Mark finally peeled himself off the cold wall, his mind reeling from everything he had just pieced together. The brick had left indentations along his spine, but the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the ice-cold realization settling in his chest like a lead weight.

What have I gotten myself into?

He had to get back to the clinic. Elishia wasn’t safe—he wasn’t safe. Not anymore. Not with what he knew now.

His fingers trembled as he pushed away from the wall, muscle memory already calculating the fastest route back through the maze of back alleys. The night air bit at his exposed skin, carrying the familiar cocktail of exhaust fumes, rotting garbage, and something else—something that made his instincts scream.

Move. Now.

But just as he moved his boot forward—

Tap—tap—tap—

The distinct rhythm of heavy footsteps echoed off the narrow walls. Then more. Fast. Too many. The sound bounced and amplified in the confined space, creating a symphony of approaching violence.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

His spine stiffened like a wire pulled taut. He backed into the shadows just as the pounding echo of dozens of feet came thundering down the alley behind him, boots striking pavement in an almost military precision that made his blood run cold.

A sharp bark broke through the cold air—not animal, but human. Commanding.

“There! That’s him—HEY!”

Mark didn’t hesitate.

He spun around and bolted in the opposite direction, his body moving before his mind could catch up. Years of running these streets kicked in—vaulting over trash bins, skidding beneath rusted scaffolding, using every shadow and crevice he’d memorized during countless nights just like this one. His breath turned ragged as he wove through the maze of alleyways he knew like the back of his hand.

The voices followed, closer than they should be, their words cutting through the night like broken glass.

“You think you can run, Marky boy?!” 

“Get back here!” 

“We just wanna talk!”

Talk, my ass.

Lies. All of it. He knew those tones—the mock-casual cruelty, the barely contained violence bleeding through every syllable. They weren’t there to talk.

They were there to kill.

But it wasn’t just the threats that chilled him to the bone—it was the voice leading them. That familiar, hate-filled rasp that had haunted his nightmares for years.

“Tommy,” he muttered between clenched teeth, the name tasting like poison on his tongue.

That bastard. That absolute piece of human garbage.

Even now, Mark could still feel the phantom ache in his ribs from when Tommy and his gang had nearly beaten him to death three years ago. Broken ribs, punctured lung, two weeks in a back-alley clinic where the doctor asked no questions and took cash only. That was before Tommy climbed his way into Brison’s personal ranks, basking in the filth of the Suarez faction like a mutt on a silver chain.

And now he’s coming for me again. Why? Why now?

Mark grit his teeth as he sprinted, his lungs already burning from the exertion. The stitches along his back pulled and strained with each stride, but he pushed through the pain.

Why now? Why chase him now, days after the explosion? The city was crawling with chaos—sirens wailing at all hours, cops on every corner, news crews documenting the aftermath. Feraro’s cleanup crew had been silent, almost too silent, like they were waiting for something.

Or someone.

And then Tommy’s voice rang out again, cruel and jeering, carrying that same sadistic glee Mark remembered from their last encounter.

“We saw you, you rat bastard! Thought nobody noticed, huh?”

Mark’s step faltered for just a fraction of a second. Saw me? Saw me when?

“You and that girl. Dragging her out like she was your prize. What’s wrong, Mark? Got tired of leftovers so you grabbed a fresh one, huh?”

Mark’s vision darkened with rage. His fist clenched so hard that veins bulged along his forearms, knuckles white and itching for blood. The urge to turn around, to find Tommy and wrap his hands around that smug throat, was almost overwhelming.

That sick fuck. He’s talking about Elishia. He’s talking about—

“I’ll kill him,” Mark hissed under his breath, the words escaping before he could stop them.

But right now, he had to stay alive. Revenge was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

Still, the words echoed in his skull like a cursed bell— “You and that girl.”

They knew. Someone had seen him hauling Elishia from the burning warehouse. Someone must’ve been watching from the shadows, documenting every move. Spying. He’d been seen.

And now that knowledge was out there, spreading like poison through the criminal underground.

How long have they been watching? How much do they know?

—

Mark’s mind spun like a broken compass, thoughts fragmenting and reforming in rapid succession.

So who was it? Was it someone from the Suarez? From Feraro’s?

Maybe some low-life had watched from the shadows and sold the story to both sides, playing every angle for maximum profit. Information was currency in this city, and he’d just become the most valuable commodity on the market.

Which meant…

“Feraro knows.”

The thought thundered through him like a gunshot. His blood ran cold, ice water flooding his veins.

If they knew Elishia survived—if they had even the slightest suspicion that he was protecting her—she wasn’t just a witness anymore. She was a threat. A loose thread that needed cutting.

Someone would want her silenced. No, both of them. Clean slate, no witnesses, no complications.

“Shit…”

What about Chad? Joey? The others who’d been there that night?

Chad had run the moment the bomb dropped, disappearing into the smoke and chaos like a ghost. Maybe he’d escaped. But if anyone from the group had survived and spilled what they knew under pressure…

No, they wouldn’t have had the chance.

If Feraro’s double agents arrived first after the explosion—and they always did—then any survivor would have been shot on the spot, preventing the ‘real’ police from investigating too deeply. They’d justify it as a shootout, traffickers fighting back against law enforcement. Case closed, questions unanswered.

—

And Tommy? Why was he chasing him?

Was Suarez trying to make a statement to Feraro—mocking him by dragging out the only surviving “product”? Or was this personal? Tommy settling old scores while the city burned around them?

Probably both. That’s just the kind of petty bastard he is.

“Goddammit…”

Mark cursed again, his boots skidding across wet pavement as he rounded another sharp turn. His breath puffed out in clouds, and every heartbeat felt like a hammer against his ribs. The alley walls seemed to press in closer, transforming the familiar maze into a claustrophobic trap.

He couldn’t go back the same way.

Not with a tail on him.

Not with Suarez’s dogs on his scent, following his every move.

And certainly not with Elishia at the clinic, vulnerable and unprotected.

If they find her…

He wouldn’t let that happen.

He couldn’t.

The girl had been through enough. Whatever twisted game these factions were playing, she didn’t deserve to be a pawn in it.

He had one job now. One thing that mattered more than his own survival:

Get back. Fast. And disappear.

****

Mark bolted in the opposite direction—as far away from the clinic as his battered body could take him. Every step burned like fire, the dull, tearing ache along his back making it hard to draw a full breath. He could already tell the stitches had torn open again, sticky blood soaking through his shirt and creating a warm, wet patch against his skin.

Doc’s gonna kill me if these get infected.

But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

The voices were still following, echoing off the walls like hunting calls. Sometimes closer, sometimes farther, but always there—a constant reminder that he was prey now.

He knew the alleyways well. Every shortcut, every dead end, every fence that could be jumped and every gap that could be squeezed through. Years of running from cops, rival gangs, and his own demons had taught him the city’s hidden arteries. He veered into the outer ring of the city center, where the rot and decay gave way to flickering neon and the screech of car horns.

Just a little farther. Lose them in the crowd.

By the time he emerged onto a side road, just a stone’s throw away from the main strip, he was wheezing hard. His legs wobbled like jelly, threatening to give out with each step. The sounds of pursuit had faded, replaced by the distant hum of late-night traffic.

Seems like I lost them. For now.

He staggered to a crooked lamp post with a shattered bulb and slammed his palm against it to steady himself, the cold metal shocking against his fevered skin.

His back seared with pain, fire racing along every nerve.

His shirt clung like wet gauze, the fabric pulling against reopened wounds.

“Shit… can’t go back like this…” he gasped, swiping a sleeve across his sweat-drenched jaw.

His mind was sprinting faster than his legs ever could, cycling through possibilities and probabilities like a broken slot machine.

What if Suarez’s men followed me all the way that night? What if they know exactly where the clinic is?

What if Feraro already has someone watching the building? Posted outside, waiting for me to come back?

What if they’re already inside? Waiting in the shadows, guns drawn?

What if Elishia’s already—

“No.” He clenched his teeth, shaking the thoughts out violently. “No, no, no.”

He couldn’t let his paranoia spiral. Not now. He needed to plan, not panic. Clear thinking was the only thing that would keep them both alive.

“Get in. Get her out. Disappear. That’s it,” he muttered to himself like a mantra, the words helping to steady his racing heart.

Simple plan. Simple execution. Don’t overthink it.

He inhaled once, tasting exhaust and ozone.

Exhaled slowly, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders.

Did it again, forcing his breathing to slow and deepen.

Then pushed off the post, forcing himself to jog despite the weakness in his legs.

Time to move. Time to—

He only made it five steps.

Clack.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder from behind, fingers like steel vises digging into muscle and bone.

His body moved instinctively—years of street fighting kicking in without conscious thought. A fist drawn back, ready to snap forward into whoever had grabbed him.

But it never landed.

“Ghh—!”

A jolt of pain shot through his side like lightning.

Electric. Violent. Consuming.

Like a thousand knives suddenly flaying his nerves, turning his muscles to water and his vision to static. His limbs spasmed uncontrollably, no longer obeying the desperate commands from his brain.

Taser. Fuck, they tasered me.

The world spun, colors bleeding together in a nauseating whirl.

He hit the ground hard, his body bouncing off the pavement like a rag doll. The taste of copper flooded his mouth—blood from where he’d bitten his tongue.

Darkness crept in like a heavy curtain, and before the blackout consumed him completely, the last thing he heard were clipped, distorted voices floating above him:

“…Yeah. This is the one…”

“Should be him. Matches the description.”

“What now? Report to—”

“Idiot—just move him. We’re exposed out here.”

No. Not like this. Not when she needs me.

But the darkness was too strong, pulling him down into its depths.

Then—

Silence.