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Amara Blake POV

The walls of my house were thin.

So thin I could hear the clock tick in the kitchen from my bed.

So thin the neighbors probably heard the way my mother smiled with her voice and slashed with her words.

So thin I could almost pretend I wasn't trapped inside.

Almost.

I sat curled up on the farthest corner of my mattress, arms wrapped around my knees, textbook open but untouched in front of me.

Calculus formulas blurred on the page, swimming in and out of focus as the fight downstairs rose in pitch - another argument about the car payment, about the dirty dishes, about the way I "forgot" to call my father "sir" yesterday.

It didn't matter what the spark was.

The fire always burned the same way.

My fingers traced the fraying edge of the quilt - a habit I didn't remember picking up, but one I clung to when the shouting started.

It didn't stop the memories from clawing at me.

Didn't stop the bruises from blooming later, when words gave way to fists.

I wasn't a child anymore.

I was nineteen.

I was supposed to be free.

The stupid, aching thing inside me - the part that still believed in fairy tales and birthday wishes - whispered, Maybe after college. Maybe when you have your own place. Maybe... someday.

Maybe was the cruelest word in the English language.

I jumped when the door slammed downstairs. Footsteps pounded toward the staircase. Heavy. Angry.

Coming for me.

I shut the textbook with a shaky hand, heart beating so hard it rattled my ribs.

I wasn't supposed to lock my door - house rule - but my fingers twisted the lock anyway, guilt and terror knotting in my throat.

The handle rattled.

The door shook.

"Open it, you little brat," my father roared.

My body moved without thinking. Out the window. Onto the narrow strip of roof just outside. Bare feet slipping on the cold shingles.

I didn't stop to grab shoes. Or my bag. Or my phone.

I just ran.

I hit the ground hard, ankle twisting, but I didn't let myself fall.

Pain could wait.

If I stopped, if I hesitated - I wouldn't get another chance.

I sprinted through the dark, through the alleyways behind our street, not even caring where I was going.

Anywhere but here.

Anywhere but home.

My breath tore from my lungs, sharp and ragged. I kept running.

It was only when the city lights blurred and the concrete tilted under my feet that I realized:

I was bleeding.

Badly.

I must have scraped my arms, knees - maybe worse when I jumped.

The sight of blood turned my stomach.

The smell of it made my vision spin.

I stumbled around a corner, into a part of the city I'd only seen from a distance.

Shadows everywhere.

Neon signs buzzing like broken wasps.

Laughter - rough and dangerous - spilling from a club nearby.

I collapsed against the brick wall, fingers leaving red smears where they clutched the stone.

I wanted to hide.

I wanted to disappear.

And that's when he found me.

Tall.

Sharp in the way that knives are sharp.

Dark suit. Darker eyes.

He didn't look like a hero.

He didn't even look surprised to find a broken girl bleeding on his doorstep.

He looked... tired. Like saving me would be one more burden he didn't want.

But he came anyway.

He knelt in front of me - close enough that I could see the faint scar slicing through his eyebrow, the ghost of some old battle he hadn't lost.

"Hey," he said, voice low, rough like gravel but somehow... careful. "You with me?"

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to tell him to go away.

Instead, I whispered, "Please don't hurt me."

The world blurred into blackness.

Rafael Moretti POV