I wait for him to argue, to tell me I’m making a mistake, to reach for me like he always does when things get too close to breaking.
But he doesn’t.
He just exhales, slow and measured, his head tipping forward slightly.
Stepping outside, I welcome the bite of the night air, cool against my skin. The city hums around me—sirens in the distance, the low rumble of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from the bar down the street. Life moves on, and I, I stand in the center of it all, oddly suspended.
I stand beside Marco’s car, my hands curled into fists at my sides. My throat burns, my vision blurs, but I refuse to let the tears fall.
Because if I do—if I let myself break, even for a second—he’ll see just how much this hurts.
And I can’t afford that.
Marco watches me from the window, his expression carved from stone. He exhales and looks—really looks at me—like he wants to reach for me but won’t. "Sofia?—"
There’s no need for him to finish the question, because I’m not stopping until I have the answers I need. His expression flickers, something shifting beneath the surface. It’s so quick, I almost miss it. But then it’s gone. And so is he.
Without another word, the engine growls to life, headlights cutting through the dark. He doesn’t look at me again as he pulls away, tires kicking up gravel as he disappears into the night.
The moment he’s gone, the fight leaves my body.
I press my back against the brick wall of my building, dragging in a shaky breath. My hands tremble as I run them through my hair, exhaling sharply at the hollow space Marco just left behind.
I did the right thing. I know that.
But then why does it feel like I just ripped out a piece of my own heart?
I stare down the empty street where Marco’s car disappeared, the distant din of the city feeling eerily muted. My pulse is still pounding, but for the first time tonight, it has nothing to do with adrenaline. It’s the ache of something breaking apart, something I wasn’t ready to let go of.
But I have to.
I turn on unsteady legs and head toward my building. Every step feels heavier, the weight of the night settling into my bones. My fingers dig into my bag strap, the documents inside pressing against my back like a reminder—a cruel, unrelenting reminder—that this is what I chose. I chose to chase this story.
Marino is dead.
Marco is gone.
And I’m alone.
I push through the front door of my building, the air inside thick with stale cigarette smoke and cheap cleaning solution. The hallway is dim, the overhead light flickering weakly as I pass. It smells like dust and something metallic, like the scent of old pennies on skin.
A shiver crawls down my spine.
I blame exhaustion. The night has wrung me out, and my nerves are still raw from the shootout, from the fight with Marco, from the weight of everything pressing down on me.
By the time I reach my door, my stomach is twisted so tight I feel sick.
I slide my key into the lock and turn it.
The second the door creaks open, I know.
Something is wrong.
The air inside is different—stale, disturbed. It carries the sharp, lingering scent of cologne that shouldn’t be there. The hair on the back of my neck rises, every bone in my body screaming at me torun.
But I don’t.
I step inside.
