ZYLA

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The sound hits me like a bullet. I sit up straight, heart pounding.

It's coming from the living room.

Soft, sharp clicks. Typing… Or maybe just the fan?

But then comes the light—a flicker, blue and fast, like a laptop waking up.

I hold my breath. The apartment is silent again.

For a few seconds, I sit frozen, hugging my knees beneath the blanket, ears straining for movement.

My body still remembers the way yesterday pressed on me. Like a bruise that hasn't bloomed yet. Like something unfinished.

I creep out of bed.

The floor is cool against my feet as I step slowly into the hallway, every shadow tugging at my nerves. My gaze sweeps the living room.

He’s there. Tarin.

Curled on the couch with an arm slung over his face, chest rising slowly. No laptop, no blue glow. Just him—bare-chested and calm.

Peaceful in a way that feels unfair. How can someone who dragged me into this nightmare sleep like the world owes him dreams?

The events of yesterday crash down at once. The masked figure in the restroom. The note in class. His body pinning mine to the wall. His blue-grey eyes. That painful, painful look in them when I said he’d failed to protect yet again.

My throat suddenly feels dry. I head to the kitchen.

Inside, I reach for a glass with trembling hands. My fingers brush its cold surface, and for a moment, I think I can do something quietly, normally.

But I freeze, and the glass slips.

The crash is loud and shattering. Water spills like blood across the tiles.

And bare feet shuffle urgently towards me.

Tarin is here before I can even blink.

"Are you okay?" His voice is low and rough from sleep yet alert.

His hands find my wrist gently… the same hands that once knocked a man unconscious without blinking.

I yank my arm back. "I’m not a bomb, okay? You don’t have to leap in every time I move."

There is a pause. A beat that stretches too long.

Then, softly but without flinching, he says, "That’s exactly what you are, Fiore."

I blink at him, tightness rising in my chest. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you’re seconds away from blowing everything up… including yourself."

His voice isn’t cruel. It’s... tired. And honest. Like he hates the words even as he says them.

Something cracks in me. I let it break.

"And whose fault is that?" I hiss.

He doesn't reply.

And I turn away, swallowing hard at the sting in my palm. A sharp cut is embedded in my skin, but I try to pretend it isn’t there.

My teeth clamp down on my bottom lip. Maybe I deserve the pain.

~~~

I shut the bathroom door hard because I don’t want him to follow.

But he does anyway. Of course.

He doesn’t ask this time, just steps in with a med kit and that same frustrating calm.

"I said I’m fine," I mutter, grinding my teeth in pain.

"You’re bleeding."

"I can… I can handle a scratch."

"You bled the first time, too. Remember that?"

My heart stops. He isn’t talking about my hand.

"That wasn’t your fault," he adds quietly, kneeling in front of me. "But this might be."

He reaches for my hand again. And this time, I don’t pull away.

His fingers are careful. He dabs at the wound and cleans it with alcohol that stings more than I expected.

Tarin’s touch is so gentle, it makes me ache.

The edge of his shirt lifts slightly as he leans forward. And I see them.

Scars.

Long, angry scars. Some thin. Some deep. All healed, but not forgotten. Bullet grazes. Knife lines. A burn just above his ribs. Like violence lives inside him.

My good hand moves on its own, touching him, trembling.

I gulp, "How… How many people have tried to kill you?"

He looks up at me, his eyes swirling with emotions. It could be sadness, regret, or hurt; I’m not sure. Each one clouds over the other until all I can see is the blue-grey color combination.

Just as he wraps the last piece of bandage around my palm, he says, "Only the ones who loved me."

~~~

I waited until I was sure he was asleep. Until I heard his breath flowing out softly.

Then I crept out.

Now, every nerve in my body is on fire.

His phone is on the table. No lock.

My lips tug into a smile. Idiot.

I open the screen. Messages flash like coded riddles. Coordinates. Unknown numbers. One labeled "Rocco" with a padlock emoji.

I scroll quickly, fast and carefully.

Then a new message comes in, instantly catching my eye.

Ravena: Miss me yet? Or is she keeping your nights busy now, T?

I blink. My stomach twists, curling in on itself.

Ravena?

Who is she? A mafia contact? His ex? Someone who’s been in his bed? Who's supposed to be in his bed right now?

The words feel like a punch. I reread them again.

Is she keeping your nights busy now, T?

I imagine her. Red nails, full lips, a laughter that fills rooms. Definitely not inexperienced like me.

I imagine her touching him. Kissing him. Knowing things about his body I don’t even have the guts to ask about.

A flush of shame creeps up my neck; my cheeks burn. I hate that I feel this.

"What are you doing?" A deep voice comes suddenly.

I turn around, startled and nearly drop the phone.

Tarin stands arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

I quickly compose myself and meet his gaze. "Trying to figure out what I’m up against."

And who Ravena is. But I don't say the second part out loud.

He shakes his head, stepping closer. "Trust me, you don't want to know."

“Yes, I do. I deserve to.”

“No. You want the illusion of control. You want to think that if you know the rules, you’ll survive the game.

“But the truth won’t make you safer, Zyla.”

He takes the phone from me like I’m a child that has been caught stealing a forbidden cookie.

This makes my pulse spike.

"What are you hiding?” I snap. “Did your mafia family tell you to spy on me? Or are you just bored and decided to play savior for fun?"

That hits him. He flinches. It's subtle, but I see it.

However, he fixes his expression almost immediately. "You wouldn’t understand."

"Then make me."

He almost says something. I see his lips part.

But then he pulls out the burner phone from his pocket and holds it out.

"You left this in the bathroom. Take it. Text me when you breathe. Or when you don’t."

I slap it from his hand. "Screw your savior complex."

With that, I storm back to the bedroom.

~~~

Several hours tick by, and still, I can't sleep.

The notes in my mind won’t stop spinning. All their messages and threats.

At 2:25 am, I grab my phone, log on to the web fiction app, and search for my favorite book.

Lover In Chains—New Upload—Chapter 47: The Boy He Couldn’t Save

I start to read, and the words punch me. The guilt. The silence. The moment of failure.

The way the main character whispered, “I should’ve seen the signs. I should’ve fought harder.”

I reread it, line by line, with tears stinging my eyes.

The pain in the chapter… It's too real. Too specific. The guilt the character carries… It's familiar. Like mine.

The room door creaks open, and I sniffle, realizing I am crying.

My head snaps to the door to see Tarin standing there.

“You okay?” he asks.

I wipe my face quickly. “I’m fine. Go away.”

He doesn’t move. Instead, he says quietly, “I understand what you're—”

I cut him off. “No, you don't… But Willow… she does.”

He doesn't argue; he only turns and leaves.

And so I stare up at the ceiling, heart racing.

I don’t know what scares me more.

The masked stalkers. Or this author who writes my pain like she lived it.

~~~

2:56 AM.

I am writing a poem on my notes app, halfway through a line, when my phone buzzes.

Unknown Number: You bleed well on paper, Little Bookworm. Almost like him.

My blood immediately runs cold. Him. Who's him?

Before I can process what's happening, another message pops in.

A picture.

Me. In bed. From my own phone screen’s point of view.

It hits me. They hacked my phone. That's how they’ve been tracking us.

I scramble upright, throw the covers off, and run out of the room.

The hallway is empty.

And so is the living room. Tarin isn’t there.

Another buzz.

Unknown Number: Does the girl who once tried to jump off the treehouse still write about flying?

My fingers go numb. No one knows that.

No one.

Except my brother.

And Tarin.