The First Crack.

Emily's pov.

I ran to where Sammy lay, fear gripping me, taking in his body before me. “Sammy... Sammy,” I sobbed, dropping to my knees and calling his name softly.

I stretched my arms and touched him. “I’m not dead,” he groaned, wincing. He was still conscious. I breathed out, relieved.

“Damn. Fucking bastards,” he muttered under his breath, holding his ribs where it hurt the most.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my eyes scanning his body. He didn’t look good—blood stained his shirt, his nose looked broken, his cheeks bruised and swollen. A nasty black eye was forming fast.

He clutched his ribs like they were the source of all his pain. He tried to sit up, struggled, and I moved closer to help, but he ignored my hand.

I didn’t think too much of it. I just ran to the fridge to grab an ice bag for the swelling.

When I came back, he was already on his feet, one hand gripping the wooden chair beside him for support. He looked... different. Not just hurt—angry. Fractured, even. Like something deeper than pain was clawing inside him.

His eyes were cold. Like I was the enemy. Before I could step closer to place the ice against his face, he flinched and pulled back.

“I’ll do it myself,” he said, stretching out his hand for the ice bag.

“No, Sammy, you’re in pain. Let me help you....”

"Why don't you fucking listen to me!?" he screamed at the top of his voice.

I froze with the ice bag in hand. The room fell dead silent. Only Sammy’s breathing, full of rage, could be heard. A soft sob escaped my lips. Sammy had never screamed at me like this before. Now it was even scarier—because I was scared to get close to him.

He started to walk away.

I called after him. "Sammy... Sa..Sam...."

Before I knew it, he shoved me—hard—against the wall. My head hit with a dull thud. Not enough to knock me out, but enough to remind me this wasn’t the Sammy I knew. My legs trembled. I wanted to run. I wanted to reach for him too. But mostly, I wanted this to be a bad dream.

His breathing was sharp, his voice laced with pain. A glass pierced his feet from the wall clock that had fallen, making him bleed, but he didn’t care.

“If you had just agreed to my plan, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” he snapped. “I did everything for you, Emily. Everything. And now, when it’s your turn to step up, you suddenly grow a conscience?”

I froze. Shocked. Angry. Guilty. All at once. The words cut deeper than any wound. Not because they weren’t true—but because they were.

“You look at me like I’m a criminal, don’t you?” he continued. “You think I enjoyed watching you cry every night, knowing I couldn’t do anything? Everything I did was for you. Every damn thing. You heard what Victor said loud and clear. I won’t be able to save you from him. Don’t hold me responsible for whatever they do to you.”

I opened my mouth, but the words didn’t come. What was I even supposed to say? I had never seen Sammy like this. This part of him scared me. Scared that if I opened my mouth, I might say something that would cause him to hurt me—or worse.

“I have fucking had enough of your bullshit. Don’t approach me until you’ve made your decision. I bled for us,” his voice cracked. “Now it’s your turn to bleed.”

And just like that, he walked away—leaving me pinned to the wall, shaking. The silence screamed louder than anything.

Sammy was all I had. My only family. The only person who ever stuck around. The first time I saw him, he was just some dropout around my age. The neighborhood didn’t like him much. Always said he was trouble. The kind of boy your parents warned you to stay away from. And I did. I avoided him for as long as I could. But when I actually got to know him... he wasn’t like that at all.

My grandpa died when I was still young. Illness took him fast, and he didn’t leave much behind—just the house. I stayed there alone. Grieving. Lost.

It took me a month to get over the pain. But I got used to it. Three months passed, and I thought I’d be fine. What could go wrong?

Everything.

One day, after school, I came back and saw the house being demolished. I ran to one of the workers, demanding to know what was going on. At first, he ignored me, but maybe I looked too pathetic to ignore.

He finally spoke. “All the houses on this street are being torn down. Including yours.” My heart dropped.

They must’ve sent a letter. But Grandpa never told me anything—or maybe he didn’t have the chance to. I rushed inside and grabbed whatever I could before they continued their work. I stood and watched my house crumble down. Remembering all the memories I’d lived in that house.

Where was I supposed to go? I cried as I walked around, hoping someone—anyone—would take me in. But no one did. I couldn’t blame them. Who would want a stranger in their house?

I went from house to house until it got dark. I was tired. Dirty. My uniform clung to my skin. I sat on the cold pavement, hugging my bag to my chest.

I don’t know when I drifted off. But the sound of a car halting in front of me snapped me awake. Bright headlights blinded me.

“Looks like someone lost their way home,” a man said with a sick kind of grin. I scooted back, heart racing. He stepped closer.

“Relax, puppy. I won’t hurt you... if you cooperate.” He snatched my bag from me, closing the distance fast.

I gasped. My heart pounded.

He grabbed me, dragged me to the corner. I screamed—but his hand muffled my voice.

“Shhh... cooperate, and no one gets hurt,” he whispered. His weight pinned me down as he started lifting my skirt.

“No—please don’t,” I sobbed, pushing his hands. Kicking. Struggling.

Just as he grabbed my underwear—

Smash!

Glass shattered over his head. He fell to the side. His weight lifted off me, and I looked up through blurry eyes.

Sammy.

“You sick bastard!” he roared, throwing punches. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size!”

Kick. Punch. Kick. I watched, stunned, as Sammy beat the living hell out of him. In that moment, I felt safe. Hopeful again.

“Are you okay?” Sammy asked, out of breath, concern written all over his face.

I couldn’t speak. My tears wouldn’t let me. I just nodded shakily. His expression turned to one of pity.

He squinted at me. “Hey... you’re that old man’s granddaughter, right? What are you doing out here?”

Cleaning my running nose, “I... I don’t have a place to stay,” I muttered, eyes fixed on my shoes like they held the answer to everything. He was quiet for a moment.

“Alright. Come with me,” he said. I hesitated. Not wanting to move.

“I won’t hurt you. I promise.” I still didn’t move.

He observed me. “Okay, here....” Giving me a pocket knife. “If you feel threatened by me or I try to do anything stupid, use it on me.” I collected it. It did sound like a sure deal.

And from that day on, Sammy and I became close. It took a while for me to trust him—but over time, he proved me wrong.

One thought looped through my head, louder than all the others. Maybe this was always our story. Him saving me. And me never knowing how to repay him.

Until now.