Chapter Six When the Body Says No

I don’t remember deciding to stop.

One moment I’m moving dragging myself through another alley, counting breaths, promising my body just one more corner and the next, the world tilts violently to the left.

The ground rushes up to meet me.

I hit hard.

The sound is dull, distant, like it happens to someone else. Pain flares briefly, sharp and bright, then blurs into something thick and muffled. My cheek presses against cold pavement slick with rainwater and grime. The smell of iron fills my nose.

Blood.

Mine.

I try to push up.

My arms shake violently and give out immediately.

“No,” I whisper hoarsely, more plea than command. “Not yet.”

My ankle sends up no protest at all now, and that terrifies me more than the pain ever did. My ribs burn with every shallow breath, each inhale a battle, each exhale weaker than the last. My vision tunnels, edges darkening as if someone is slowly closing the curtains on the world.

I blink hard, trying to stay present.

Get up.

My body doesn’t listen.

The city hums around me, distant and indifferent engines passing, a door slamming somewhere far away, voices I can’t make out. Life continues as if I’m not sprawled on the ground, broken and bleeding and seconds away from disappearing.

I laugh weakly.

Figures.

Cold seeps into me, settling deep in my bones. My fingers feel clumsy and slow, barely responding when I try to curl them. I manage to roll onto my side, nausea surging violently as the movement sends pain ripping through my ribs.

Black spots crowd my vision again.

I clutch at my shirt, fingers brushing the familiar crinkle of paper beneath the fabric. The photograph. My anchor. My proof that I existed before all this.

“I tried,” I whisper to no one. My voice shakes, thin and frayed. “I really did.”

My breathing stutters.

I press my forehead to the pavement, focusing on the rough texture beneath my skin, grounding myself in sensation so I don’t slip away. My thoughts start to scatter, breaking apart like glass under pressure.

The orphanage.

My mother’s hands.

The man from earlier his voice, his eyes, the way he’d looked at me like I wasn’t invisible.

A sharp sound cuts through the haze.

Footsteps.

Close.

My heart jolts violently, panic flaring instinctively even as my body refuses to cooperate. I try to scramble backward, nails scraping uselessly against the ground.

“Hey.”

The voice is male. Controlled. Familiar in a way that makes something twist painfully in my chest.

“No,” I croak, barely audible. “Please… don’t.”

The footsteps stop.

“Easy,” he says, quieter now. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

I shake my head weakly, tears burning behind my eyes. I don’t believe him. I can’t afford to.

A shadow falls over me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for impact that never comes.

Instead, strong hands hover just above me hesitant. Careful. Like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he touches me.

“You’re in shock,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “You’re bleeding. Jesus.”

I force my eyes open.

It’s him.

The man from before.

Up close, he looks even more unreal too solid, too alive, like he doesn’t belong in this broken place with me. Concern lines his face now, stripped of its earlier restraint. Anger simmers beneath it, barely contained.

I try to crawl away again.

My body betrays me completely this time.

My vision whites out, a roaring rushing through my ears, and suddenly I’m falling except I don’t hit the ground.

Arms wrap around me, firm and unyielding, lifting me with alarming ease. I gasp weakly, panic spiking as the world spins.

“Hey hey, don’t fight me,” he says urgently. “You’re going to make it worse.”

I struggle anyway, more reflex than choice, but it’s useless. My strength is gone. Every movement costs more than I have left.

“Let go,” I whisper.

“No.”

The word is final.

I sag against him despite myself, my head lolling against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear, maddeningly calm compared to the chaos inside me. The contrast makes my throat tighten painfully.

“You’re safe,” he says, softer now, like the words are for both of us. “I’ve got you.”

Safe.

The word feels foreign.

I laugh weakly, the sound dissolving into a cough that sends fire through my ribs. “You shouldn’t,” I murmur. “I’m trouble.”

He shifts his grip, cradling me more securely. I feel him tense when his hand brushes the blood soaking my jacket.

“Someone already hurt you,” he says, voice darkening. “Badly.”

I don’t answer.

It takes too much effort.

The world starts to fade again, sounds muffling, light dimming. I cling weakly to his coat without realizing it, fingers curling into expensive fabric like it’s the only solid thing left.

“Stay with me,” he says sharply, urgency creeping into his tone. “What’s your name?”

I hesitate.

Names have always been dangerous.

But I’m too tired to lie.

I give him my first name only, the sound barely making it past my lips.

His grip tightens just a fraction.

“Alright,” he says. “Alright. I’ve got you.”

I feel movement him carrying me, the steady rhythm of his steps, the world swaying gently. A car door opens somewhere close. Cool air rushes over me.

“No hospitals,” I whisper suddenly, panic flaring one last time. “Please.”

He pauses.

Then, quietly, “Okay.”

Something in his voice tells me that promise matters.

As darkness finally pulls me under, one thought lingers stubbornly, burning bright even as everything else fades 

I didn’t outrun them.

But maybe…

Maybe I didn’t have to die alone either.

The car smells like leather and something clean I don’t recognize.

It’s overwhelming.

My body curls inward instinctively, reacting to unfamiliar comfort like it’s a threat. The seat beneath me is too soft. The warmth too steady. I shiver anyway, teeth chattering uncontrollably.

“Damn it,” he mutters. I feel the vibration of his voice through my cheek where it rests against his chest. “You’re freezing.”

A coat is pulled around me heavy, expensive, absurdly gentle. I want to protest. I don’t. My mouth won’t cooperate.

The door slams shut.

The engine starts.

Movement presses against my already fragile senses. Every turn sends nausea rolling through me. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to retch.

“Breathe,” he says quietly. “Just breathe with me.”

He does it deliberately, exaggerated, like he’s teaching a child how to survive a storm.

In.

Out.

I try to follow.

My lungs burn in protest.

My head lolls to the side, vision swimming. Streetlights smear into long golden lines across the window, stretching and breaking apart like fractured memories.

This isn’t how I thought it would end.

I always imagined silence. Darkness. No witnesses.

Certainly not this.

Not warmth.

Not someone holding me like I matter.

My fingers twitch weakly, brushing against something hard beneath his jacket. A chain. Cold metal. The weight of it feels deliberate, symbolic in a way I don’t have the strength to unravel.

I wonder, vaguely, what kind of man wears a chain that heavy and still moves like violence is second nature.

“You’re losing consciousness,” he says. Not panicked but close. “Stay with me.”

I try to respond.

My tongue feels thick. My thoughts slower now, drifting like smoke.

“I’m… tired,” I manage.

“I know,” he replies. “But you can rest later.”

Later.

That word feels like a lie people tell themselves when they’re afraid.

The car slows.

Stops.

Voices murmur outside men, plural. Controlled. Alert.

A door opens.

Cold air rushes in again, shocking me awake for half a second before my body slumps fully this time. Arms lift me carefully, repositioning my weight.

Someone swears softly under their breath when they see the blood.

“She’s worse than I thought,” the man carrying me says.

A pause.

Then another voice lower, sharper. “She’s breathing.”

“Barely.”

Hands adjust my head, checking my pulse, my neck, my wrist. I feel like an object being assessed, but not discarded.

Protected.

That terrifies me.

“Get her inside,” the second voice orders. “Now.”

Inside where?

The question forms but never leaves my mind.

As I’m carried again, deeper this time, I sense space opening around me high ceilings, quieter air, the faint scent of polished stone and something floral. Wealth, maybe. Power.

Not safety.

Never safety.

My body chooses that moment to betray me one last time.

Pain surges violently through my ribs, stealing what little breath I have left. A sound tears from my throat half sob, half gasp.

“Hey hey,” the first man says quickly, tightening his hold. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong.

That no one who ends up here ever is.

But the darkness finally claims me fully this time, pulling me under before I can speak.

The last thing I feel

Is the unmistakable certainty

that I’ve crossed a line I can never uncross.