Sofia Vasquez

The safehouse was a cage disguised as a condo: high-rise walls, bulletproof windows, and a view of the East River that mocked me with its calm flow. I paced the living room, the IV stand wheeling behind me like a loyal ghost, its bag half-empty with whatever painkiller the medics had hooked me up to after the warehouse. My lungs burned with every breath, the cancer a silent thief stealing what little fight I had left. But the real pain? Marco. My boy, my baby, zip-tied in some ...