Nyra woke with her mouth dry, her head pounding like someone had driven a hammer into her skull. The ceiling swam in and out of focus, and her stomach clenched. The bed smelled of sweat, alcohol, something darker beneath it. She tried to remember him, Darian. His face, his eyes, his voice but it slipped like smoke through her fingers. "DAMMIT… OH GOD… WHY CAN'T I—" Her voice broke, caught in her throat. Her hands trembled as she clawed at the damp sheets.
Her body refused to obey. Every movement was chains dragging her down. Her inner thigh throbbed violently, a deep, biting ache that climbed her hip and stabbed her stomach. She pressed her forehead to her knees, hair clinging to her sweat-slick skin, strands falling into her eyes. She bent lower, fingers tangling in the blanket, chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths.
Memories flickered the bar, the neon red light, his lips, the sharp bite of his teeth but each image shattered before she could grasp it. Panic rose, hot and suffocating. Her nails scraped the floor. She tried to push herself upright, but her arms shook violently, and she collapsed again.
How did I end up here?
Her mind clawed through the fog, trying to put the night together.
"Oh God… oh God…" Her voice cracked, barely audible. She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, trying to stifle it, but the panic clawed up from her chest. The fragments of Darian—the face, the voice, the kiss—tormented her. She wanted to remember, to hold onto him, but it slipped further away with every heartbeat.
Nyra pulled the blanket aside and saw her clothes scattered on the floor, tangled, damp from the rain, shame clinging to every fabric, ignoring the scream of pain from her thigh. Wet clothes clung to her skin, heavy and cold. Each step felt like dragging lead through fire.
"Oh God, please no, please no…" Her breath came fast, shallow, as if saying the words could undo the night. She clutched the coat to her chest. "What if I'm pregnant? What if he gave me something? What did I let him do to me?"
Her hair fell across her face in wet, tangled strands. She tore through the coat's pockets, her hands trembling uncontrollably, until she found her phone. Relief hit for a second, then vanished when the screen wouldn't light. Black. Dead. She pressed the button again and again until her thumb hurt. "No, no, no!" She almost threw it across the room but hugged it against her instead, rocking slightly, as if the broken phone could comfort her.
Her eyes darted under the bed, desperate for a cord, a charger, anything that could bring her phone back to life. Nothing but dust and shadows.
The silence pressed in heavy, crushing. She didn't know the time. She didn't know where she was. She didn't know if he was coming back. Her heart beat so loud it felt like it would break through her ribs.
Her mind clawed through the fragments of the night before. The bar. The drink. His eyes. The kiss—electric, wrong. The teeth. The fire. The panic. Each memory burned and vanished, leaving a hollow ache.
She pulled on her wet clothes, shivering. Her legs wobbled when she stood, her thigh screaming with every step. She felt weak, emptied, like something vital had been pulled out of her in the night and would never return. The city outside was gray and dripping, cold rain against her skin, but she ignored it. She needed somewhere familiar, somewhere safe. Somewhere she could hold herself together.
By the time she saw the iron gates of Priscilla Homes Orphanage, she was gasping, clutching her side. Breath came in sharp, staccato bursts. "Good morning, ma'am," she rasped to the first worker she passed. Her voice sounded strange even to her own ears—cracked, trembling.
This place was where her life had begun. And where it had fallen apart.
Every brick carried her memories: the lonely nights in bed, the whispered prayers to a mother she'd never met, the hope that maybe one day someone would come for her. And someone had. She had been adopted at fifteen. She had tasted family, warmth, love.
Until it was ripped away.
The memory of that Saturday came unbidden—the way she had begged her foster mother to come see her play. The excitement in her chest. The drive. The sudden scream of brakes. The truck slamming into them. The metal folding, her body thrown, her mother's life gone in an instant.
The guilt pressed down on her even now.
She had lived. Her mother hadn't. And her father… he had never forgiven her. He had told her so. That she was a mistake. That he wished he had never taken her in. His grief turned to rage, his love into poison. Her life since then had been torment, one endless punishment for existing.
Now she was back where it all started. And even this place was slipping away from her.
Stella appeared, quiet footsteps, eyes heavy with sorrow. She held Nyra's gaze, voice soft but firm. "Nyra… I have to talk to you, I really didn't want to do this but it's for the bigger good. You've done so much for us here. I see your heart, your effort. But you can't stay. You shouldn't."
The words hit like stones. Nyra's fingers dug into her skirt. She bent slightly, hair falling into her face, wet strands tangling in her trembling hands. Her chest ached, throat tight.
Stella's hands twisted together, lifted, smoothed a crease in her skirt, fingers brushing her own lips. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. "I can't keep this orphanage running. The sponsor is gone. The money is gone. More children keep coming, and I… I can't anymore. The workers will be sent away, the children too. I've already started packing your things. You need to go. Please. Huh?"
Children passed by, voices low, one clutching a worn toy, another's shoe scuffing the tile. Life continued around Nyra, indifferent to her collapse.
Nyra stared at her, her throat tightening until she couldn't swallow. "But—" Her voice cracked. The words she wanted to say—I'm not here for money. I'm here because I have nowhere else. Because I have no one—stayed locked inside. Stella knows nothing about how her dad treated her after the death of her mother.
Stella's lips pressed into a thin line. Her shoulders slumped, trembled slightly. "Find your life, Nyra," Stella whispered. "Go back to your father. Get a job. Find love. Be happy. I'll be gone for a while, but when I return… you need to be gone." with a sad smile Stella left.
Nyra's legs gave way. She crumpled, fingers clutching her skirt, coat slipping from her shoulders. Face buried in hands, cheeks wet, hair plastered to her skin. Sobs tore from her chest—raw, ragged, uncontrollable.
Life was breaking her apart piece by piece. The man in the bar. The bite. The shame. The rejection. Her father's house. The orphanage. Everything was gone.
And for the first time, Nyra realized she had nothing left to run to.
A sudden buzz. Sharp. Harsh. Her phone lit up in her hands. She froze, fingers hovering above the cracked screen. Heart hammering. Breath catching. The caller unknown.
The screen went black again.