2

Azalea

I bolted.

Every instinct screamed to run, but I knew better than to storm out the front.

I wasn’t just a girl caught in the wrong place—I was a trespasser inside one of the city’s most powerful corporations.

And worse? I had nothing to show for it.

The files were gone.

My legs moved before my brain caught up. I dashed down the narrow hallway behind the vault, praying it would lead to a service exit, a staircase—anything that could help me disappear.

The footsteps behind me grew louder and came closer.

I turned sharply, slipping into a utility closet and holding my breath. My chest rose and fell in shallow gasps as the footsteps passed.

Keep moving. Don’t stop now, please.

I waited a few more seconds before inching the door open.

Clear.

I slipped out, scanning my surroundings. Every hallway in this place was polished and sterile, swallowing footsteps and making you feel like you didn’t belong.

I found a stairwell door and pushed through it, bounding down two flights, then stopped to listen. Nothing. I kept moving.

I pulled my hoodie tighter, tucking in the loose strands of hair.

Taking a shaky breath, I stepped into the lobby, walking fast but not running. I reached the side exit.

I didn’t look back.

A wave of relief—sweet and dizzying—swept through me.

I had escaped. For now.

The files were missing, the job ruined, and I had five thousand dollars for a job I hadn’t completed.

But could I escape the man who hired me?

A chill shot down my spine at the memory of his warning. That man wasn’t just cold; he was dangerous. Lethal.

He could kill me for failing—without blinking, without hesitation, without remorse.

Panic clawed at my insides as my eyes darted to the entrance—only to find the spy-guard gone. Vanished.

Shit. I needed to get out of here. Now.

I ran, fast and far, putting distance between me and the Rion building. Once I was deep enough into the city, I stopped in an alley, changed clothes, and flagged down a cab.

“Queens Cancer Care Center,” I said as I slid into the back seat.

I was still lost in my thoughts when the driver arrived.

“Ma’am,” he called gently. I didn’t respond, trapped in my fears. “Ma’am? Can you hear me?”

His voice and the soft tap of his hand jolted me back to the present.

“Oh—yes,” I whispered, blinking rapidly.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

“Yes… I’m fine,” I replied, forcing a smile. “Are we there?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay. Thank you.” I paid quickly before stepping out into the night.

I walked into the hospital, the antiseptic smell hitting my nose. The scent of sickness and sterility and desperate hope.

Mia was at the desk, and I forced a weak smile. “You’re here?”

“This late?” she added, glancing at the clock.

I nodded, too tired to speak. “How’s Amira?”

“She’ll be fine,” Mia said gently, leading me toward Amira’s room. “You’re always here for her.”

I smiled. “I couldn’t do anything else.”

We stopped at her room. I quietly reached for the handle, but Mia’s voice stopped me.

“What about the payment?” she asked. “I hope you didn’t forget.”

“I have it with me,” I replied. “I’ll make the payment before I leave.”

“Okay, then. I’ll be on my way.”

“Thank you.”

I stepped inside and saw my sister sleeping peacefully.

Or… it looked peaceful.

But I knew better.

She was in pain, even if she didn’t say it. She kept quiet to spare me the guilt.

Her blonde hair shimmered, ethereal against her pale skin. She looked like our mother. I was the opposite—ginger-red hair, a mix of our parents’ skin tones.

I sat beside her, watching her sleep, listening to her soft snores.

“You’ll be fine, Amira,” I whispered. “I’ll make sure you are.”

Hot tears threatened to spill, but I held them back.

Minutes turned to hours, and she still hadn’t woken up. Fear began to gnaw at my chest.

I stood and found Mia talking to someone in the hallway.

“Are you leaving already?” she asked.

“Mia, something’s wrong,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Amira… she hasn’t woken up. It’s been hours…”

Mia placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “There’s no cause for alarm. She’s just sleeping. She’s fine.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Okay. I should go now.”

“Alright. What about the payment?”

“Oh—right. I almost forgot.”

After speaking with Mia, I headed to the payment counter and cleared the bill. Once I was outside, I checked my account balance.

Gone.

Everything was gone. I’d paid it all for her treatment.

I stared at the hospital one last time. “Please… be healthy again, Amira. You have to beat this.”

Then I took a cab back to my tiny apartment.

Today had been chaotic. And tomorrow, I had to face that stranger and tell him I failed—possibly signing my own death warrant in the process.

The alarm blared.

I shot out of bed, the blur of sleep replaced with sharp urgency. I didn’t waste time. Routine took over: brush teeth, shower, rinse. The water was lukewarm, but I had no time to wait.

After drying off with a threadbare towel, I grabbed clothes from my wardrobe, staring at the worn fabric. I pulled one out, my stomach sinking at the tear along the seam.

Groaning, I grabbed a needle and thread, sitting down to stitch it quickly.

“Perfect,” I muttered. It was a lie I told myself every time—no matter how bad a dress looked, I could make it work.

A quick bite of leftovers, tasteless and cold, and I was out the door.

It was just 6 a.m. But every step I took to the mall where I worked felt like a small victory against the poverty that kept threatening to swallow me whole.

By the time I arrived, I was sweating.

“Don’t tell me you walked here again?” Sandra’s voice echoed across the place.

I ignored her. She wasn’t worth my time or energy. A bully with an inflated ego, pretending to be royalty while working as a sales rep in the same dead-end job as me.

“I’m talking to you, bitch,” she hissed.

Not today. I couldn’t deal with her today, not with everything else crushing me.

I clenched my fists, trying to ignore her.

She didn’t stop.

“Who the hell hired someone like you?” she sneered. “A poor, low-class girl wearing raggedy clothes… and walking miles just to get here.”

“Can you just shut it,” I muttered under my breath. “For once.”

“What did you just say?” she snapped. “Did you tell me to shut up?”

I turned, a smile barely on my lips. “Please… shut it. Please.”

She stepped closer, the stench of her expensive perfume overwhelming. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll make you,” I said, voice steady, locking eyes with her.

She flinched—just a little—but straightened up. “How dare you!” Her hand shot out, aiming for my cheek.

I grabbed it before it could land.

I shoved her back. My hand met her cheek with a sharp smack that echoed in the empty mall.

She stumbled, eyes wide with shock and outrage, the shape of my hand blooming red against her perfect skin.

“Don’t ever raise your hand at me.”

She stared at me, stunned and furious. “You’ll regret this, bitch,” she spat.

I didn’t blink. “Maybe. But at least I won’t regret standing up for myself.”