Maya

I hurriedly slipped my scrub top over my head, the fabric clinging to my skin as I jammed my feet into my shoes, heart racing. Gripping my purse tightly, I stepped into the living room, only to find Armando sitting up on the couch, cradling his abdomen with his left hand, his head resting heavily against one of my fleece pillows.

A wave of unease washed over me. How could I leave him here, vulnerable and alone, while I went to work? The gravity of the situation pressed down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I couldn’t shake the discomfort gnawing at me. Three days ago, I had pulled him from the brink, cleaned him up, and now here he was, my savior turned burden.

I let out a shaky breath, hovering over him, torn between compassion and fear. Suddenly, his eyes fluttered open, and those hazel swirls locked onto mine, sending a jolt through me—like electricity sparking in my core. He was breathtaking, the kind of handsome that made my stomach lurch like a schoolgirl’s first crush, despite the tattoos that adorned his body. I had never liked ink before, but on him, they told a story I wanted to know.

“Where are you going?” His voice was low, rough around the edges, but it wrapped around me, pulling me back to the moment. I stood there, arms crossed, caught off guard by the vulnerability in his gaze and the weight of the choices I had to make.

“I have to work, and if I don’t pay the bill soon, they’ll cut the water off.” My voice trembled, heavy with desperation. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, and I couldn’t help but notice how his tongue darted out to wet his lips—a movement that ignited a fire in my stomach, stirring emotions I didn’t want to confront.

He reached into his wallet, fingers trembling slightly as he revealed a handful of hundreds. My heart raced, pounding against my ribs like a caged animal. No. I couldn’t accept his money. It felt wrong—like accepting a lifeline from the very sea that threatened to drown me.

“Since you helped me, I want to help you,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that seemed to hang in the air between us, charged with unspoken promises.

“Absolutely not,” I replied, a stubborn edge creeping into my tone as I turned away, desperate to escape the pull of his gaze. The door loomed ahead, an escape route from this suffocating moment.

“Please,” he urged, his voice raw and vulnerable. “It’s the least I could do. Soon enough, you won’t have to see me again.”

I spun around, caught off guard by the sincerity etched across his face. His hand still extended, those crisp bills hovering in the air, heavy with unspoken intentions.

My stomach twisted at the thought of my mounting responsibilities—Mother’s disappointment looming large. She had already expressed her frustration when I asked for last month’s rent. I couldn’t let her down again. But staring into his eyes, I felt the world shift, the weight of my choices pressing down like a lead blanket, suffocating yet electrifying.

In that moment, it dawned on me: accepting his help wasn’t just about money; it was about trust—about vulnerability. And in a life where every day felt like a battle, maybe it was time to let someone in.

I huffed, the weight of the cash feeling like lead in my palm. With a quick flick of my wrist, I shoved the crumpled bills into my purse, barely managing a strained "thank you" before I fled into the suffocating air of the parking lot. Once inside my car, I sat frozen for what felt like an eternity, the world outside a blur as chaos swirled in my mind. Finally, I turned the key, the engine roaring to life, and peeled away onto the freeway.

With the music blaring in a futile attempt to drown out my racing thoughts and the cold air from the AC biting at my fingertips, I suddenly noticed the gas light glaring ominously on the dashboard. Panic surged through me as I glanced in the rearview mirror and took the exit, my heart pounding louder with each moment that passed. As I coasted down the ramp, I spotted a 7/11, its fluorescent lights flickering like a warning sign.

I reached into my purse, my hands trembling as I retrieved one of the bills Armando had given me, the gesture feeling like a betrayal in my gut. I marched inside the station, the musty scent of stale coffee and tobacco swirling around me. After handing the cashier the money to fill my tank, I felt a slight relief wash over me—until I caught sight of a group of men loitering outside, their laughter sharp and sardonic.

I moved past them, unease prickling at the back of my neck. But as I reached my car, time itself seemed to freeze. Their voices drifted toward me, heavy with dread and foreboding. My breath hitched when I heard them mention Armando's name, the words wrapping around my throat like a vice. They were talking about how the Death Dealers were hunting him down, their eyes glinting with malice as they speculated about a woman—a woman driving a car that looked just like mine—who had helped him escape.

My heart raced uncontrollably, fear electrifying my veins. I hurriedly returned the gas nozzle to its place, but my hands shook so violently that the cap wouldn’t click shut, frustration and terror mingling in my chest. Sweat clamored across my skin as I scrambled back into my car, slamming the door behind me like a shield against the darkness inching closer.

I could feel it—the impending doom closing in. They would find us. They had to be stopped. I needed to return to Armando, to warn him, to protect him. This man had just dragged me deeper into a nightmare, and now it felt as if the shadows were reaching out, ready to swallow us whole.