Prologue

Now

Some mistakes walk in like they own the place.

You don’t stop them.

You just wonder how long it’ll take before they break something you can’t fix.

The room’s quiet. Too quiet, if I were the kind of person who believed in signs. 

But I’m not. I never have been. 

She’s on the bed, legs tucked under her, skin bare above the sheet. Still. 

There’s a plate on the table no one touched. A half-finished drink sweating into the wood. 

I’m cutting an apple. For no real reason. Just something to do with my hands. 

It’s domestic. Almost stupid.

The knife scrapes against the plate. A slip. Barely a sound, but enough.

Enough to make me look up.

Enough to hear the hinge creak.

Enough to—

The door explodes inward, the frame shuddering on its bolts.

Three men step through like mistakes that knew the way in. Like they’ve been here before.

I barely register the first hit. A crack across my cheekbone, fast and precise. 

The blade in my hand drops. My knees go with it.

Someone kicks me in the side. Ribs, I think. Maybe kidney. 

Then again. And again. Each one heavier than the last, making it clear that they’re not here for a fight. They’re here for a job.

I get one hand under me before another kick folds me flat.

A hand fists in the back of my shirt, slams me down hard enough to bounce my teeth off the ground.

The cold tile digs into my cheek. Blood splatters across the floor with each exhale—quick, heavy bursts.

Across the room, I hear her move.

She gasps. Not loud. Not hysterical. 

Just a sharp intake of breath, like she knew this was coming and hoped she was wrong.

She says, “Stop.”

One word. Clear. Controlled.

They don’t.

I turn my head as much as I can. 

She’s standing now, sheet clutched in her hands, eyes wide—not with fear. 

With recognition.

And then he walks in.

The fourth man. Slower than the others. Older. Dressed like he’s arriving for a dinner party we’re not hosting.

He doesn’t look at me. 

He looks straight at her.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need her to.

He nods once.

The other two men cross the room. 

She doesn’t run. She doesn’t scream.

One of them grabs her by the arm. The other yanks the sheet away. 

She stumbles. Tries to catch herself. 

Then a hand strikes her across the face, and she goes down hard.

I push against the weight on my back. 

Useless.

A heel digs into my spine.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

That voice is amused.

She’s on her knees. One arm twisted behind her, the other covering her chest.

They beat her where she kneels—each hit deliberate, practiced. A foot drives into her ribs. Something gives.

She folds forward, choking on the blood she tries not to spit.

Another blow catches her temple. Blood spills fast, tracks down her face, blinds her.

Most people would be pleading at this point. But not her.

Her limbs start to sag between hits, no longer bracing, just collapsing under their own weight.

She keels sideways, trying to pull in air, but all that comes is a choking rattle.

Her body shudders once. Then again. Then goes slack.

They don’t stop.

They move around her like she’s already wreckage.

A kick to her ribs. Then another.

Her head snaps back loosely, blood smearing the floor.

The only sound left is the ragged rasp of her breath.

“Watch the face,” the older man says. He glances my way, just once. “Or don’t.”

They don’t.

One of the men grips her chin, forcing her to look at the guy calling the shots.

“That’ll do it,” he says. “For now.”

She meets my eyes, just for a second.

And then they drag her out the door.

No one says a word.

They don’t tell me who they are. 

They don’t ask who I am. 

They don’t care.

The door swings wildly, crashing into the frame, still echoing through the house.

And I’m alone. 

Face against the tile.

 Mouth full of blood.

Wondering how the hell this started.

And what it’s going to take to end it.

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