Maya

He pressed his lips against mine, a soft yet electrifying connection that ignited something deep within me. The kiss was an unspoken declaration, a spark that blazed to life before I even had a chance to comprehend it. Armando was unlike anyone I'd ever encountered; there was a wildness to him that both thrilled and terrified me. When he finally revealed that he led a gang trafficking drugs, it felt like the ground had shifted beneath my feet. Shock coursed through me, leaving me breathless. What was I supposed to think?

I shot a glare at the clock, its red digits glaring back at me in the stillness of the night. Past midnight. Time felt suspended as I turned to face the door, where Armando lay sprawled on the couch, his presence a heavy blanket over my thoughts. The taste of his kiss lingered on my lips, a haunting reminder of our encounter.

A slight smile crept onto my face, unwelcome yet insistent, as memories whirled in my mind. His hands had gripped my cheeks with such urgency, fingers weaving through my hair, pulling me closer as his tongue danced with mine in a desperate search for connection. I couldn't shake the images that flickered like a film reel—him, so fierce yet tender, a dangerous man who awakened something in me I couldn’t yet name.

I curl into my mattress, the comforter cocooning me like a fragile shell. My legs stretch beneath the sheets, seeking solace in their soft embrace, when a noise slices through the stillness outside my window. I freeze, straining my ears to catch every whisper of sound that dares to intrude, but soon, silence wraps around me again.

It's probably just a cat or some creature scuttling about, I tell myself, convincing but unsteady. Yet, an echo flares back to life, and this time, it’s accompanied by a soft whisper—one that is unmistakably human. A sudden chill races down my spine.

Heart pounding, I jerk upright, gathering my robe tightly around me as I rush into the living room. There lies Armando, sprawled on the couch, remote resting lazily in his hand. His eyes flicker to mine, dark and questioning, before he lowers his gaze and silences the TV, the room heavy with unspoken tension.

“I heard something outside my window,” I gasp, the words escaping like startled breath. Panic claws at my insides.

In an instant, he’s on his feet, urgency igniting his movements as he pulls on his pants without a second thought. “I’ll check it out,” he mumbles, his voice low, but there's a steeliness within it that both comforts and alarms me. He slips into my bedroom, careful as though treading on glass.

Left alone in the living room, I can only listen. The silence feels oppressive, laden with unnamable dread, until, there it is again—a sound that shatters the calm, pulling me deeper into the unknown. I grip the edge of the couch, each heartbeat thudding loudly in my ears, as I wait for Armando to return, praying he’ll be alright.

The eerie calm is shattered by a deafening crash as a glass shatters in the kitchen, fragments raining down onto the tile like deadly confetti. I scream, my heart racing, as a tall man materializes in the shadows. He wears a leather jacket that hugs his muscular frame, tattoos snaking up his neck—a menacing sight. In his hand, he grips a small handgun, its cold metal gleaming ominously in the dim light.

Just then, Armando bursts onto the scene, adrenaline-fueled fury in his eyes. He lunges at the intruder, fists flying. They collide with a bone-crunching force, grappling fiercely on the floor. I hold my breath as the man lands a brutal punch to Armando's face, causing him to momentarily stagger. But Armando is relentless; he retaliates, slamming his fist into the man's stomach with a sickening thud that sends both of them groaning in pain.

I stand frozen, fear gripping my chest as they wrestle on the ground, each blow echoing in my ears. Desperation fuels me—where is something, anything, I can use to help? My eyes dart around the room until they land on the bat I had since elementary school, tucked away near the fireplace, a relic of innocence in this nightmare.

With determination surging through me, I sprint toward the bat. My fingers curl around its handle, squeezing it tightly as I rush back to the chaos unfolding before me. The intruder has Armando in a chokehold, his grip tightening as Armando gasps for breath, agony etched across his face.

“Get off him!” I scream, my voice breaking as I swing the bat down with all my strength. It connects with a resounding crack, knocking the man off balance. He crumples to the floor, dazed, while Armando gasps, clutching his abdomen—blood pooling beneath him.

I drop the bat, letting it hit the floor with a deafening clang that echoes through the silence. My breath hitches as I turn to Armando; my hands tremble with adrenaline. He’s struggling to rise, his body slick with the intruder’s blood pooling around us. Instinct pulls me toward the man who broke in, my heart racing as I check his pulse. It’s weak, faint—but there.

Suddenly, I feel a firm grip on my arm, and I meet Armando's eyes. He's leaning heavily against the counter, his face pale and strained. Blood drips from his wound, each drop splattering onto the floor, marking our fight against the night’s chaos.

I lean down, my stomach churning, and gently pry Armando’s hand away from his injury. He winces, a sharp intake of breath escaping him, but he nods, conceding to my urgency. My gaze narrows on the torn stitches—evidence of a battle fought too close.

“You’ll be alright,” I whisper, attempting to inject confidence into my trembling voice. “Just a few stitches tore.” But my eyes flick back to the lifeless figure before us, a cascade of dread washing over me.

Armando's glare is fierce, directed at the man sprawled on the ground. His long dark hair is matted, saturated by blood that spreads like a dark omen beneath him. The air between us crackles with tension—fear, anger, and an unspoken bond forged in this violent moment.

We can’t afford to falter now. Time is slipping away, and the storm that rages outside pales in comparison to the tempest brewing within us.

“Its Moose,” Armando muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking the name could summon a ghost.

“Who is that? Is he part of your crew?” I asked, my voice trembling as I slowly lifted myself up to my heels, feeling the weight of dread settle heavily in my stomach.

Armando shook his head sharply, his right hand rising to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The tension etched on his face was a storm all its own—stress, anger, and a deep-seated fear coiling tight within him. My pulse quickened at the thought of uninvited guests crashing into my apartment. If this Moose character was here, how many more were right behind him?

“No,” he replied, each word laced with urgency. “He’s with The Death Dealers. The enforcer. If he doesn’t come back with intel—or my body—the rest will follow.” His grip tightened around my forearm, guiding me toward the safety of my room.

“Get dressed and pack a few things. We need to leave now.” His hazel eyes, usually so warm, were now clouded with worry and desperation.

“What do you mean, the others will show up?” A cold shiver ran down my spine, heart racing with a primal fear that clawed at my throat. I already knew the answer—I just needed him to voice it.

“They will come for us,” he said, his voice grim and resolute, filled with a sense of impending doom. “Especially now that Moose is MIA. Go, now! We don’t have time to talk!”

The urgency in his tone ignited a fire within me, a mix of fear and adrenaline propelling me forward. Time was slipping through our fingers like sand, and every second could cost us everything.

I dart into my room, heart racing as panic claws at my throat. My hands tremble as I fling open the closet door, shoving aside clothes until I finally find a small bag. I hurriedly cram it full—underwear, shirts, pants, and the essentials from my bathroom. I change into leggings and a t-shirt, my movements frantic and clumsy. As I grab my father’s picture, its edges digging into my palm, I don’t dare to look back. I sprint into the living room, where Armando stands, his back to me, voice low and tense on the phone.

He hangs up suddenly, turning to me with a nod that feels more like a silent plea. “We’ve got to go,” he says, urgency lacing his words. He reaches for my hand, tugging me toward the door, but dread floods my veins.

“No! We can’t take your car. They know it—they’ve seen it!” His voice rises, panic spilling over as I grasp the enormity of our situation. Armando takes a sharp breath, his gaze drifting toward the woods, dread etched on his face.

“Then where are we going? They’ll find us on foot!” I plead, desperation clawing at my insides.

Armando groans, a grimace contorting his features as he grips his abdomen tightly. I can see the strain in his eyes; he’s on the brink of collapse. I need to change his gauze, fix his stitches, but time is slipping away.

“Jake, my second-in-command, is coming to pick us up. We just have to meet him on the outskirts at the old abandoned gas station by freeway 478.” His voice falters as he leans against the rough stone of the apartment building, exhaustion threatening to drag him under.

I glance down, horrified to see his fingers stained with the blood seeping from his wound. The sight sends a chill through me, the gravity of our reality crashing down like a tidal wave. If we don’t move now, we may never get the chance.

“We need to go. I have to stitch you up and clean this,” I insist, my voice laced with urgency. Armando nods, the gravity of the situation settling in as he leans against the wall, his strength wavering. As I lift him from his precarious position, we make our way into the dark embrace of the woods behind the apartment. The night is eerily silent, pierced only by the distant rustle of leaves, and a chill hangs in the air, wrapping around us like a warning.

After what feels like an eternity of walking, Armando suddenly shifts, his body slumping against a tree trunk. He slides down, landing heavily on the ground below. Panic surges through me as I rush to his side, leaning over him. My heart races; his wound is far worse than I realized.

“This is it,” I whisper to myself, gripping my medical bag like a lifeline. Thank God I thought to grab it. With trembling hands, I lift his shirt, my breath hitching at the sight that greets me. His wound gapes wider than before, the edges ragged and raw. The sight of the broken stitches sends a jolt of dread through me.

“I can fix this,” I murmur, though doubt gnaws at the edges of my resolve. I reach into my bag, my fingers grazing the familiar tools, yet they feel foreign in this moment of crisis. Tugging on the wire of the stitch, I feel the sting of blood on my fingertips as I grasp the needle, raw and raw against the backdrop of our desperate reality. My hands shake violently, each tremor echoing the chaos swirling inside me.

“Stay with me, Armando,” I plead, my voice barely above a whisper as I prepare to fight against time and injury. In this moment, it's not just about the wound; it’s about the bond between us, the fragile thread that holds us together amidst the turmoil. I can’t let him slip away.

“It’s going to sting and burn, so brace yourself,” I whispered, though deep down, I knew Armando was all too familiar with pain by now. As the sharp alcohol splashed onto his wound, he winced—the sound of discomfort escaping his lips like a fragile sigh. But there was no retreat; he held his ground, a testament to his resilience as I pressed the needle into his tender flesh.

Time warped around us, each prick punctuated by the wet sound of the needle gliding in and out, swift yet agonizingly deliberate. I could feel my heart racing, a chaotic rhythm entwined with the life ebbing from him. It wasn’t just a wound I was sealing; it was a promise—the desperate vow that I would not let him slip from this world.

I fumbled through the bag for fresh gauze, my hands trembling as if they were holding the weight of our survival. As I wrapped the cloth around him, each motion felt painstakingly slow, a moment drawn out against the backdrop of the encroaching darkness.

Finally, I stepped back, my breath hitching in my throat. Armando lay propped against the tree, eyes closed, bathed in shadows. In that stillness, the chaos of Death Dealers, leaving just us—clinging to the fragile thread of existence, cocooned in a solitude that felt impossibly precious. For a heartbeat, nothing else mattered but the warmth of his presence beside me and the unspoken bond that hung in the air, more tangible than the blood-stained gauze we had forged together.

I stared at Armando, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths, the rhythm a haunting reminder of our fragile situation. We needed to escape, but he was teetering on the edge of consciousness, desperately clinging to life. The specter of death loomed over us, one we’d narrowly avoided during our brutal encounter with the Death Dealers. How many more of those merciless hunters prowled these woods, ready to finish what they started? The thought of finding Moose, either lifeless or bleeding out, sent waves of dread crashing through me.

With trembling hands, I gently shook Armando awake, rousing him from the depths of delirium. His hazel eyes, once vibrant, now bore an unsettling shade of dim black, mirroring the encroaching darkness around us. I could see it—a flicker of awareness dulled by blood loss, a struggle I feared he wouldn’t win without rest. If he didn’t regain his strength, the wilderness would claim him as its own.

“Armando, we need to go,” I urged softly, my voice tinged with urgency. I tugged on his arm, feeling the weight of his frailty as I maneuvered him onto my shoulder. He slumped against me, his body a deadweight that threatened to pull us both into the abyss. Every step felt like a battle, my breath growing ragged as I strained beneath his burden. The forest, once a place of refuge, now felt like a trap—with every rustle of leaves and crack of twigs echoing the looming threat closing in around us. Desperation ignited within me; I couldn’t let the shadows swallow him whole. Not like this.

I let out a shaky breath as the distant hum of Highway 478 reached my ears. Relief washed over me momentarily, but it was quickly shrouded in dread; the gas station near the exit loomed like a ghost of what it once was. I couldn't bear the thought of anyone seeing us like this—me, stained with Armando's blood, my hands slick and crimson, a chilling testament to the horror we had escaped.

As I approached, the gas station stood decrepit, its facade crumbling, half-gone as if it had been abandoned for years. The entrance was just a shadow of safety. With a surge of adrenaline, I kicked the glass door open, the sound of shattering glass resonating like a gunshot through the stillness, shards scattering across the floor like memories ripped apart.

I found a battered chair in the corner near the register and gently lowered Armando onto it. He slumped over, his face pale and drawn, the light in his eyes flickering like a dying flame. I straightened up, the piercing ache in my back momentarily forgotten as I looked at him, desperately trying to catch my breath. This place, once a sanctuary, felt more like a prison now, the weight of my helplessness threatening to crush me. I had to do something—anything—to keep him from slipping away into the abyss that was waiting to claim him.

The shadows in the corners seemed to grow darker, pressing in on us, whispering the unthinkable. As panic clawed at my insides, I realized the truth: I couldn’t let the darkness win. Not now. Not ever.

I knew this was a terrible idea. But time and again, I’d ignored the warnings of my mind, letting my heart lead me into the abyss. Now, the thought of returning to my apartment felt like a cruel joke—a life filled with dreams that had turned to dust. I could never go back to that existence, that illusion of safety.

I was on the run, fleeing from a gang that wanted nothing more than to extinguish my life—and Armando’s too. The weight of that reality bore down on me like a suffocating shroud, each breath a struggle against the panic rising in my chest. My heart raced, pounding out a frantic rhythm that echoed the desperation I felt.

I could almost hear the dark laughter of my fears, taunting me from the shadows. But in that moment of despair, I realized that surrendering to the darkness was not an option. My heart, reckless yet undeniably fierce, wouldn’t let me crumble. I had to fight—not just for myself, but for everything Armando and I held dear.

Tears blurred my vision, but they weren’t tears of defeat; they were a painful reminder of everything at stake. I would not allow fear to dictate my fate. I refused to let this nightmare consume me. This battle was mine to win, and I would claw my way through the chaos, fueled by love, hope, and an unyielding resolve.

I turned away from Armando, my heart pounding against the chill that seeped into the room through the broken window—its jagged edges mirroring the shattered remnants of my composure. The night air was heavy, pressing down on me as I wrapped my arms around myself, desperately trying to ward off the creeping cold. Silence clawed at the edges of my mind, a silent precursor to the storm that was about to descend.

Then, like thunder rolling in from a distant battle, the roar of engines pierced the stillness. My breath hitched in my throat as I strained to listen, each rev sending ripples of dread through my body. I moved instinctively towards Armando, who slumped in the chair, his eyes shut tight, oblivious to the chaos threatening to engulf us. His stillness felt like a cruel irony; he was my shield, yet here he was, utterly defenseless.

The sound of motorcycles crescendoed as they approached, a fleet of ominous steel and leather cutting through the night. Goosebumps prickled my skin as the reality of it all crashed over me like an unyielding wave. Was this Jake come to save us, or were the Death Dealers bearing down on us with their vengeful fury? The lines between friend and foe blurred into a dizzying haze, leaving me paralyzed with fear.

I pressed closer to Armando, my fingers digging into his shoulders as if trying to ground myself in this tempest of uncertainty. The warmth of his body was a fragile tether to hope amidst the encroaching dread. How had it come to this? The man who once made me feel invincible was now my only comfort in the face of impending doom.

“Armando,” I whispered, but the word caught in my throat, swallowed by the roar of the engines outside. Despair washed over me, an overwhelming tide threatening to pull me under. Panic clawed at my insides, but I refused to succumb; I wouldn’t let fear dictate my fate—not when everything we cherished hung in the balance. With every ounce of strength I could muster, I clung to him, fiercely determined to fight, even if I had to do it alone.

This battle was ours to win, and I would not allow darkness to consume the flicker of hope that remained. Not now, not ever.

I gasped as footsteps echoed ominously, each step reverberating through the stillness of the night, and I held my breath for what felt like an eternity. A figure emerged from the shadows, entering the long-abandoned building, and time seemed to freeze as our eyes locked in a moment steeped in fear and uncertainty.

The man before me had short blond hair, his rugged exterior sharply defined under the pale glow of the moonlight. He wore a leather jacket that hugged his broad shoulders and faded blue jeans that seemed to tell stories of battles fought and won. Yet, it was his gaze—intense and piercing—that sent my heart racing wildly in my chest.

And then, in a heartbeat, everything shifted. A gun was thrust toward me, its cold, metallic black barrel aimed directly at my face. My breath hitched, panic rising like bile in my throat, only to be swallowed by the chilling click of the gun’s safety being disengaged.

“Step away from him,” the man commanded, his voice deep and unwavering—an unyielding force amidst the chaos surrounding us.

A woman appeared beside him, her presence both commanding and ethereal. Dark hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing her face with a halo of shadow. She glanced at me, then quickly averted her gaze to Armando, who lay unconscious nearby, his fate hanging precariously in the balance. “Is that blood?” she gasped, her voice sharp with disbelief. The realization washed over me, intertwining dread and urgency. In that moment, every instinct screamed for survival, and I could feel the weight of the world pressing down on my shoulders, threatening to crush me under its enormity.

But I couldn’t let fear win. Not now. Not ever.

I could feel the tension crackling in the air as I swallowed hard, my hands raised like a guilty prisoner.

“What the hell did you do to him?” she screamed, panic slicing through her voice like a sharp knife. Instinctively, the man shoved her back, his gun still trained on me, unyielding and menacing.

I shook my head violently, desperation clawing at my throat. “I didn’t do anything to him! I helped him, I swear!” My voice trembled, raw with the weight of fear and heartache.

“Bind her and take Armando back to camp,” the blond man commanded, nudging the woman closer to me, his cold demeanor unwavering. Sweat trickled down my spine. This had to be Armando’s crew, and doubt gnawed at me like a ravenous beast.

I summoned every ounce of courage and turned to face him, my heart pounding in my chest. “Are you Jake?” I managed to mutter, my breath hitching in my throat.

He tilted his head slightly, an inscrutable expression crossing his face. “It doesn’t matter,” he replied, his voice a low growl that dripped with indifference.

“It matters to me,” I insisted, my voice rising above my rising panic. “I helped Armando when he got shot! I took him into my apartment until Moose found us.”

This had to mean something to him! Why wasn’t he believing me? The urgency to make him understand clawed at my insides, twisting tighter with every fleeting second.

Jake turned his back on me, leaving my heart racing as the woman, cold and unyielding, bound my wrists tightly behind my back. Panic surged through me, hot and fierce, as I caught a fleeting glimpse of Armando—his face etched with worry, swallowed by shadows and the threat of violence.

“Take her on your bike, Luna,” Jake commanded, his voice slicing through the air like a knife. I was yanked from the ground, the world spinning as Luna dragged me toward her motorcycle. Desperation clawed at my throat—I didn't want to leave Armando behind, not like this, not in the hands of Jake and the rest of the crew. My heart raced as I was tied to the chrome handlebars of Luna's bike, an icy dread settling in my gut. The engine roared to life, vibrating beneath me, yet it felt like a death knell. Luna climbed on behind me, her grip firm as she secured me against her. The reality of my situation sank in like lead; I was being taken away, and I had no idea where they were leading me—or if I would ever see Armando again.

As the bike surged forward, the wind whipped around us, but inside, I felt frozen, suspended between hope and despair. I clung to the thought of Armando, praying fervently that he would fight his way back to me, that I would not be lost to the darkness that threatened to swallow us both.

Where were they taking me? My mind raced with fear, but deep down, a flicker of resolve ignited within me. I had to believe there was still a chance for safety, a path back to Armando. Somehow, we would find our way back to each other.