Sleep didn't come easy. When it did, it came dirty, sharp, cruel. Flashes. His hand twisting in her hair, yanking her head back until her throat ached. His voice whispering sweet things turned sick, twisted promises spat against her skin. A cracked mirror. Blood on white tile. A laugh that didn't belong to a boy anymore, but to something rotten and wrong. Owen. Always lurking behind Travis. Always smiling too wide. Watching. Waiting. Helping. Hands pinning her wrists. Cold metal against her cheek. Pleading had never worked. Fighting had only earned her worse. Sometimes she'd believed the lies. Sometimes she'd wanted to. It was easier than the truth: That love was a cage. That trust was a loaded gun pressed against the back of her skull. That survival meant shutting off everything human inside her and learning how to bleed without making a sound. In the dream, she was running. Barefoot. Breath tearing through her lungs. Travis' voice chasing her down alleys that bent and twisted like broken bones. Run, Reagan. Run faster. He would always catch her. He always had.
She woke gasping, clawing at the mattress, reaching for the knife she hadn't realized she dropped. Sweat chilled her skin, her whole body trembling, locked in a battle that had ended years ago-but never really ended at all. She hated the control he still had over her, even though she had escaped long ago. She hated how the sound of her phone buzzing could snap her spine straight with fear before she could even think. The texts kept coming. The calls wouldn't stop. New numbers every time. No way to block him. No way to shut him out completely. It didn't matter how far she ran, how many locks she bolted, how many cities she left behind. He found ways to reach her. Little needles under her skin. Little whispers in her mind. You can't run from me, Reagan. You'll always be mine. She crushed the phone in her hand until her knuckles burned. She had deleted every message. Every missed call. But it didn't matter. The words stayed, carved into the walls of her skull like graffiti she could never scrub clean. You can't hide. You can't win. You can't live without me. She knew the patterns. The obsession. The promises that sounded like knives instead of vows. Travis and his sick little brother hadn't stopped hunting her. They were patient. They were waiting. She could feel it every time she closed her eyes. And Reagan Wilde didn't believe in second chances. Not anymore.
It hit without warning. One second she was staring out the window, gripping the empty beer bottle like it was an anchor, and the next her chest locked tight. Breath stuck halfway up her throat, too thick, too fast. Her heart kicked against her ribs like it was trying to tear free. The edges of the room blurred. Her hands shook uncontrollably. Her skin felt too tight, too hot, and too cold all at once. She tried to suck in air but her lungs refused. The silence pressed down on her, heavy and sharp, a weight she couldn't push off. Her mouth was open but no sound came out. It felt like drowning without water. Like screaming into a vacuum. Her fingers clawed at the floor, grabbing at nothing. Her body remembered terror even when her mind screamed at it to stop. Get up, Reagan. Breathe. Fight. Move. But the commands were trapped somewhere far away, unreachable. She pressed her forehead to the floor, nails digging into the wood, the sharp sting grounding her in the smallest way. A broken sob slipped out before she could choke it back. She hated this. She hated him. She hated the way Travis still lived in her skin like a parasite she couldn't cut out. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to count. In. One. Two. Three. Out. One. Two. Three. It didn't work. Not at first. But she kept counting. Kept forcing the numbers through the static in her brain until the worst of it ebbed enough that she could drag in a shaky breath. Her body curled tighter into itself, muscles cramping from the tension. Tears blurred her vision but she didn't wipe them away. Didn't move. Didn't dare. She stayed there for a long time, face pressed to the floor, heart pounding like war drums inside her ribs. Until finally, finally, her body began to listen to her again. She sat up slowly, back against the wall, hands still trembling. She dragged her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, rocking gently without even realizing it. Small movements. Small control. Brick by brick. Breath by breath. Rebuilding the walls inside her where no one could ever reach again.
Reagan crossed the room without a word, ripped open the battered drawer next to the sandsack, and pulled out a roll of athletic tape. She wrapped her hands tight, fingers steady now, no hesitation. Layers around her knuckles, wrists, the bones of her hands. Protection. Preparation. She stripped down to a black croptop and worn leggings, hair yanked into a tight knot at the back of her head. No jewelry. No weaknesses. Just skin, blood, and willpower. She planted her feet, squared her shoulders, and launched into the sandsack with vicious, practiced precision. Jab, cross, hook. Left elbow. Right knee. Switch stance. Kick high, twist, pivot. Never the same move twice. Never the same rhythm. Predictability was death. She fought the bag like it was breathing, shifting, striking back. Her fists burned. Her shins bruised. Sweat soaked the fabric clinging to her spine. She didn't stop. Wouldn't stop. She struck until her arms trembled, until her breath came in ragged gasps. Then she shifted again-fast, no hesitation-and bolted for the door. No plan. No warning. Just movement. She threw herself down the stairwell, barefoot on concrete, and hit the street at a sprint. The city swallowed her whole, neon lights bleeding into the cracked pavement. She ran fast, cutting corners, slipping between alleyways, feet hammering the ground. She never took the same route twice. Never gave the shadows a second chance to predict her. Left at the dumpsters. Over the broken fence. Through the parking lot. Up the side street. Down again. Her lungs burned but she pushed harder, faster. Her body screamed at her to stop but she didn't listen. Pain was irrelevant. Survival was the only thing that mattered. When she finally staggered to a halt, half a city away, she doubled over with her hands on her thighs, panting, drenched in sweat, blood smearing across her taped knuckles. She looked back once. The streets were empty. For now. She stood up straight, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and started walking toward home. One more night survived. One more war fought. But the real battle was still coming. She could feel it in the cracks of her bones.
Reagan made it back to the apartment just before four a.m., muscles screaming, lungs raw from the cold night air. She locked the door, double-bolted it, dragged her fingers through her sweat-soaked hair, and stood there in the dark breathing like she had just run from the devil himself. She peeled the tape from her hands, skin torn, blood oozing from raw knuckles, but she didn't care. Pain was familiar. Pain was manageable. It was the other thing-the one she couldn't control-that slammed into her like a truck. Her phone buzzed against the counter. She froze. One buzz. Two. New message. Her heart kicked once, hard and brutal, before she forced herself to move. She picked up the phone with trembling fingers and unlocked it. One picture. That's all it was. One picture sent from a blocked number she didn't have to guess at. Herself. Younger. Lying limp across grimy bedsheets, a massive bruise blooming over her left eye, blood at the corner of her mouth. Eyes closed. Barely breathing. The date stamp blurred but she remembered the night like it was carved into her bones. Travis had said he loved her that night. Travis had said she deserved it. Reagan's breath caught in her throat. A sound clawed up from inside her chest-half fury, half grief-and before she knew it, she had thrown the phone across the room. It hit the wall and shattered, pieces skittering across the floor. She staggered back, her body shaking all over, too much rage to hold inside. She pressed her fists to her temples, biting down on a scream that wanted to rip her apart from the inside. She couldn't. She couldn't do this alone. Not this time. Fingers still bleeding, she stumbled over to the cracked landline she kept hidden in a drawer-just in case-and yanked it free. She dialed the number without thinking. One ring. Two. Three. Skylar picked up, her voice thick with sleep and worry. "Rae? What's wrong?" Reagan squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the phone harder against her ear like it could anchor her to something solid. Her voice cracked when she spoke. "I need you." She didn't apologize for the hour. Didn't explain. She didn't have to. Skylar was already moving on the other end of the line. "I'm coming. Stay where you are." The call disconnected and Reagan stood there, phone still pressed against her ear, breathing like she was drowning in her own skin. For the first time in years, she wasn't alone with it. Not anymore.
Skylar banged on the door less than ten minutes later. Reagan barely managed to drag herself across the room and unbolt it before Skylar pushed her way in, barefoot in sweatpants, hair a wild mess, fear blazing in her eyes. She took one look at Reagan-bloodied knuckles, split lip, shattered phone across the floor-and said nothing. No stupid questions. No judgment. Just action. Skylar crossed the room in two strides and wrapped her arms around Reagan, pulling her in so tight Reagan couldn't breathe for a second. Then she broke. Silent. Violent. Raw. Her body shook against Skylar's chest, the tears ripping out of her in waves she couldn't stop. She clutched at Skylar's shirt like a lifeline, like the ground would open under her if she let go. Skylar held her through it all, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other anchored across her spine, strong and steady. No words. No promises. Just presence. Reagan had fought alone for so long she had forgotten what it felt like to be caught when she fell. And for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself believe she might survive this too. Not because she was unbreakable. But because even broken things could be carried.