The first shot shattered the quiet like glass.
Riya dropped her mug. It hit the porch floor and splintered. Her body froze—but only for a breath. Then she was moving.
Hank was already up, weapon drawn, eyes scanning the shadows as the second shot rang out—closer this time. Figures emerged from the trees, silent and fast. No warning. No mercy.
"Inside!" Hank barked, grabbing Riya's arm and pulling her to her feet.
They dove back into the shack, slamming the door just as a third shot punched through the rotting wood. Riya hit the floor, heart thundering, every breath a war cry waiting to happen.
"Stay low," Hank said, crouching by the window, eyes narrowed as he loaded another clip. "Three men. Maybe four. They're flanking."
"How did they find us?" she whispered.
"Doesn't matter." He clicked the safety off. "They're not leaving here alive."
Another shot cracked, this one closer, splintering the wall just above Riya's head. She ducked lower, biting down the scream building in her throat.
Hank moved like a ghost—silent, precise. He cracked the door open just enough to get a line of sight and fired once. Then again.
A scream. A body fell.
He moved to the other window. Fired. Another shot. Another man down.
But there were more.
Glass shattered. Someone threw something inside. A flash grenade.
Hank didn't hesitate. He grabbed Riya and threw her behind the overturned table just before it exploded in a blinding burst of light and sound. Her ears rang. She blinked through the noise, disoriented.
But Hank—Hank was still moving.
He rose, steady as steel, and fired again, straight through the chaos. Another body dropped just outside the door.
Riya crawled to the back, toward the small hatch under the floor. Justin had shown it to her. An escape route.
"Hank! The cellar!"
He didn't look back, just nodded. "Go."
"What about you?"
"I'll cover you. Move!"
She hesitated—but then another shot pierced the door, and she dropped into the hatch, landing hard on the sand and rock beneath. She scrambled through the tunnel, heart pounding, adrenaline surging like fire in her veins.
Behind her, she heard Hank's final shots. Heard the crunch of boots. The sharp grunt of pain.
Then—silence.
She didn't stop until she was out the other side, hidden beneath the roots of a tree that overlooked the beach. She turned back, breath caught in her throat.
The shack was smoking. Part of the roof was gone. A body lay motionless by the door—but she couldn't see Hank.
She waited, hands shaking, every instinct screaming.
Then—movement.
He emerged through the haze, limping, blood trailing down his arm. But alive.
He staggered to her, dropped beside her with a groan, and managed a grim smile. "Told you. They're not leaving alive."
Riya threw her arms around him, relief crashing over her like the tide.
But in the distance—sirens.
The ocean village wasn't safe anymore.
And Justin still hadn't come back.
Three Days Later
The sun rose dull and gray over the battered village, casting long shadows over the still-smoking remains of the shack. Locals avoided their gaze as Hank and Riya slipped away before dawn, bloodied, silent, and spent.
No more men came after them.
Not that day.
Not the next.
By the time they reached the outskirts of the city, word had trickled through Hank's old channels. The message was clear: They didn't want Riya anymore.
They wanted Justin.
Riya sat stiff in the passenger seat of Hank's borrowed black SUV, her face pale with exhaustion, her hand pressed to the window as the trees gave way to pavement. "Why?" she asked quietly, eyes still trained on the road. "Why stop coming after me?"
"They were never after you," Hank muttered, eyes sharp as ever behind the wheel. "You were just the leash."
Riya's stomach turned.
"They want to make him crack," Hank added. "To drag him out. And trust me—if they knew how close they got with that last hit, they'd try again."
She clenched her fists. "Then why am I not in hiding? Why are we going home?"
Hank pulled into a narrow alley, killed the engine, and turned to her. "Because Justin ordered it."
Riya blinked. "What?"
"He called. Said to get you out. Said the city's safer than the shadows now. They won't touch you if you're visible. If you're witnessed." He paused. "Told me to take you home."
Riya stared at the cracked dashboard. Home. The word didn't feel real anymore.
They arrived at her apartment in Chicago by nightfall. It looked smaller than she remembered. Quieter. Like it, too, had been holding its breath all this time.
She packed quickly. Essentials only. A few clothes. Her mother's necklace. A photo of her and Justin from when they were kids—him grinning wide, her sticking her tongue out at the camera. She hesitated over that one before slipping it into her backpack.
Then she turned to Hank. "Where are we going?"
He checked the door was locked, his hand never far from the weapon at his side. "You're staying with someone. Somewhere safe."
She narrowed her eyes. "Whose idea of 'safe' are we trusting now?"
He met her gaze. "His mother's."
Riya's breath caught. "Justin's mom?"
"She knows everything now," Hank said. "And she said she wants you with her. Said Justin told her, 'If anything happens to me, keep Riya close.'"
A strange silence settled in Riya's chest—part heartbreak, part warmth, part dread.
They drove through the suburbs in silence, headlights flickering off rows of sleepy houses until they reached a two-story brick home with ivy crawling up one side. A light was on in the front window.
Hank turned to her before she opened the door. "You're safe here. She's tougher than she looks. And she hates the people who hurt her son even more than you do."
Riya nodded slowly. "You're not coming in?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. Got things to clean up."
She hesitated, then grabbed his hand. "You saved me, Hank."
He shrugged. "Just returning the favor."
And then he was gone.
Riya stepped up to the porch and knocked.
The door opened almost immediately, and there she was—Justin's mother. Older than Riya remembered, but her eyes just as sharp. Just as kind.
She took one look at Riya's worn face, the bruises just beginning to fade, and without a word, pulled her into a fierce hug.
"Come in, baby," she whispered. "You're home now."
And for the first time in weeks… Riya let herself cry.
Three Weeks Later
The house was quiet, cradled in the calm of early spring. Birds chirped outside the window. A soft breeze teased the curtains. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Riya slept.
Deep, dreamless sleep.
No gunfire.
No running.
No sirens behind her breath.
Ava—Justin's mother—had given her the guest room, and with it, a strange kind of peace. There were soft sheets, chamomile tea, and gentle hands that didn't press for answers.
Riya healed in that silence. Bit by bit. Night by night.
But peace never came without its price.
The third week.
It was early evening when the knock came. Three short raps. Sharp. Measured.
Ava looked up from her knitting. "That's Hank."
Riya felt it instantly—the cold thread of dread weaving up her spine.
She opened the door and there he stood. Paler than usual. Shoulders heavy with something unsaid.
"Hank?" Her voice was thin.
He stepped inside, gave Ava a respectful nod, and turned to Riya, jaw clenched tight.
"We heard from a source," he said slowly, like every word hurt. "About Justin."
Riya's world narrowed to that one name. "Tell me."
"There was a hit in the city." He didn't sugarcoat it. "Someone matching his description was spotted going into an old factory. It blew an hour later. Fire crews found bodies."
Her breath caught. "Bodies?"
"Yeah." Hank's voice lowered. "They think one of them was Justin. The place was torched bad. No ID, no face. But the build, the height, the timing… it lines up. He hasn't made contact since."
Riya's knees went weak. She stumbled back into the chair behind her.
Ava stood in the doorway, hand trembling over her chest. "But they didn't find him?"
"No," Hank admitted. "No body. No proof. Just smoke and silence."
Riya's eyes filled. "Then he could still be alive."
Hank didn't speak. That silence was louder than a gunshot.
She looked down at the floor, as if she could will it to open and bring him back. "He promised me. He said he'd come back."
Hank reached into his coat and pulled out a small, folded paper.
"He left this. Gave it to a contact. Said to get it to you if he didn't show."
Riya took it with shaking hands. She opened it slowly, holding her breath like it might shatter if she blinked.
One line. His handwriting, sharp and messy.
"If they take me, don't let them take you too. Live—for both of us. —J"
Tears fell freely now.
He was gone. Or he might be. And the not knowing—that was the cruelest thing of all.
Ava sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her.
And Hank? He just stood at the window, eyes scanning the street like Justin might come walking up any second, grinning like it was all a joke.
But no one came.
Only the silence remained.
One Month Later
Grief wasn't loud.
It was quiet. Slow. The kind of ache that settled deep in Riya's chest and stayed there, humming under her skin like a secret she couldn't outrun.
She stopped waking up expecting to see him.
Stopped checking the front window every time a car passed.
Stopped hoping.
Ava never said the words out loud, but Riya could see it in the way she moved—how her shoulders sagged a little more each day, how she stopped setting out a second cup of coffee in the morning.
Hank still came by once a week. He never mentioned Justin unless Riya asked, and eventually… she stopped asking.
There had been no word. No message. No mysterious note or sighting or coded signal.
Just silence.
And after a while, silence started to sound like truth.
One rainy afternoon, Riya stood in Ava's backyard, staring at the sky, her coat soaked through, water dripping from her hair. Her fists were clenched at her sides, the necklace Justin had given her years ago wound tight around one hand.
Ava stepped out quietly, holding an umbrella. She didn't say anything, just offered the shelter.
Riya didn't take it.
"I think he's really gone," she said at last, the words flat and hollow.
Ava didn't argue. She didn't offer false hope. She just stood beside her in the rain.
"You don't have to stop loving him," she said softly. "Even if he's gone."
Riya's throat tightened. "He promised he'd come back."
Ava reached over and took her hand, the one still wrapped in that old chain. "Then maybe keeping that promise means letting you go."
That night, Riya took the photo of them from her bag—the one with Justin smiling and her mid-laugh—and tucked it into the back of a drawer. Not to forget him.
But to live again.
To breathe without holding her breath.
And though her heart still ached, it beat steady now.
Like it finally knew he might never come back.
And somehow… she would still survive.