- Not-so-dead houseguest.

Adriano

⫘☠︎︎⫘

The world came in flashes, everything was blurred and sounds that stretched too long or cut too short.

My mouth wouldn’t work, my fucking body wouldn’t move. My tongue was heavy like I’d been gagged, drugged, drowned. I tried to speak but nothing came out only a cracked exhale.

Where the fuck am I?

A ceiling that wasn't mine. It was stained with a water mark near the corner. There was a plant hanging from a hook. What the fuck kind of place was this? It wasn't a hospital because it was too quiet.

But someone drugged me, they fucking drugged me like hell.

There was pain... burning, dragging, twisting pain in my gut and shoulder. Even under the blanket of drugs, it pulsed like a second heartbeat.

They didn’t finish the job.

Cowards.

I could still feel them. The faces covered with masks, the heat of the bullets and the cold metal pressed to my ribs before I snapped his wrist. The taste of blood.

The blur of the hallway walls as I ran, before it all slipped.

And now this.

There was movement.

It was too soft to be a threat.

Bare feet, the brush of fabric. Then there was a presence, and it was close. I blinked through the burn in my eyes as a shadow shifted beside me.

Hair.

Her.

That girl.

That girl with the shaking body and those big sun-like eyes like she’d never seen blood before.

There was a cloth, it was cool on my face. It smelled clean, and gentle. She touched me again but it was barely a graze.

Fingertips on my forehead.

I should’ve moved my head away but I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even raise my arm. I wasn’t in my skin, I was hovering over it, watching her cradle what was left of me like I was glass.

What the fuck was wrong with her?

“Safe,” she whispered.

No one’s safe. Not me. Not her.

Especially not her.

She was in over her head. I saw it in her eyes. The moment I collapsed in her hallway. She was terrified. And now she’s... here. In reach. So close.

Was she fucking stupid?

The pain surged and my jaw clenched involuntarily. It felt like my guts were being chewed from the inside.

I tried to speak but I couldn't even move my tongue let alone my lips.

Nothing.

Fucking nothing.

I’m going to kill them.

Whoever set that up and whoever pulled that trigger and whoever gave me drugs, every single one of them is going to bleed for this.

I just need to get up.

I just need to move.

Just—

“Shhh,” she said.

The cloth again. A stroke over my temple. I wanted to swat her hand away, grab her wrist, bark at her to stop touching me like I was some stray in her bathtub but my fucking fingers wouldn’t respond.

She was saying something else. I caught pieces of it, something about fever, pain meds, not out of the woods and I needed to rest.

Fucking poetic.

She didn’t sound scared now, not exactly, nervous, yeah, soft, yeah, but not scared.

The bed dipped and she moved. I felt the shift, she was closer now, breathing slowly. She whispered something about being nearby if I woke up scared.

I don’t get scared.

I just get even.

There was a cat somewhere. I heard it. Purring and the girl talked to it. She called it Flan.

The fuck kind of name is Flan?

My mind was slipping again. Heat crawled up my neck. The sweat soaked through the gauze at my side. My ribs ached. I wanted to sit up and I wanted to fight someone.

Instead, I turned my head, it was barely an inch and saw her.

She was curled on the floor, and there was a bright yellow blanket over her legs. Her hair spilled down, hiding part of her face. Her hand rested on the side of the bed... near mine.

Fuck, I was fucking broken everywhere, half-dead, and this girl, this stupid girl was guarding me with a fucking cat.

If they come for me here, they’ll kill her too.

I don’t know why that thought lodged in my throat.

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

I’m not saying I have bad luck, but the moment I walked into the pharmacy, a ceiling tile above me coughed out a suspicious puff of dust and something white and powdery landed in my hair. And not in a pretty, snowflake-slow-falling kind of way. No. It was aggressive, like it had a personal vendetta against me.

I stood there in the automatic doors’ path, blinking up at the ceiling.

A little old man shuffled past me with his newspaper and said, “You’ve got dandruff, lady.”

Brilliant start.

I shook myself off and marched on to aisle three to get the supplies.

“Right,” I muttered to myself, scanning the shelves, “I need... um. Gauze. Bandages. Alcohol. Antibiotic cream. Ointment. Stuff for gunshot wounds, oh God, do they even make gunshot wound kits?”

The woman stocking vitamins gave me a startled look, like I’d just admitted to burying bodies in my garden. I gave her a thumbs up. She did not return it.

I reached for the antiseptic spray, then froze.

Wallet. Money. Crap.

I dug through my bag and counted out my savings. I’d been quietly stashing money away, one coin at a time, for my next and last semester. But now I was about to blow half of it on gauze and antibiotic cream for a bleeding stranger.

I took a deep breath, counted the bills and when I reached the checkout, the clerk looked at me, “Someone hurt?” he asked.

“Oh! No! Yes. I mean, not me. Well, kind of, emotionally, always but no. It’s for... well. A friend. Acquaintance. A wounded man. He has very soulful eyes and didn’t murder me, so that’s already five stars in my book.”

The clerk blinked at me. I blinked back.

The man said nothing, just bagged my items slowly. I handed over half my sad little savings and tried not to wince.

Outside, the sky was a weird mix of lavender and polluted orange. It was that awkward time of day when streetlights flickered on too early and pigeons got confused. I hugged the bag to my chest and sighed.

“You’re doing the right thing,” I told myself. “You’re being a good person. You’re not enabling a fugitive. You’re helping someone who needs help.”

A seagull landed in front of me, eyed my plastic bag, and shrieked.

“Don’t judge me, Kevin,” I snapped. (I always call the rude birds Kevin. It helps.)

On the way home, I made a little detour. I stopped by Carlos’s place, my boyfriend and the love of my life.

I rang the bell and waited, the door flew open a moment later. Carlos stood there in a wrinkled T-shirt and messy hair, blinking at me like I was a ghost.

“Hi!” I chirped, “I was just, um, in the area and I thought, Maddie, your boyfriend hasn’t seen your face in four whole days and that’s basically a crime, so here I am!”

He stared at me, eyes wide like I’d grown another head. He didn’t even open the door fully to invite me in, he just slipped outside and shut it behind him.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck like it was suddenly itchy, “What are you doing here?”

I smiled brightly, “I brought snacks! And... oh, antiseptic spray. Long story. You won’t believe the night I’ve had. There was this man—”

he breathed out a sigh that made me stop, woah, was I bothering him?

“You look tired,” I said quickly, “Like, extra tired. You know what you need right now? A walk and a double shot espresso straight to the bloodstream. Anyway—”

“Maddie,” he cut in, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, “I just woke up and I need to be at work in an hour.”

I froze, brain doing mental backflips, “Oh my god. Right. Right. You’re going to work. Go! Shower, coffee, save lives, all that good stuff.”

He gave me a look.

I smiled, “Hero mode activated. I’ll just, um, leave you alone now. Let you... EMT yourself. That’s not a verb but I’m gonna go.”

He gave me a quick smile, “I’ll text you later, okay?”

“Sure!” I chirped. “Later is good. I’ve got… bandages to apply.”

I backed away, heart doing something really dramatic in my chest but I smiled anyway. He’d been working nonstop lately, saving lives, running on fumes, barely sleeping. I should be supportive, not clingy.

But... why does it feel like he’s about to break up with me?

Is it just me? Am I overthinking? Or did I ruin everything by being too much? Too available? Too... myself?

I bit the inside of my cheek, heart doing this weird slow-sinking thing in my chest.

I didn’t mean to mess it up. I just really liked him and maybe I got too excited.

It’s okay. It’s fine. Maybe he’s just tired. Long shift. Stress. Sirens and stretchers and all that EMT things.

I’m probably just overthinking it... right?

It’s stupid. I’m being stupid.

I picked at a thread on my sleeve, trying to laugh it off in my head, but it caught in my throat like a splinter as I walked back to my place.

𓎢𓎠𖦁‎𓎠𓎡

I dumped everything from the pharmacy onto the kitchen counter, gauze, antiseptic, pain meds, way more than I could afford and peeked into the bedroom.

He was still out cold, just like Jason said he would be. His breathing was steady, bandages were holding and he was still alive. Thank God.

My fingers were shaking as I picked up my phone.

I stared at my dad’s name for a solid minute before pressing call. The ring buzzed in my ear once and my lungs forgot how to work until it picked up.

“Alô?” his voice sounded uncertain.

My throat clenched, “Oi… It’s me,” I said softly, skipping my name.

Then there was silence.

“I don't know you, you have the wrong number,” he said.

My heart drowned in my stomach.

I scrambled to keep him on the line, “Wait—wait, please,” I whispered fast, curling into myself on the kitchen floor, my arm wrapping around my ribs, “Sorry, senhor, I just, are you okay? Is your family okay?”

I heard him sigh.

“I don’t know who you are. If this is another prank, chega. Enough. This isn't funny anymore, understand?”

His accent got thicker when he was scared, that’s how I knew.

I bit down on my lip to keep it from wobbling, blinking hard to push the tears back, “Desculpa, senhor. Sorry,” I said quickly, lowering my voice, playing along, “I must’ve dialed the wrong number.” I sniffled and wiped my face even though it wouldn’t help.

“Don’t call again.”

I heard what he didn’t say, they’re still watching. Still listening.

“Wait—I—”

Click.

Just like that, the call ended.

But I got what I needed, they were alive. They were still hiding. And Appa, he was still protecting me the only way he could.

By pretending I was already gone.

Sighing, I refilled the first-aid kit with shaky hands, gauze, antiseptic, everything in its place, even if nothing in my life felt remotely in place right now.

Then I tiptoed back into the bedroom to check on my not-so-dead houseguest.

- Strict no-dying policy here.

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

He was still out cold, but his body had started twitching, twisting under the blanket like he was trapped in some kind of nightmare.

I knelt beside the mattress, “Hey... shh, it’s okay,” I murmured, even though I knew he couldn’t hear me. I reached out without thinking and brushed the sweat-drenched hair off his forehead. It was sticking to his skin. Burning hot.

Too hot.

I froze. Then scrambled for the glass of water on the nightstand, dipped the edge of my sleeve into it, and gently dabbed at his temples.

“You’re burning up,” I whispered to him, “Oh no, no no no... this is bad. This is very, very not-good.”

His lips parted.

“Stronzo figlio di puttana… ti scavo la gola a mani nude… bastardo maledetto…” he slurred.

I froze.

He kept going, breath ragged, “Ti faccio ingoiare i denti, uno per uno… ti spezzo il collo e ci ballo sopra…”

I blinked, heart aching at the pain in his voice. He sounded so desperate. So broken. I had no idea what he was saying, it wasn’t Spanish, and I barely knew any Italian beyond ciao and grazie but it had to mean something awful had happened to him.

Maybe, he was asking for help.

“Bastardi… ve lo giuro… vi scuoio vivi…”

I brushed the back of his hand with my thumb, trying to soothe him. “Shhh… whatever you’re saying, it’s okay now,” I whispered, “But you need help. Real help. And I know you said no hospitals, but... I can’t just sit here and watch you melt into the sheets. That’s not a plan. That’s a medical emergency.”

I looked down at his flushed face, fever burning through him like wildfire, and sighed, “You’re not gonna die in my apartment, okay? I draw the line at that. Strict no-dying policy here.”

Jason would’ve known what to do, but he wasn’t here. My mind raced, Carlos. St. Margaret’s Health Center. Quiet, low-profile, underfunded. Carlos, my EMT boyfriend, wouldn’t ask questions. He wouldn’t betray me. I turned back to the man, brushing his hair again.

“I’ll be right back, alright? Mister Bloody Man,” I whispered, “Just... hang in there.”

I sprinted barefoot across the cold apartment floor, grabbed my phone off the couch, and dialled in Carlos’s number with shaking hands.

He picked up on the third ring, “What did I say about calling when I’m on shift?” he snapped.

“I need an ambulance,” I gasped. “There’s this man, he’s really hurt, Carlos, he’s burning up and I tried, I swear I did everything, but he’s not getting better! Please, just come.”

There was a pause, and then static. Then his voice, “A man?”

My throat tightened. “I was going to tell you earlier but... you listen to me.”

“You’ve had some stranger in your apartment and you didn’t think that was important enough to lead with?”

“He was bleeding out on my floor, Carlos! I couldn’t just leave him!”

“Fuck, Maddie.”

“Please don’t be mad—”

He let out a harsh sigh, “Send me your address so it gets logged in the system. I’ll come. But we’re talking about this later.”

Relief flooded my chest, “Okay. Thank you.”

I hung up, heart pounding, and ran back to the bedroom.

“Help’s coming,” I whispered, crouching beside the man again. His skin was burning. I touched his wrist lightly, afraid even that would hurt him, “Just hold on a little longer.”

Ten minutes later, tires screeched outside. I bolted for the door, yanking it open just as Carlos stormed up the stairs, EMT jacket half-zipped, jaw tight.

“Maddie,” his eyes swept over me like I was something fragile, aw, he was worried for me. He pulled me into a one-armed hug, too hard, “Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” I breathed, “It’s him. He’s in bad shape. I tried to clean the wound and—”

Carlos didn’t let me finish. He grabbed my face and kissed me hard. I kissed him back, clumsily, more out of reflex than anything else, I was too anxious, too tense, my lips not catching up with my brain.

Still, I smiled without meaning to because if he kissed me, he wasn’t mad mad.

“Where the hell is he?” he asked.

“Bedroom. But Carlos, wait, he said no hospitals. He’s scared. He thinks someone’s after him and—”

Carlos was already pulling gloves from his pocket, “We’ll stabilize him. That’s it. Don’t get it twisted, Maddie. But you shouldn't have dragged a sketchy-ass guy home like a stray animal.”

“He’s not dangerous,” I whispered. “He was scared.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “So you thought, ‘Hey, I’ll just let him crash here’? That’s normal behavior now?”

“I didn’t know what else to do...”

“You call me. That’s what you do,” his voice dropped lower, “I bend over backwards helping you, and this is what you do? Out yourself in danger? Risking your life for some guy you don’t even know?”

I deflated, “I didn’t want to make you mad.”

“You should’ve wanted to make me mad. Maybe then you’d actually think for once.”

He pushed past me and entered the bedroom. I followed, chewing on the inside of my cheek.

He crouched beside the man, checked his pulse and temp, and muttered, “Shit. We don’t have time.”

Carlos stood fast. “Grab that bag. We’re loading him now.”

“Wait, baby, what if he wakes up in a hospital and panics? He trusted me.”

“Yeah? And I don’t get that trust?” he snapped his fingers, “Get the bag, Maddie. I’m not playing.”

I scrambled to obey.

We got the stranger onto the stretcher. Carlos moved fast, like he wasn’t pissed two seconds ago. He climbed into the rig and held out his hand.

I hesitated.

“You coming or not?” he said flatly.

My heart clenched and I climbed in.

The doors slammed shut behind me and the siren lit up the night. The man’s face was soaked in fever sweat. I reached for his hand, curling my fingers around his when Carlos wasn't looking.

“I’m still here,” I whispered.

And just like that, I knew, there went my last shred of savings.

I sat in one of the orange plastic chairs at St. Margaret’s, fingers clenched so tightly around each other they’d gone pale.

When the double doors opened, I shot to my feet, nearly toppling the chair. Carlos walked out first, hair a mess, EMT jacket hanging open over sweat and blood-stained scrubs. Behind him was Dr. Lane, someone I recognized from a community vet drive.

“We stabilized him,” Dr. Lane said. “But it’s serious. The stab wound nicked his small intestine. You did the right thing, but it’s the kind of injury that can be deceptive. He’ll need antibiotics, rest, and monitoring.”

I swallowed hard. “Is it... like sepsis?”

“We caught it early, but infection’s still a risk. He’ll be in pain, sore and weak. Any strain could cause internal bleeding.”

I nodded, jaw tight.

“There’s more,” he added. “He has a clean gunshot through the shoulder, plus two grazes, one on the ribs, one on his arm. Nothing fatal, but everything combined? He’s not out of the woods.”

“He must’ve been in so much pain...”

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Dr. Lane said. “Shock, fever, and weakness are expected. We’ve started IV fluids and pain meds, he’ll sleep most of the time, which is good. His body needs it.”

Carlos finally spoke. “We can’t keep him here, Maddie. You said no hospitals. I vouched for you, we’ll keep it off the books but he still needs care.”

“I’ll take care of him,” I said quickly

I’ve got soup, blankets, a humidifier, even a spare toothbrush.

Dr. Lane smiled faintly. “More important is keeping him clean, dry, still. Watch his fever. Change his bandages. And yes, comfort matters too. We’ve started him on IV antibiotics and mild sedation, not enough to knock him out fully, but enough to keep him calm and limit movement. Too much strain could reopen internal bleeding, so keeping him semi-sedated for the next few days is critical.”

Carlos turned to me. “I’ll bring supplies and check in after shifts. But Maddie, this guy? He didn’t get those wounds by accident.”

“He’s not dangerous,” I whispered. “He was scared.”

Carlos ran a hand through his hair and let out a long, sharp breath, the kind that meant he was upset about something.

“You can take him,” Dr. Lane said. “But if anything changes, fever spikes, vomiting, call me right away.”

“I will. I promise.”

Carlos stayed silent until we were loading the stranger into the van. Even unconscious, he twitched and shifted, like his body didn’t know how to stop fighting.

Back at my apartment, I had already tucked a clean set of sheets on the bed and fluffed the pillows. Carlos and I eased the man down carefully.

“Watch his left side,” I murmured, reaching out instinctively.

Carlos grunted, adjusting the pillows with a little too much force, “Keep him tilted. Better for his breathing, takes pressure off the wound. You'd know I know this stuff better than you, you don't have to teach me.”

I bit the inside of my cheek and nodded, “Right. I—I was just double-checking.”

I turned to grab the eucalyptus oil, holding it up, “Think this’ll help? The smell might calm him down, even if it’s not medicinal, it will kind of tricks his brain, you know?”

Carlos scoffed, wiping his hands on his jacket, “It’s not a cold, Maddie. God, sometimes you really think essential oils are magic.”

I flushed, “I didn’t mean, I just want him to feel safe.”

He looked at me, “That’s your problem. You want everyone to feel safe. You forget this isn’t a fairy tale.”

I gave a small, nervous laugh, “That’s why you love me though, right?”

Carlos didn’t answer at first. Then he stepped in close, grabbed my face a little too firmly, and kissed me, hard. He does that sometimes, when he is mad but he still loves me.

He pulled back just enough to mutter, “He can stay tonight. One night, Maddie. That’s it. I don’t want some bleeding stranger in your apartment any longer than that. You get me?”

I nodded quickly. “Of course. Just... until he’s stable.”

He stared at me, “I really don’t like this. You helping some guy you don’t know. You’re too trusting. Someone’s gonna use that one day and I won’t be there to clean up the mess.”

“I’ll call if anything changes. I promise.”

He stepped back, “You’d better.”

Then he left and the door clicked shut behind him.

The apartment fell into silence.

Just me and the stranger now.

I crouched beside the bed, brushing a damp cloth across his brow, avoiding the stitch there. His face was pale and sweat-slicked, lips dry and bruised. The bandages someone at the clinic had wrapped peeked out from under his borrowed shirt. His arm was still strapped tight to his side.

“You’re safe now,” I whispered, smoothing a lock of dark hair from his forehead, “No one’s going to hurt you here.”

Flan gave us a disapproving blink from the windowsill.

He stirred slightly, the tiniest groan slipping from between his lips.

“Shhh,” I murmured, dipping the cloth into cold water again, “You’re burning up, but that’s okay. You’ll get better. I’ll help.”

His lips moved again, something close to speech but lost in fevered haze.

I sat down on the floor with a pillow, glancing over at Flan. “It’s just us, buddy. You and me. If he wakes up scared, I want him to see that someone is here. Every person deserves that.”

I leaned my head against the couch, eyes fixed on the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

He was a stranger.

But not to pain.

That, I recognized.

And maybe that’s what scared me most.

- Devil into her home.

Adriano

⫘☠︎︎⫘

There’s a spoon in my mouth.

A fucking spoon.

Warm, salty liquid slid down my throat before I could fight it, and by the time my brain caught up, she was already loading up the next hit like I was some half-dead pigeon she scooped off the street.

She made a soft sound, she sounded pleased, like feeding me soup was the highlight of her goddamn week.

Vincenzo, I needed my brother, Vincenzo.

“You’re awake again!” she chirped, and then made a face, “Well, Sort of. Ish. That’s okay. You don’t have to be all the way awake. I’ve got soup.”

What the fuck is happening?

My eyes dragged open, everything was bright, like the inside of a greenhouse had swallowed me whole. There were plants on every surface, hanging from the ceiling, climbing shelves.

And her.

She looked like springtime.

She was wearing an oversized pink T-shirt, hair in a lazy braid. No makeup, no shoes, just this barefoot, wide-eyed girl with the voice of a cartoon character.

God help me.

“Flan didn’t like the smell,” she said conversationally as she dipped the spoon again, “But she never does. She’s so dramatic. You’d think I tried to poison her with lentils or something.”

Another spoonful. She held it up to my lips like she was feeding a baby bird.

I wanted to curse, I wanted to tell her to get me a fucking cell phone so I can call my fucking brother and get the fuck out of here and off the drugs she had been feeding me but I was floating. My limbs weighed a thousand pounds and my head was made of smoke.

Wait, was she some psycho?

“You’re doing so good,” she cooked like she was talking to a baby. “I mean, your eyes are open now and your breathing’s steadier. Yesterday you were groaning and twitching, which the doctors said is a good sign.”

Soup again. I didn’t even taste it, it was something vaguely herbal, warm and had too much oregano.

She pushed a stool closer to the bed and sat down, still holding the bowl.

I watched her from the corner of my eye because I couldn’t do much else. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t move without feeling like my stitches were going to tear wide open and spill my guts across her nice little bedspread.

“My cat uses a walker,” she said brightly, like that was normal. “It’s this little custom thing I found on Etsy. She’s got wheels on her back legs now. Zooms around like a little sausage on rollerblades.”

I blinked slowly.

What.

“She was abused. Her previous owner broke her spine and left her in a dumpster. Can you believe that?” her face twisted with anger, like the cruelty still hurt her to remember. “She was barely alive when I found her. All matted and shaking and full of fleas but we fixed her up. Didn’t we, Flan?”

Somewhere in the room, the cat meowed. A weak, croaky little sound.

Jesus Christ.

“She has anxiety,” Maddie added, completely serious. “But so do I, so we understand each other. Sometimes we both hide under the couch when there’s thunder.”

I would’ve laughed if I could. Instead, a strange noise came out of me, some half-breath, half-choke that made her freeze.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “Did you just make a sound?”

She leaned forward, all excitement and hope and way-too-close. Her face was inches from mine, eyes bright, lips parted.

Fuck.

Even in my barely living, drug-fogged state, I noticed her lips.

Full. Pink. A little chapped. Probably tasted like soup and some organic lip balm called ‘Coconut Cloud’ or ‘Peaceful Bee’ or some shit.

She smelled like rosemary and laundry.

She was still talking, “You must be so uncomfortable. Do you want water? Blink twice for yes. Or... no, wait. That’s for Morse code. Do you even know Morse code?”

God help me, I couldn’t look away.

“Anyway,” she went on, oblivious, “I named her Flan because I thought she’d be sweet and wobbly. Turns out she’s a tyrant. Hates everyone except me. She clawed my boyfriend so hard he needed stitches.”

Boyfriend?

Where the fuck is the boyfriend? Maybe, he'd be of some help.

Soup again. She didn’t even wait for permission. Just nudged it at my lips with a cheerful, “Open up, you handsome menace.”

I’d kill a man for calling me that.

But from her lips, it felt less like mockery and more like a nickname you give a raccoon who keeps breaking into your kitchen.

Menace.

Fuck.

She stirred the soup again, blowing on the spoon, and watching me like she was waiting for a sign that I’d snap, spit, bite or do anything.

But I just laid there. Helpless. Drugged out of my fucking skull.

And all I could think was:

If anyone finds out about this, I’ll have to kill them.

And maybe myself.

She smiled again, so sweet, so proud of herself.

“I knew you were a fighter.”

Lady, you have no idea.

How can someone with eyes that soft have no fucking survival instinct?

She didn’t know me, she didn’t know what I’d done. What I’d do the second I could stand again. She didn't know my name. She didn’t hear the way people said “Capone” like it was a death sentence.

All she saw was a broken man in her bed.

Who was torn open and she stitched him shut.

Bruised, bleeding, breathing.

A stranger.

And she decided to save me.

Spoon. Smile. Soup. Sunshine.

I could’ve killed her.

And yet...

She brushed a wild strand of hair behind her ear and scooped another spoonful, humming under her breath, some light, stupid melody I couldn’t place.

“There we go,” she murmured, nudging the spoon toward me again. “Almost done. And you didn’t bite me once. That’s progress.”

I opened my mouth, more out of muscle memory than agreement, and let her feed me again.

Jesus. This was pathetic.

I should be out there, hunting those bastards. Tearing through the city like vengeance made of bone and teeth.

I should be bleeding them.

But instead I was lying here in some cracked-sink apartment that smelled like plants and vanilla soy candles, high on painkillers or some other shit, and letting a barefoot girl with cat scratches on her arms feed me soup like a feral animal she’d decided to rehabilitate.

She stirred the spoon absently, “You know, I never liked hospitals. Too clean. Too... white and the lights buzz. You ever notice that? That awful fluorescent buzzing sound? Ugh.”

No. I hadn’t because I’m usually the one sending people to hospitals.

“I figured if I took you in, you’d either die quietly or wake up and strangle me.” She smiled at that like it was a joke. “So far, so good.”

My mouth twitched.

She caught it, her eyes lit up like I’d given her a gold medal.

“Oh my God. Was that a smile?” she gasped, “You can smile. It’s more of a pain-grimace, but I’ll take it. Smiling means you’ve got a heart in there somewhere. And maybe you’re not planning to murder me in my sleep.”

She didn’t shut up. That was the thing. She kept talking and she never stopped, not for air, not for logic, not for mercy.

“There’s this raccoon that comes to my fire escape sometimes. I named him Remy, after the rat in Ratatouille? Except Remy’s kind of a jerk. He hisses at Flan. She tries to hiss back, but her lungs are weird. So it’s more like a wheeze.”

I blinked at her. How did one person have so many stories? And why were they all so... bizarre?

“You should meet my neighbor. She’s ninety-three and thinks I’m a witch. Keeps giving me garlic and muttering prayers in Spanish. She means well. I think.”

I stared at her.

So soft. So warm.

So fucking unreal.

And she sure as fuck didn’t belong anywhere near me.

“I mean, okay, full disclosure, you look a little dangerous, I think it's because of the tattoos,” she said in this way-too-cheerful voice, like she was commenting on the weather or the price of avocados, “Not judging! I swear, I’m not that kind of person. I love tattoos. Love them. Very expressive. Very artsy. Yours are super intense, though. Again, not judging! It’s just, I have this thing about violence. I hate it. I can’t handle it. It makes me all clammy and panicky and sick to my stomach, and I’ve seen what violent people can do, and it’s horrible, and I just… really hope you’re not one of those people. You know? The ones who hurt people for fun or like, because they feel powerful or whatever. God, I’m rambling. I do that when I’m nervous. You probably noticed. Please don’t be evil.”

She inhaled like she’d just completed a 5k.

Jesus Christ.

If she knew even one thing about me, she’d have thrown herself off the fire escape as soon as I bled onto her perfect, sunshine-colored blankets.

Please don’t be evil? Sweetheart, I invented evil.

Hell, I didn’t just take pleasure in it. I was good at it. Violence was the only thing I’d ever been born for. Some men were made to build, to teach, to love. I was made to crack bones and empty magazines into kneecaps.

I wanted to tilt my head, smirk just enough to make her second-guess herself, and ask her, What if I am one of those bad people, Sunshine? What then?

I wanted to watch the way her throat bobbed when she swallowed, hear her breath stutter just a little with fear.

Because fear was easy, fear was predictable, fear, I understood.

But her?

She was a fucking anomaly, a glitch in the system.

And she was talking so fast I was starting to think she didn’t even know what she was saying anymore.

“I mean, you can’t be a bad guy,” she rambled, shifting the bowl in her hands, “Because bad guys don’t say ‘please’ when they break into someone’s house all bloody and terrifying.”

She was trying to convince herself.

That’s what this was.

She wanted to believe I wasn’t the monster lurking in the dark. That I was just some unfortunate soul who stumbled into her little nest of sunshine and chamomile like I wasn’t soaked in the sins of a thousand men.

“Anyway,” she muttered. “I hope you’re not evil. That’d really suck.”

She set the bowl down and gently wiped the corner of my mouth with a towel. Her fingers brushed my jaw.

“Get some rest,” she whispered, all sunshine and lavender and fucking suicide. “You’re safe here.”

Safe.

I would’ve laughed if my lungs weren’t cracked glass.

Because somewhere between the drugs and the bleeding and the absurdity of this moment like her ridiculous soup and her crippled cat and her stories about raccoons, I realized something.

She’d brought the devil into her home.

And she was smiling at it.