sharp, winded sound as he toppled back, hitting the floor with a loud, dull thud.

His head cracked against the edge of the low table. A choked wheeze escaped him.

I lay there for half a second, panting—my chest exposed, dress twisted around my ribs, my whole body slick with sweat and terror.

Then adrenaline kicked in.

I scrambled to my knees, yanked my dress up, not even caring if it was right, but I ran.

I didn't even feel my feet hit the ground. I just ran.

The door.

My hands fumbled with the lock, trembling so badly that I couldn't grip the latch.

I sobbed in frustration, yanking at it again and again.

Behind me—I heard him groan. Movement.

"You fucking bitch!" he shouted.

"No. No. No," I chanted in fear.

I didn't look back.

The lock finally gave. The door clicked.

And I ran.

I threw it open, stumbling into the corridor.

My shoe slapped against the cold tile as I ran. I couldn't even feel my feet properly—just a dull, pounding ache shooting up my thighs every time they hit the ground.

I could hear nothing but the thudding of my own heartbeat, fast and frantic, like a drum breaking in my ears.

My breath was thin, wheezy. My chest burned. Everything around me blurred—the walls, the lights overhead, the stupid buzzing of the hallway bulb that had been flickering for days.

My hands shook so badly I could barely keep them up.

I kept stumbling, bumping into the walls as I tried to move faster, just get to the door, just get to the door.

I didn't stop until I reached my apartment. I slammed into it shoulder-first, hard enough to make the door rattle.

Pain jolted up my arm, but I barely felt it over the roaring in my head. My lungs were on fire.

I dropped to my knees on the welcome mat, yanking it up with both hands, digging under it until my fingers found the cold metal of the spare key.

I fumbled with it—almost dropped it. My fingers were trembling so bad, I couldn't get it in the lock.

Please... please...

Click.

The sound of the lock turning made me gasp. I burst inside, barely managing to shut the door before I threw the deadbolt and collapsed against it.

I slid down to the floor, back against the wood, panting like I'd run for miles.

My hands flew to the other locks—one, two. I checked the bolt again. Then again.

I stood there, looking at the door in fear like it might open any second. Like he'd be on the other side.

My legs gave out, and I nearly crumpled to the floor, but I grabbed the edge of the counter to steady myself.

I grabbed the water bottle sitting by the table. My hands were trembling so violently, I couldn't even open the cap at first.

It kept slipping. My fingers were wet — or maybe just numb. I couldn't tell.

When I finally did, I drank in frantic gulps. Water spilled down my chin, soaked into my collarbone, my chest, the already torn fabric of my dress.

I stood there, gasping, water dripping from my mouth and mixing with tears I hadn't even realized were still falling.

Then I looked down at myself —

And everything caved in.

The dress. It was ripped.

Torn at the shoulder, the top half barely clinging to my body

My bra was twisted and half-exposed, one strap limp, the other snapped.

I couldn't be in this.

The fabric felt like it was choking me. Like it still remembered his hands.

My skin was covered in dirt, sweat, and something that made my stomach churn.

I needed it off.

Offoffoff—

A strangled sob punched out of me.

It came without warning, like my lungs gave up trying to hold it in.

It sounded too loud in the quiet room.

I grabbed the dress with both hands, yanking it at the seams.

The fabric tore more easily than I expected — a sharp rip that echoed in my ears.

I pulled harder, frantic, fingers fumbling against the wet material. It clung like it didn't want to leave me.

"Get off," I whispered, panicked, my voice cracking.

"Get off—get off—"

I tore it away from my chest, from my hips, stumbling back as I stripped it down my legs.

I tripped over the hem, fell hard against the edge of the wall, nearly hitting my elbow.

Didn't care. I just focused on kicking off my shoe.

I staggered into the bathroom, bare feet slapping the cold tiles, skin crawling.

My legs shook with every step.

I turned on the shower and twisted the handle all the way to the left — the hottest it would go.

I stepped in before the water had even fully heated, before I could change my mind.

The first hit of it burned.

I gasped, almost jumping back — but I didn't.

I stood there, jaw clenched, letting the scalding stream punish my skin.

Red. It turned everything red. My arms, my chest, my thighs.

The heat was unbearable — but I needed it.

I needed to feel something else. Anything else.

I grabbed the soap and scrubbed hard.

Too hard.

The bar slipped from my hand twice and I didn't even pause to pick it up.

I just started using my nails.

I clawed at my arms.

Dug my fingertips into my skin, over my neck, behind my ears.

Scratched down my chest, my sides, the insides of my elbows.

Anywhere he had touched.

I didn't care if it bled.

Maybe it would bleed out the memory.

The water hit my scalp, pouring over my face like it could drown the thoughts screaming in my head.

But they didn't stop.

Nothing stopped.

My hands were trembling again.

Not from cold — the water was boiling — but from something deeper.

Fear. Rage. Shame.

I collapsed onto my knees with a wet slap against the tiles.

The pain barely registered.

My breath hitched.

Once.

Twice.

Then a sound broke out of me — sharp and hoarse — something between a scream and a sob.

It echoed in the tiles, got swallowed by steam.

But it was real.

My fingers dug into my legs like I was trying to anchor myself.

Or tear something out.

I gripped the skin so tight I felt the bruises forming under my nails.

Tears mixed with water.

Everything blurred.

I couldn't tell what was mine and what wasn't.

"I want it gone," I whispered.

The memory. The touch. Him.

My stomach churned violently.

Like something was twisting inside me — tight, sharp, wrong.

My throat clenched, gagging hard, and I slapped a hand over my mouth.

No, no—

I stumbled to the sink. My feet slapped the floor, slick from the shower.

I barely made it in time.

A loud, guttural sound tore from my throat.

Then I was retching.

Over and over, until I was empty.

Until there was nothing left but the sound of my own choking.

My body shook as my stomach convulsed again, cramping like it wanted to tear itself in half.

I clutched the sides of the sink, gasping.

The cold porcelain bit into my palms, grounding me just enough not to collapse.

My head spun violently.

The room tilted — walls bending, light buzzing too loud, too white.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, slow and shaking.

Then I looked up.

And saw her.

Me.

No.

The girl in the mirror—.

Her eyes were red and swollen, lids puffy, lashes stuck together with tears and a lip cut.

Her cheeks were blotched, skin streaked with tears and faint red marks where fingers had slapped and pressed too hard.

Her hair hung down in wet, clinging ropes, stuck to her jaw, to her throat.

Like seaweed choking a drowning girl.

My lips parted. But I didn't say anything.

My fingers rose to my neck before I could stop them.

Scratching.

Again.

Just a little.

Right where his hand had been.

Dirty.

Everything's dirty.

I backed away, then turned and stumbled out of the bathroom, half-blind with tears.

My foot caught on the rug — I crashed to my knees.

Didn't even feel it.

The carpet scratched my skin. My knees hit the floor so hard they throbbed. But I just shoved myself up again—arms shaking, legs like jelly.

I clawed my way back up, my shoulder slammed into the wall. I bounced off it and kept going.

Everything looked wrong.

My apartment looked like a stranger's home — like someone had broken in and scattered everything on purpose.

Blankets. Towels. A broken glass near the couch.

None of it made sense.

Nothing felt real.

Then—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

A knock. Loud. Too loud.

I jumped.

My back slammed into the wall and I froze—wide-eyed, chest rising fast, my lungs clawing for air.

"My little doll!" his voice came through the door like poison.

My mouth opened in a silent gasp. My heart punched itself against my ribs.

I dropped straight to the floor, back sliding down the wall.

Sat there with my hand slapped over my mouth to keep from making a sound.

The knocking came again. Harder. Angrier.

I squeezed my eyes shut. My other hand grabbed at my knee, digging in.

The lock rattled.

"You fucking bitch! Tomorrow I'm gonna tear your cheeks!"

His voice was right outside. Loud. Ugly.

My whole body locked up like something inside had turned to stone.

I lowered my hand from my mouth and looked around like the walls could tell me what to do.

I started searching — for what, I didn't know.

Something. Anything.

I yanked open drawers. Tossed clothes aside. Ripped through piles of laundry, sobbing now.

My vision blurred. My chest ached from how tight I was breathing. I could feel the scream inside me like it was trying to rip out.

Stop.

STOP IT.

STOP.

I let out a low cry — raw, desperate, teeth-gritting — and threw a pillow across the room.

It hit the wall with a soft, pathetic thud.

My arms dropped limp.

I dropped to my knees. My lungs burned. My mouth stayed open, but I couldn't breathe right.

And that's when I saw it.

My phone.

Lying just in front of the door like it had been waiting for me.

I stared at it for a second, like it might disappear.

Then I crawled.

Hands slipping. Legs trembling.

Grabbed it like it was oxygen.

My fingers barely worked.

Everything shook. My heart. My hands. My breath.

I gripped the phone tight, nearly dropping it again. My thumb fumbled over the rubber buttons. They felt too small, too slow now.

I pressed the last number I'd called.

Please.

Please, please, please—

The line buzzed.

Then— Unreachable.

My chest dropped out. Like something inside me gave up.

A sob ripped out of my mouth—ugly, raw, loud.

But I didn't stop.

Didn't even think.

I wiped my eyes on my wrist, fast and rough. My fingers slid over the keypad again, moving to next number.

That tiny rubber keypad suddenly felt like stone. My fingers wouldn't press right. I hit the wrong button. Had to press back. Pressed again. Wrong again.

I cleared the screen, wiped my eyes with the back of my wrist, and pressed in— this time slower, more carefully.

"Come on—come on—" I whispered it like a prayer.

This one had to answer.

Someone had to.

The phone lit up.

One ring.

Two.

Then I heard it—

"Iris?" His voice—calm, solid, real—cut through the noise in my head like light through a crack.

I broke.

It was like everything inside me snapped in half at once. My knees buckled where I sat, and I let out a sound I didn't even recognize.

Like choking and crying and begging, all mixed up.

"H-Hudson! HUDSON—he... I—death—he's—" My voice hitched, tangled in itself. The words wouldn't come right.

I was hiccupping, sobbing, shaking too much to make sense.

"Iris, hey—where are you? Where are you?" His voice changed. It got harder. Faster.

"Room," I croaked. "My...room."

It was all I could get out properly.

My throat was closing. Every breath burned. My stomach twisted again, and I clutched it tight. It felt like knives inside.

Like it was trying to rip itself open.

"I—I don't... feel g-good," I whimpered.

Then I cried out—loud this time, raw and high—because the pain in my belly stabbed deep and wouldn't stop.

Like someone was scraping the inside of me with broken glass.

"My stomach," I cried. "Hudson—my stomach hurts—it hurts, it hurts—"

I was digging my nails into my arms now. Into my skin. Trying to stay here. Trying not to pass out.

Everything kept spinning.

"Iris." His voice was lower now. Fierce. But it shook. "Who? Who's gonna hurt you?"

"He's gonna hurt me," I gasped. "He said it. He said—he's gonna—he said—" I was losing it. The room kept tipping sideways.

"He banged the door—he shouted—Hudson he knows—he's gonna come back—he's gonna—"

"Iris! Listen to me. Deep breaths."

I was trying.

God, I was.

But the air wasn't working. It came in too fast. Too shallow. I sounded like a dog choking.

"Deep breaths, Iris. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Okay?"

I tried to do what he said. But my lips wouldn't seal right. My mouth was too dry. I sucked in one breath, then coughed on it.

"Fuck," Hudson muttered. And I heard something slam. His voice was raw now, sharp around the edges.

"Iris, I'm coming. Right now. Don't move. You hear me? Don't open that door. Don't even look at it. Don't move, don't breathe wrong, until I get there."

Then the phone clicked.

"No—no—no—Hudson!" I screamed into the silence. "HUDSON!"

But there was no reply. Only the click of the call ending and the flat, empty hum that followed.

My voice bounced back at me from the walls, too loud, too sharp—like it didn't belong to me anymore.

And then—

Cold.

Not just in the air, but in my bones.

It hit me like ice water dumped down my spine.

A shiver started at the base of my neck and spread everywhere—like my whole body had just given up on being warm.

I wrapped my arms around myself so tight my nails dug into my skin. Curled in, smaller and smaller, until I felt like nothing but bones and breath.

It's okay. It's okay. It's okay.

But it wasn't.

The walls felt wrong. Closer. Crooked. The corners of the room bending in on me like the whole place was holding its breath, waiting to crush me.

I stared at the floor—except the floor blurred. I blinked hard, once, twice.

The shadows didn't go away.

I closed my eyes, but that was worse.

In the dark, it was louder.

That banging.

His voice.

His hands.

The way the door had rattled.

My body started to feel heavy—too heavy.

Like each part of me was sinking. Like the floor was soft now, sucking me in.

My muscles stopped listening. My knees were on fire, and my arms felt like soaked towels just draped over my chest.

I couldn't move. Couldn't even lift my pinkie finger.

Am I dead?

That thought came sharp and strange. Not panicked. Just... floating.

My fingers twitched.

Then didn't.

Even my breathing felt far away. I could hear it—ragged, wet—but I couldn't feel it.

My chest rose and fell like it belonged to a doll. A puppet.

I sat there, slumped against the cold wall, watching the world blur in front of me.

The ticking clock from the kitchen felt loud, too loud, like a drum.

Outside, traffic moved like nothing was wrong.

I tried—God, I tried—to move. To stand. To crawl.

But my legs wouldn't work. My arms were noodles. I could barely turn my head.

My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

I could hear my heart still—thudding too fast. Thud. Thud. Thud. Like it was fighting to stay in my chest.

But everything else was slowing down.

My eyes slid shut, just for a second.

The air felt thick.

The room faded.

And I started to drift.