The Debt Collector

SERA:

  There was only one place in this whole world where I felt like I could truly breathe. It was my small art studio. I had begged my father to rent it for me. The windows were filled with soft sunlight, and the air smelled like paint. The silence was gentle, allowing me to pretend that my real life wasn't a nightmare waiting outside.

  With a brush in my hand and my bare feet on the paint-stained floor, I wasn't the feared Sera Hale, the daughter of a man who did terrible things.

  I was simply a girl who loved bright colors more than she loved rules. I dipped my brush into the color blue... the perfect color of peace... and painted the sky I truly wished I could live under.

  But peace was never a real thing for me. I used to believe that monsters only lived inside old stories. Then a real monster used a gun to shoot his way into my life.

  My mother died when I was nine years old. A bullet took her life. It happened the same night men screamed my father's name from the street outside our home. All I remember is her pulling me to the floor quickly, and then the sound of darkness breaking through glass.

  Dad always blamed his enemies. I blamed the whole world for the violence. But sometimes, when it was cold and late at night, a terrible thought would creep into my mind...

  What if her death wasn't an accident at all? What if someone came specifically for us? What if they try to come again?

  My phone buzzed on the stool next to me. It was Dad calling. I stared at the screen until it stopped ringing. Fear lived in our house like another person... quiet during the day, but angry and mean after the sun went down. I always tried to pretend I didn't notice the signs: the secret calls, the men with guns in the hallways, and the harsh way my father warned me not to ask too many questions.

  I wanted a life far away from all of that noise and blood.

  A life where only paint could ever stain my hands. A life where being loved wasn't another word for being in danger. I didn't realize that danger already had a beating heart. And it was getting closer to me.

  **********

  DAMIEN:

  It is easy to wash blood from your hands. It is impossible to wash away regret.

  My men dragged in the weak man who tried to steal from me. He cried, he begged, and he swore he had a family. They were just excuses, just noise. They meant nothing.

  My world was built on very strict rules. If you break them, you die.

  I stood above him in the warehouse, the floor cold under my boots. My gun was still warm in my hand. My guards waited for my command. Their eyes showed only fear... that was the only language I allowed them to speak.

  "Make sure no one ever finds him," I said.

  Another life gone. Another problem finished.

  This was what it meant to have power.. you had to take it, not wait for someone to give it to you. But even after all the people I had buried... there was one memory that would not die.

  In my office, I opened a locked drawer. Inside was a small, old silver phone... the only thing I never changed. I opened the only text message thread on it. There was no name, just a childhood nickname I had typed a long time ago :

  Cherry

  "I'll find you again one day. I promise."