I should’ve turned around the second I caught the smell.

The kind that wraps around your throat and doesn’t let go. Piss, mildew, insulation rotting in the walls, like the place had been festering for years. Something sour underneath it all—fear, maybe. Or sweat that never washed off.

But I didn’t leave.

Couldn’t.

Marc’s voice still rang in my head, sharp and smug, promising what would happen if I backed out. What I owed. What he'd take instead.

So I stepped over the busted frame of the door and into hell, my shoes sticking to a floor that looked like it had bled. Every footstep echoed like I was walking through a coffin built just for me. The lights didn’t work, except for one—just one—flickering bulb dangling crooked from a wire, throwing a sickly yellow patch over the far side of the room.

And there he was.

Slouched in a plastic chair like a king in a junkyard. He was wearing a suit. It was so neat compared to this place. His brownish-greyish hair were slicked back and his teeth were so white it could light up the room. He grinned when he saw me. That slow, curling kind of smile that makes your bones want to crawl out of your skin.

His eyes dragged across me like hands.

— There she is, he said, voice low and hoarse. C’mere, sweetheart. Let’s see what you got. Dance for me.

I didn’t move at first. My body knew better. It locked up, every part of me screaming no. But reality had a cruel grip—tight and unrelenting. I felt it in the empty fridge back home, in the pile of envelopes I hadn’t opened in weeks, in the way my mother coughed at night like something was trying to claw its way out of her lungs.

So I moved.

Not gracefully. Not sexy. Just enough to keep from shattering. My arms felt like lead. My legs like they didn’t belong to me. I shifted my weight, swayed a little, the soles of my shoes rasping against linoleum sticky with things I didn’t want to name.

He watched, licking his bottom lip. His laugh cracked through the silence—wet, rasping.

— That’s it. Maybe you’re a good girl after all.

The room felt colder, somehow, even though sweat rolled down the back of my neck. A wind moaned through the broken window behind me. My eyes caught the jagged edge of the glass, and for a split second, I wondered what it would feel like to just grab it. Let it cut deep. Let something else hurt instead.

But then he stood.

Big and fast and close. I flinched. Didn’t mean to—it just happened. My body already bracing.

He didn’t say a word. Just grabbed my arm and dragged me across the room like I was nothing more than a bag of trash. The carpet was matted and sour, squelching under our feet. My knees buckled when we reached the couch.

That couch.

It sank in the middle like it had swallowed people whole. The stains—fuck, the stains. Brown and grey and red and things that didn’t have names anymore. It smelled like sex and despair and mold and filth. My stomach lurched, but I bit it back, jaw clenched tight.

He shoved me down. Sat beside me. Too close. His leg pressed against mine, and I tried to disappear. I stared at the floor, at a cigarette burn shaped like a crater. I couldn’t breathe through my nose, couldn’t cry, couldn’t speak.

— You want your cash? he muttered, breath hot against my neck. Then earn it.

I tasted blood from where I’d bitten the inside of my cheek. My hands shook. My ribs ached from how hard I was holding myself together.

But I nodded.

Because there was no one coming to save me.

He leaned back, cocky, lazy, like this was just another Saturday. His hands moved again, prodding, pawing, grabbing where I wished I didn’t exist. I made myself small. Smaller. Tried to think of anything else. Colt's laugh. The sound of rain. That one song Mom used to hum before everything went to shit.

It didn’t help.

He laughed again, louder now, his voice bouncing off the walls.

And I realized then—I could scream. I could cry. I could beg. And it still wouldn’t matter. No one would hear. No one _wanted_ to hear. That was the worst part.

— You want that money, you bitch? Moan louder! C’mon!

I let out a moan and he slapped me.

— C’mon. Louder! Make it worth it.

I wasn’t a girl anymore.

I was just something he’d use and forget.

And afterward, when he finally let go, when he tossed a crumpled bill onto the stained couch cushion and zipped up, I stayed frozen. Eyes on the wall. Breath shallow. A hundred cuts blooming inside where no one would ever see.

And still—I didn’t cry.

I just stood up, picked up the cash with fingers that didn’t feel like mine, and walked out. Back through the stench and the broken doorway and the ghost of everything I used to be.

I rearranged my skirt with shaking hands—tugged it down like it mattered, like it could undo anything. My thighs were raw from his grip. My skin felt like it didn’t belong to me anymore.

Outside, the cold air hit me like a slap.

The sky was dark. Really dark. I stood just outside the building, shivering even though I wasn’t cold. My breath came in ragged puffs, every exhale louder than it should’ve been. My heart wouldn’t slow down. My knees wouldn’t lock right.

I leaned against the wall, hand flat on the brick, trying to catch myself—like I could hold my weight up with nothing but willpower. I didn’t cry. I hadn’t *really* cried in months. I didn’t even remember how anymore.

I looked down at my hands. One of my nails was broken. There was a red mark on my wrist where he’d grabbed me too hard. I rubbed it. It didn’t go away.

I kept hearing his voice.

Kept feeling his hands.

Kept tasting the bile in the back of my throat.

It’s been a year.

A full fucking year of this.

Of rooms like that. Of men like him. Of nights that don’t end, not really—just bleed into the next day like nothing happened.

Twelve months of lying on my back while my soul clawed at the ceiling.

It started small. One job. One favor. One bil then too many. Then Marc came, and his smile came with him, and his promises came with strings wrapped around my neck. And I needed the money. And I was scared. And I didn’t know how to say no anymore.

Now?

Now I’m just another girl with a price tag. A body for rent. A ghost wearing perfume.

I started walking faster. Past dumpsters and cracked sidewalks. Past the sound of sirens and rusted fences and broken beer bottles catching moonlight. The buildings blurred around me, and I didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t want to be seen. Couldn’t stand the thought of someone catching my reflection in their eyes.

I just needed to get home.

To shower. To scrape my skin off.

If I could peel it, I would. Rip it off in strips until I found something clean underneath. Someone I used to be. Someone who could smile without lying. Someone who didn’t feel like trash.

I crossed the street without looking. A horn blared. I didn’t flinch.

Every step felt heavier. Every breath tighter.

I could still feel him.

Still feel the couch.

Still smell that goddamn room.

I wanted to scream. But what would come out? A sob? A laugh? Something in between?

I didn’t even know what my voice sounded like anymore when it wasn’t selling lies.

I reached the door to the shitty little apartment I shared with Mom. Unlocked it with fingers that barely worked. Slipped inside and shut it behind me like I could keep the world out that way.

The lights were off. She was probably asleep. Again.

Good.

I didn’t want her to see me like this. I didn’t want her to see me at all.

I dropped the cash on the counter—crumpled, dirty, still warm—and went straight to the bathroom. Stripped off every layer, tossing it like it burned. I turned the water on hot, scalding, the kind of heat that hurts. I stepped under it and didn’t move.

It didn’t help.

The dirt was inside me now.

And there wasn’t enough water in the world to wash it out.

------

I didn’t sleep. Just laid there in my towel on the floor, cheek pressed to cold tile, until the light through the blinds turned from black to grey. And even then, I didn’t want to move. But life doesn’t stop just because you do. So I got up, dressed, scraped myself together like I always did, and left.

At school, everything felt… loud. Lockers slamming. Laughter I wasn’t part of. The stink of cafeteria pizza drifting down the hall.

Second period, history class, the kind where half the kids are asleep and the other half pretend they aren’t. I sat in the front like always, trying to focus. Mr. Gardner was going on about revolutions—French, American, whatever—while I tried not to pass out on my own notes.

Then something hit me in the back of my head.

A wad of paper.

I looked up.

Colt didn’t even try to look innocent. I uncrumpled the paper under the desk.

"Party tonight. Don’t be a rat."

I turned halfway in my seat and mouthed:

" get bent."

He grinned like a damn gremlin, leaning back in his chair, arms behind his head.

I rolled my eyes and faced forward, acting like I was way too mature for this. But my fingers fussed with the paper until the edges frayed.

The rest of the class dragged on: someone’s phone buzzing, the clock ticking painfully slow, the steady scratch of pencil in the next row. But every few minutes, I caught myself glancing back. Colt was making faces, wild and stupid, just for me. I almost smiled.

When the bell finally shrieked, I shoved my stuff into my bag and headed straight for the door. Colt caught up, falling into step beside me, radiating that cocky energy he wore like a too-big jacket.

— Tell me you’re coming tonight, he said, tossing his bag into his locker like it personally offended him.

— No.

— That wasn’t a real answer.

— It was.

— Nancyyyy, he dragged the word out like it owed him money. Come on. trace’s place is huge. Backyard, pool, probably a kitchen full of sad little rich people snacks. I’ll even bring you your own bottle of ginger ale like the princess you are.

I raised an eyebrow.

— You mean like last time? Where I ended up throwing up on a shag rug in front of three lacrosse players and a guy dressed as a pineapple?

— Exactly like last time.

He grinned.

— Iconic behavior.

— I’m never living that down.

— People barely remember their own names at those parties. You’re good.

He bumped my shoulder with his as we walked.

— So. I’m picking you up at eight.

I shot him a look.

— With what? The power of friendship?

He smirked.

— My cousin’s car. She’s in town, and I’ve got it till like tomorrow morning.

I squinted at him.

— You bribed her, didn’t you?

He shrugged like that was irrelevant.

— Define bribe.

I rolled my eyes and we split at the stairs—he went left, I went right, still shaking my head. I wasn’t going. Probably. Maybe.

I barely made it three steps down the hall before I felt it—eyes on my back.

You know that feeling, like cold fingers trailing your spine?

I slowed. Glanced over my shoulder.

Kane Thorn.

He stood a few feet away, leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, gaze locked straight on me. Not in the casual _oops-you-caught-me_ way. No. This was deliberate.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t smirk.

Just looked.

Dead in the eyes.

My stomach dipped. Not fear exactly—just this weird static behind my ribs, like my body couldn’t decide if it wanted to freeze or run.

I looked away fast. Too fast.

Kept walking like I hadn’t seen him.

---------

I told myself I wasn’t going to the party. Swore it, even as I got home and stared too long at my closet, biting my tongue until I tasted iron. You know what ? Fuck it. I will go.

Eight o’clock crept closer so I shrugged into the safest thing I owned: a simple black dress, and the battered white sneakers that always made me feel less lost. Then, just for the hell of it—a slick of gloss on my lips, daring the world to notice.

At 8:17, headlights slashed past my window. Bass rattled the glass, some pop song cranked up so loud you could feel the drumbeat in your chest. Colt texted "here " and leaned on the horn for good measure, like he wanted the whole block to know.

I flipped him off through the curtain, grabbed my phone, and headed out before he honked again.

His car smelled like cinnamon gum and trouble. He didn’t even look up as I slid in, just shoved a half-eaten bag of chips off the seat and muttered :

— Thought you’d chicken out.

Not looking at me. Just thumbing the volume down on the music.

— And miss the chance to witness you commit vehicular manslaughter?

I buckled in.

— No way.

He smirked like he’d take that as a compliment, then threw the car into gear with a lurch that made me question all my life choices.

The drive was chaos. He took corners like they were suggestions, rolled through stop signs like they offended him personally. At one point, he reached into the backseat _while_ speeding up, looking for something under a hoodie.

— Eyes on the fucking road, maniac.

— Relax. I’ve only crashed twice.

— Comforting.

We hit a speed bump hard enough to lift me off the seat. I braced against the door and said a prayer to whatever god listened to idiots.

When we finally skidded up in front of Trace’s house, I was half-convinced I’d need resuscitation.

The place was already alive.

Lights blazed from every window like the house was on fire and no one cared. Music pounded so loud the sidewalk vibrated beneath my feet—some remix with too much bass and not enough taste. People spilled off the porch, down the lawn, across the driveway. Red cups everywhere. Someone was playing beer pong on a folding table set up beside a hedge. Laughter exploded from a group near the mailbox. A girl in a glittery dress was chasing a guy with a pool noodle.

I stepped out of Colt’s car and felt the night wrap around me, thick with heat, sound, and bad ideas.

Colt rounded the hood, handed me a soda like it was armor.

— Welcome to the shitshow.

— Can’t wait.

We walked up the path, dodging limbs and smoke and the occasional shout. The door was wide open, like the house had given up on privacy altogether.

Inside, it was worse.

Hotter. Louder. Dim lights and neon strips lit up a living room crammed with bodies. Someone danced on the coffee table. People yelled over the music. I got jostled twice in ten seconds, stepped on once, and spotted a couple making out against the fridge like they were trying to fuse.

Colt disappeared into the crowd without warning, tossing a lazy salute over his shoulder.

I stood there for a second, letting my eyes adjust, letting the noise settle into my bones.

And that’s when I saw him.

Leaning against the far wall, half in shadow like he’d been carved out of it.

Kane.

Leaning against the far wall, half in shadow like he’d stepped out of the darkness itself. One boot crossed over the other, arms loose at his sides, head tilted slightly like he was already bored of everyone breathing the same air as him.

And glued to his side—like gum on a shoe—was Madison.

Practically _melting_ into him. Her hand rested on his chest like she had a claim, her laugh all breath and mascara and desperation. She kept brushing her hair back like it was some scene in a perfume commercial, lips parted like she thought he’d kiss her for existing.

He didn’t even look at her.

I didn’t stick around to see if he ever would.

I ducked into the kitchen, weaving through people and spilled beer like it was a damn obstacle course. The air was thick with sweat and tequila, and someone had already dropped a slice of pizza facedown on the counter.

I wasn’t here to drink myself stupid, so I grabbed a plastic cup and filled it with water from the fridge dispenser—half expecting it to come out brown. It didn’t. Small miracles.

Colt was in the corner, already deep into a drinking game with a bunch of guys yelling over rules no one was following. He was grinning like a wolf, tilting his cup back as people chanted his name. So yeah—he definitely wasn’t going to be the one driving home.

I leaned against the counter, sipping water and pretending to scroll my phone, just to give my hands something to do.

A guy stumbled in from the hallway, tall and broad-shouldered, with a jaw that looked carved from a beer bottle and a buzzcut that screamed _football practice and too many concussions_. He wore a muscle tee that had definitely seen better days and smelled like sweat, cologne, and whatever body spray was on sale that week.

He zeroed in on me like I was the last slice of pizza at a sleepover.

— Hey, you new? Never seen you around, he slurred, propping an elbow beside me on the counter like we were in a rom-com and not surrounded by sticky tile and drunk college kids.

His breath hit me—vodka and sour gummy worms.

— I don’t bite, he added, flashing a grin that looked more shark than sweet.

— Cool, I do, I said, not even looking up from my phone.

That made him laugh. Or maybe he just hiccuped. Hard to tell.

He leaned closer, undeterred.

— I like a girl with attitude.

— And I like a guy who knows how to walk away.

That got a little " ooooh "from somewhere behind him—one of his friends, probably, who watched just long enough to see if I’d fold. I didn’t.

He reached out and let his hand slide over my arm casually, like we were something, like I’d invited him in.

That was too much.

The world didn’t just tilt, it slammed sideways. My stomach dropped and my skin turned inside out. My grip on the cup tightened. Then slipped.

Cold water splashed all over him, soaking his shirt, dripping down his neck.

— What the fuck?! he barked, stumbling back like I’d thrown acid.

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. My chest caved in like something heavy had been dropped right on top of it. My hands shook—really shook—and my vision blurred at the edges.

I wasn’t here anymore. Not in this kitchen. Not in this body.

Voices blurred. Someone laughed. Someone else said,

— Damn, she's a freaking psycho.

I bolted.

Out the sliding door, past the people smoking on the porch. Around the back, where the music was just a heartbeat through the wall and the only light came from the distant flicker of a dying lamp.

I leaned over, hands on my knees, trying to breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Didn’t work.

My fingers clawed at my chest like maybe I could pull the air in. Like maybe that would stop the tremble in my spine, the roar in my ears, the way my heart was galloping toward something I couldn’t outrun.

And then—

Footsteps.

I straightened fast, wiping my face even though I hadn’t cried.

Kane stepped into the dim light like a shadow peeled off the night.

To be continued...