The car jerks violently to the right, fishtailing as we squeeze into the alley. The walls are tight, the space suffocating, but for a second—just a second—I think it might work.
Then I hear it.
The deep, guttural growl of an engine. The SUV follows. "Fuck," I breathe.
The driver punches the gas. The alley narrows. Trash bins blur past. My pulse spikes. If the SUV catches up, we’re done.
Adrenaline floods my veins, but something about it is different this time. The fear is there—it always is. The sharp edge of it, the way it hones my instincts, heightens my awareness, pushes me to act fast and think faster. I’ve lived with fear my whole life, and most of the time, I’ve embraced it.
I used to crave danger.
I ran toward it, rather than away.
It started when I was a kid—sneaking into places I wasn’t supposed to be, slipping through the cracks of a world built to keep girls like me in neat little boxes. I learned quickly that fear and thrill are two sides of the same coin, and once you start chasing one, you can’t stop chasing the other.
Becoming a journalist only made it worse.
Every investigation, every late-night stakeout, every confrontation with men who could kill me without blinking—it all became part of the high. I was always out for the next big lead, the next truth waiting in the shadows, the next moment that made my pulse hammer against my ribs. I told myself it was about justice, about exposing corruption, about making a difference.
But deep down, I know the truth.
I liked standing at the edge of the abyss.
And I always thought I could handle it.
But now—now I feel it differently. Because it’s not just me anymore.
A hand drifts to my stomach, fingers pressing lightly over the spot where a life I never planned for is growing inside me. The thought is so foreign, so incomprehensible in this moment of chaos, but it hits with the force of a wrecking ball.
I’m not just running for myself.
I’m running forus.
And suddenly, the thrill is gone.
The danger isn’t exciting anymore. It’s suffocating.
I don’t want this kind of life for my baby.
I don’t want my child to grow up like I did—constantly looking over their shoulder, never knowing if today is the day everything comes crashing down. I don’t want them to inherit my hunger for risk, the reckless part of me that never knew when to stop.
I wantout.And God knows, Marco would have given me that kind of protection. He would have kept both of us safe from my line of work. It's not him, it's what I do that has constantly put me in danger.
How could I have been so blind?
The SUV slams into the back of our car again, snapping me back to reality. The impact sends us skidding, the tires screeching against the pavement. The driver swears, gripping the wheel like a lifeline.
The road ahead opens into a busy street—an escape if we can make it.
"We need to lose them," I say, my voice steadier now.
The driver nods. "There’s an underground garage a few blocks ahead. We can ditch the car, get another."
I swallow, forcing down the lingering fear clawing at my ribs.
The car jerks beneath us, the tires struggling for grip on the wet pavement. The driver’s knuckles are white on the wheel, his breathing ragged as he maneuvers through the chaotic mess of traffic.
The SUV is still there. A hulking, merciless shadow behind us. It lingers just out of reach, waiting, watching.
