The smell of bleach mixed with stale beer and cheap hand soap clung to the air like a ghost. Reagan wiped down the same section of the bar for the third time in ten minutes, rag moving in sharp, repetitive motions. Her fingers trembled slightly, though she told herself it was from the cold. It wasn't. Her eyes darted occasionally toward the door, then quickly away, like she didn't want to admit she was waiting for something. Or someone. She was dressed in ripped jeans and a dark grey sweater too big for her frame. One sleeve kept slipping down her shoulder, and she yanked it up in frustration. Her ponytail had already come undone twice, and a few strands of hair clung to her face, damp from the effort of pretending she was fine.
Skylar sat on a stool, twisting a bottle cap between her fingers and watching Reagan with quiet concern. She didn't say anything—she knew better. But she noticed the way Reagan kept brushing her left hand over her right wrist like she was trying to erase something invisible. The fourth time it happened, Rocco looked up from his seat by the far end of the bar. His brows furrowed.
He stood slowly, his chair creaking beneath the shift of his weight. He moved with the kind of control that made people nervous even when he wasn't angry. Quiet, coiled power. He didn't say anything as he approached. Just watched her. Reagan didn't notice him until he was standing right beside her. She dropped a glass. It shattered.
"Shit," she hissed, crouching fast. "Shit, shit—"
Rocco knelt down next to her and gently caught her wrist just before she could grab a shard of glass. His grip wasn't tight, but it was firm. "Don't," he said, his voice low.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, but her voice cracked. She pulled her hand back, but he didn't let go.
"You're favoring it," he said, looking directly into her eyes. "You've been touching it all night."
"I'm just clumsy," she muttered, avoiding his gaze.
"No," he said. "Something happened to it. You did it earlier when you cleaned the glass, twice. Someone hurt you." Her mouth opened, then closed again. Her breathing hitched. "No, no... someone didn't hurt me, I just— I uh... I broke it a few years ago."
Rocco didn't believe her. He didn't say that. But she could feel it in the way he stared at her. Analyzing. Calculating. Dissecting.
"Is that why you're panicking?" he asked quietly. "Stuttering, and your heart's beating faster."
"Back off, Rocco," she snapped, louder than she intended. Her voice bounced off the walls. A few customers looked over. She yanked her hand back and stood abruptly. "Just drop it."
He stared at her a beat longer, then gave a small nod and walked away without a word. He went back to Taz, who had seen everything. They exchanged no words. None were needed.
Reagan exhaled shakily and turned her back on them both. Her stomach was in knots. Her hands were slick with sweat. She grabbed another glass and dropped it before even making it to the shelf. It didn't break this time, but it bounced loudly on the floor. Her knees wobbled.
"Hey," Skylar said gently, standing up. "Rae. Breathe."
"I'm fine," she said, again, always the same words. But her voice was paper-thin, and her shoulders were trembling.
Then it happened.
Skylar looked up. Something in the air shifted. The temperature dropped—not literally, but perceptibly. Like the room sucked in a breath it didn't want to release. Skylar's expression darkened.
"Reagan," she said slowly, "don't turn around."
Reagan froze. But it was too late.
Her eyes lifted just in time to catch the silhouette moving at the back of the bar. A black hoodie. A tall frame. The angle of the head. The way he stood, cocky and loose, like he belonged. The glass slipped from her hand.
It hit the floor and rolled but didn't break. Her breath stopped in her throat.
"Rae" Skylar whispered. "Look at me. Not at him. Look at me."
Reagan tried. She really tried. But her body disobeyed.
Her heart launched into a sprint. Her lungs forgot how to work. She took a shaky step back, bumping into the counter, and a whimper escaped her mouth before she could stop it. Her knees buckled slightly. Rocco was already standing. His voice cut through the tension like a blade. "There," he said to Taz, jaw clenched. "Back corner. Black hoodie."
Taz didn't even blink. "Yeah. I see him… and he sees us." They watched. The man didn't move. For a moment, he just stood there, half-shadowed, like he wanted to be seen. Like he was testing how close he could get before someone stopped him. His face wasn't clear. But Reagan didn't need clarity. She felt it. Her chest heaved. She made a strangled noise in her throat. "It's him," she gasped. "It's him." And then, just like that, the man turned. Walked out slowly. Calmly. No rush. No panic. Like he'd gotten what he came for.
A reaction. Reagan collapsed onto her knees behind the bar, hand clamped over her mouth, trying not to scream. Skylar was beside her in seconds, wrapping her arms around her.
Rocco and Taz didn't move right away. They were both watching the door like it might come alive and strike.
Taz's expression was flat. Emotionless. But the twitch in his jaw said enough.
"That was him," Rocco said darkly.
Taz nodded. "Next time, he doesn't get to walk away."
Reagans apartment
Skylar showed up just after the second time someone banged on the door. It wasn't loud, not this time. Just three knocks. Polite. Like whoever was out there wanted her to want to open it. Reagan didn't move. She sat curled up in the corner between the fridge and the counter, blanket over her shoulders, her phone clutched in one hand like a lifeline she didn't dare use. Her whole body buzzed with adrenaline and dread, and she didn't know how long she'd been there. Hours maybe. Days. Then she heard Skylar's voice through the door. "Rae? It's me. Open up." It took her three tries to stand. Her legs were stiff. Her hand slipped on the doorknob the first time. The chain rattled as she slid it back, and the door creaked open. Skylar's face changed the second she saw her. "Oh my god," she whispered, stepping inside and closing the door gently behind her. "Rae..." Reagan didn't say anything. She couldn't. Her throat was dry and raw, like she'd been screaming all night, even though no sound had ever left her. Skylar looked around the apartment—lights off, blinds drawn, one lamp flickering in the corner like it was dying. The air smelled like cold sweat and something metallic. She turned back to Reagan. "Sit," she said softly. Reagan did. Skylar didn't ask questions. She went to the sink, filled a glass with water, and handed it to her. Reagan drank half of it before her hand started shaking too much to hold it. Skylar took it back. Sat beside her on the couch. Slid an arm around her shoulders. That was what did it. Reagan broke. No warning. No words. Just a sound from deep in her chest and then her whole body gave in. She curled into Skylar's side, shaking, fists clenched in her friend's shirt like she was afraid she might fall through the floor. Sobs wracked her body, but they didn't sound like sobs. They sounded like panic. Like grief. Like rage with no place to go. Skylar didn't flinch. Didn't talk. She held her tighter. Rested her chin against Reagan's head and let her shake. When the first wave passed, Reagan tried to sit up. Her voice came out broken. "I—I can't—he's always—he's always there, Sky, I can feel him, like he's under my skin—" Skylar pulled her back in. "I know."
"He rang the bell last night. Just stood there. I heard him breathing."
"I know."
"He sent me a picture. Of my door. And me. From the street. He's watching me." Skylar didn't ask for proof. She didn't need it. Reagan wiped her face with her sleeve. Her hands were still trembling. "I can't do this. I thought—I thought it would get better. That maybe I was okay. But I'm not. I'm not okay." Skylar leaned back just enough to meet her eyes. "You don't have to be." Reagan stared at her. "But I—"
"You don't have to be okay, Rae. You just have to let me in. That's it." Reagan pressed her lips together. Her voice cracked. "I didn't even tell him to stop. I didn't fight. What does that make me?" Skylar's eyes darkened. "That makes you a survivor. That makes you someone who did what she had to do to stay alive. Don't ever fucking question that again."
Reagan sobbed again—quieter this time. Skylar held her tighter. "He's not going to win. You hear me? He doesn't get to have you again." Reagan nodded, but it was small. Barely there.
Skylar didn't let go. Not even when the tears stopped. Not even when the silence stretched long. Later, when Reagan fell asleep on the couch, still wrapped in her arms, Skylar stayed awake.Watching the windows. Waiting for the next knock.
Later, when Reagan fell asleep on the couch, still wrapped in her arms, Skylar stayed awake. Watching the windows. Waiting for the next knock. But this time, there wasn't a knock. This time, there was a shadow. It moved past the window. And stopped. Skylar didn't move. Her spine locked, breath caught halfway in her throat. The shape was vague, distorted by the glass and darkness—but it was a person. Standing still. Watching. On the fire escape. Five stories up.