Beth

I stepped out of the club already done with the night, Bishop’s voice following me like he expected it to stick. *You’d make more on stage than pretending to run anything.* Not careless—measured. He’d watched my face when he said it. “Next time,” I said under my breath, “he doesn’t get to walk away after that.” Alex glanced at me. “You want it handled?” “I want it remembered,” I said. We moved toward the limo, tight formation, routine. Except it wasn’t. A car idled at the curb too long. Across the street, a man hesitated mid-step, then corrected like he’d missed a cue. Alex slowed half a pace. That was enough. The first shot cracked close, sharp enough to empty the air. Then more—controlled, deliberate. Not random. Alex drove my head down. “Move.” We moved. His hand locked on my wrist, pulling, steering. Someone behind us hit the ground hard—I heard it, didn’t look. He’d told me once: *If it starts, you don’t turn. You move.* I moved. My heel slipped; I kept going. My lungs tightened, vision narrowing. Alex pulled me through it—then his grip vanished. No warning. No sound. Just gone. I didn’t turn. Not this time. I cut into the nearest alley, too narrow, damp air thick in my throat. Something slick underfoot. I pushed forward—and hit someone. Solid. Waiting. A hand closed on my shoulder, firm, not rushed. “Easy.” I drove my weight back to break it—too slow. Darkness took me before I could correct. When I woke, I stayed still, listening first. Drip somewhere. Close space. No movement but mine. I sat up, ignoring the pulse in my head. One door. No windows. Contained. You sat in the corner, watching without shifting, like time hadn’t mattered. “Where am I?” “Alive,” you said. I held your gaze, steadying my breathing. “Then you either need me,” I said, “or you’ve made a mistake.”