I woke up at dawn. The apartment was quiet. Niko was still asleep—or pretending to be. I couldn't tell anymore. I didn't care.

I sat at the edge of the mattress we'd dragged in from the curb two years ago. The springs dug into my thighs. My hands rested in my lap, palms up. The scars caught the early light. White lines crisscrossing my skin like a map of every lie I'd believed.

Three years.

I stood and walked to the kitchen. The linoleum was cracked. The fridge hummed loud enough to wake the neighbors. I opened the cabinet where I kept his pills—rows of orange bottles with labels I'd memorized. Dosages. Timing. Side effects. I knew them better than my own name.

I picked up one bottle. Turned it over. The label was real. The prescription was real. But the pills inside?

I twisted the cap and poured them into my hand. Small white tablets. I'd never actually watched him swallow one. He always took them in the bathroom. Door closed. Water running.

I dropped them back in the bottle and set it on the counter.

Then I walked away.

The morning stretched. I didn't check his temperature. Didn't fluff his pillows. Didn't ask if he needed water. I sat by the window and watched the street below. People walked to work. Cars honked. Life kept moving.

Behind me, Niko stirred. I heard the rustle of sheets. A cough—wet, perfectly timed. He called my name. Soft. Weak.

"Elisa?"

I didn't turn around.

"Elisa, can you bring me some water?"

I stood. Walked to the kitchen. Filled a glass. Brought it to him. Set it on the nightstand. Walked away.

He blinked at me. "Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"You seem..." He trailed off. Coughed again. "Distant."

I looked at him. Really looked. The pale skin. The careful tremor in his hand as he reached for the glass. The way his eyes tracked my movements, calculating.

"I'm tired," I said.

He nodded. Sipped the water. "You work too hard. Maybe you should rest today."

"I got fired."

His expression shifted—surprise, then concern. "What? When?"

"Last night."

"Elisa, I'm so sorry." He set the glass down. Started to sit up. Winced like it hurt. "We'll figure something out. We always do."

I walked back to the window.

The day passed slowly. I didn't look for another job. Didn't check the classifieds. Didn't call the temp agencies. I just sat.

At noon, I went to the bodega on the corner. I bought a sandwich. Turkey and cheese. Lettuce. Tomato. It cost eight dollars. I'd spent months telling myself eight dollars was too much. That Niko needed it more.

I sat on the curb outside and ate the whole thing.

Halfway through, my stomach cramped. Hard. I doubled over, breathing through my nose. My body didn't remember how to process real food. Three years of half-portions and skipped meals had shrunk me from the inside out.

I finished it anyway.

When I got back, Niko was awake. He looked at me from the bed. "Where were you?"

"Out."

"I was worried."

I didn't answer.

That night, I made dinner. Rice and canned beans. I put half on a plate for him. The other half I ate myself. All of it. I didn't save any for tomorrow. Didn't ration. Didn't calculate.

Niko watched me across the table. He picked at his food. "You're eating a lot."

"I'm hungry."

"I just mean... that's good. You should eat more. You're too thin."

I looked at him. He looked back. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Uncertainty. Doubt.

Then he coughed and it was gone.

Later, when he thought I was asleep, I heard him get up. Heard him walk to the kitchen. The soft clink of pill bottles. The tap running.

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.

The next morning, I gathered my things. I didn't have much. My ID. My Social Security card. A photograph of my father from before everything fell apart. My last paycheck stub—thinner than it should've been because Marcus docked me for getting hit.

I put them in a plastic grocery bag.

Niko was still in bed. I stood in the doorway and looked at him. His chest rose and fell. Steady. Strong. The chest of a healthy man.

I walked to the kitchen counter. Pulled my wedding ring from my pocket—the cheap replacement I'd bought after selling the real one. I set it down next to his pill bottles.

No note. No explanation.

I picked up the grocery bag and walked to the door.

"Elisa?"

I stopped. Didn't turn around.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"When will you be back?"

I opened the door. The hallway smelled like old carpet and cooking grease.

"I don't know," I said.

And I left.

I didn't know where I was going. I just walked. Block after block. The city moved around me—people rushing, horns blaring, the subway rumbling beneath my feet.

I walked until my legs ached. Until the sun started to set. Until I found myself standing outside a building I recognized.

Mount Sinai Hospital.

I stood there for a long time. Watched people go in and out. Doctors. Nurses. Patients in wheelchairs. Families holding hands.

I thought about all the times I'd come here with Niko. All the appointments. All the scans. All the concerned looks from doctors I'd believed were trying to save him.

My phone buzzed. I pulled it out.

A text from Niko: *Where are you? I'm worried. Please come home.*

I stared at the screen.

Then I turned and walked away.

That night, I didn't go back to the apartment. I found a bench in Central Park and sat until the cold drove me to a 24-hour diner. I ordered coffee. Nursed it for hours. The waitress didn't say anything. Just refilled my cup.

At 3 a.m., my phone buzzed again.

Another text: *Elisa, please. I need you. I can't do this alone.*

I turned the phone off.

Somewhere across the city, in an office I'd never seen, Niko's attorney was drafting paperwork. Transferring assets. Millions of dollars moving from one account to another.

Future compensation, Niko had said.

For when he was ready to end the game.

I didn't know that yet. Wouldn't know for a long time.

But sitting in that diner, watching the sky turn gray with dawn, I knew one thing:

I was done playing.

The phone buzzed at 2 p.m. I was sitting in the diner, staring at cold coffee. I'd been there since dawn. The waitress had stopped asking if I wanted a refill.

The sound cut through the fog in my head. Sharp. Insistent.

But it wasn't my phone.

I looked down. My phone sat dark on the table. I'd turned it off hours ago.

The buzzing came again. From my bag. The plastic grocery bag I'd packed when I left.

I reached inside. My fingers found something hard. Rectangular. I pulled it out.

A phone I didn't recognize. Sleek. Black. Expensive.

It must have been in the apartment. Must have gotten mixed in with my things when I grabbed my documents from the drawer. I'd never seen it before.

The screen lit up. A text from a number with no name: *Plaza rooftop. 8 tonight. JB welcome home party. Black tie.*

I stared at the message.

JB. Jazmine Barnes.

My hands went cold.

I stood. Left money on the table. Walked out into the gray afternoon.

The Plaza Hotel rose above Fifth Avenue like something out of a fairy tale. Golden lights. Marble columns. Doormen in uniform.

I stood across the street at 7:45 p.m. I wore the same clothes I'd been wearing for two days. My jacket was thin. My shoes were falling apart.

People walked past me into the hotel. Women in silk. Men in tuxedos. I watched them disappear through the revolving doors.

I didn't belong here anymore.

I used to.

Three years ago, I would've walked through those doors without thinking. Would've handed my coat to someone. Would've taken the elevator to whatever floor they told me.

Now I stood on the sidewalk and felt invisible.

At eight o'clock, I crossed the street. Walked around the side of the building. Found a service entrance. The door was propped open with a brick. I slipped inside.

The back hallway smelled like kitchen grease and steam. I followed the sound of voices. Found the service elevator. Pressed the button for the top floor.

When the doors opened, I heard music.

I stepped into a corridor. Followed it to a door marked STAFF ONLY. Pushed through.

I was in a coatroom. Empty. On the other side, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto the rooftop terrace.

I moved closer.

The terrace was lit like daylight. String lights hung overhead. Round tables with white cloths. A bar at one end. A small band playing something smooth and expensive.

And in the center of it all, Niko.

He stood near the bar, champagne flute in hand. He wore a black tuxedo—perfectly tailored, probably custom. His hair was styled. His skin glowed. He laughed at something someone said. Full. Rich. The laugh of a man who owned the room.

No cough. No weakness. No tremor in his hand.

Next to him, Jazmine.

She wore a red dress that probably cost more than I'd made in a year. Her hair was swept up. Diamonds at her throat. She looked beautiful. Healthy. Whole.

Not a scratch on her.

She leaned into Niko. Put her hand on his arm. Smiled up at him like he was the only person in the world.

He smiled back.

Around them, fifty people I recognized from another life. Manhattan's elite. Faces from galas I used to attend. People who used to know my name.

I pressed my palm against the window.

Jazmine said something. Niko bent down so she could whisper in his ear. His expression shifted—amused, indulgent. He straightened and raised his glass.

The crowd quieted.

"To Jazmine," he said. His voice carried across the terrace. Strong. Confident. "Welcome home."

Everyone drank.

Jazmine beamed. She turned and waved at the crowd. They applauded.

I watched Niko watch her. The way he looked at her. Protective. Devoted.

The way he used to look at me.

Before.

I stepped back from the window. My reflection stared back at me in the glass. Hollow cheeks. Dull eyes. Ratty jacket. I looked like a ghost.

Behind my reflection, they kept celebrating.

I turned and walked back through the coatroom. Through the corridor. Into the service elevator.

The doors closed.

I didn't cry.

I just stood there while the elevator descended. Watched the numbers light up. Seven. Six. Five.

When the doors opened on the ground floor, I walked out into the night.

The air was cold. I pulled my jacket tighter. Started walking.

I didn't know where I was going. I just walked.

Block after block. The city blurred around me.

Somewhere above, in an office inside the Barnes family headquarters, a lawyer finished filing paperwork. Asset transfer documents. Millions of dollars moving into an account with my name on it.

Future compensation.

For when the game ended.

And somewhere else, in a penthouse apartment with a view of Central Park, Jazmine stood in front of a mirror. She was still wearing the red dress. Still wearing the diamonds.

Her phone sat on the vanity. She picked it up. Scrolled through her contacts. Found a name with no picture.

She typed: *I have a job for you.*

Then she hit send.

I walked until my feet went numb. Until the Plaza was miles behind me. Until I found myself in a part of the city I didn't recognize.

I stopped on a corner. Looked up at the street sign.

I had no idea where I was.

I pulled out my phone. Turned it on.

Twenty-three missed calls. Fifteen texts. All from Niko.

*Where are you?*

*Please come home.*

*I'm scared.*

*Elisa, please.*

I stared at the screen.

Then I turned the phone off again.

And I kept walking.

The Barnes estate glittered like a jewel box. Every window blazed with light. Chandeliers hung from ceilings I used to know. Music drifted out into the Manhattan night—strings and champagne laughter.

I stood across the street. Hidden in shadows between two parked cars.

I hadn't meant to come here. I'd been walking for hours. Trying to figure out where to go. What to do. I'd ended up at a storage facility three blocks away—the place where I'd put a few boxes before everything fell apart. My college diploma. Some photographs. Things I couldn't sell.

I'd retrieved them. Carried them in a cardboard box. Started walking back toward... nowhere.

Then I'd seen the lights.

Now I stood here. Watching.

Cars pulled up to the circular drive. Valets in white gloves opened doors. Women in gowns stepped out. Men in tuxedos. Everyone beautiful. Everyone whole.

I recognized some of them. People I used to know. People who used to smile at me at events like this.

None of them would recognize me now.

Through the windows, I could see inside. The grand foyer. The ballroom beyond. Round tables with white cloths and gold chairs. Centerpieces that probably cost more than my rent.

And at the center of it all—Niko and Jazmine.

She wore white. A gown that hugged her body like water. Her hair swept up. Diamonds everywhere—her throat, her ears, her wrists. She looked like a bride.

She looked like me. Three years ago.

Niko stood beside her in a tuxedo. Perfect posture. Perfect smile. He held a champagne flute. His other hand rested at the small of Jazmine's back.

She leaned into him. Whispered something. He bent his head to listen.

From across the street, they looked like a couple. Like they belonged together.

Maybe they did.

I watched Jazmine's hand slide up Niko's arm. Watched her fingers curl around his bicep. Possessive. Claiming.

Watched Niko's smile falter.

Just for a second. A flicker of something crossing his face. Discomfort. Tension.

Then it was gone.

Jazmine pulled him toward a group of guests. Photographers raised cameras. Flash. Flash. Flash. Jazmine beamed. Niko smiled.

I turned away.

The box in my arms was getting heavy. My hands ached. Everything ached.

I walked around the side of the estate. Away from the lights. Toward the service entrance I remembered from years ago.

I just wanted to get back to the street. Find a subway. Disappear.

The alley was narrow. Dark. Dumpsters lined one wall. The smell of garbage and old food hung in the air.

I was halfway through when I heard footsteps behind me.

Two men. I didn't see their faces. Just shapes blocking the light from the street.

I stopped. Turned.

"Excuse me," I said quietly. Moved to step around them.

One grabbed my arm. Hard. The box fell from my hands. Photographs spilled across the concrete.

"Wait—" I started.

His fist hit my stomach. Air exploded from my lungs. I doubled over. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

The second man grabbed my hair. Yanked my head back. His other hand slammed into my face.

Pain. White-hot and blinding.

I fell. Knees hit concrete. Hands scraped pavement.

A boot connected with my ribs. Once. Twice. I heard something crack. Felt it like lightning through my chest.

I tried to crawl. Tried to get away. Fingers closed around my ankle. Dragged me back.

Another kick. My side. My back. My face.

I tasted blood. Felt it running down my chin. Warm and copper.

They didn't say anything. Didn't ask questions. Just kept hitting.

Systematic. Professional.

I curled into a ball. Arms over my head. Tried to protect myself.

It didn't help.

Time stopped meaning anything. There was just pain. And darkness. And the sound of my own breathing—wet, rattling, wrong.

Then footsteps. Walking away.

Silence.

I lay there. Couldn't move. Couldn't open my eyes. My face was pressed against cold concrete. Something warm pooled beneath me.

Blood. Mine.

Somewhere above, music still played. Laughter drifted down from lit windows. The gala continued.

I tried to reach for my phone. My fingers wouldn't work right. Everything felt distant. Floating.

I managed to pull it from my pocket. The screen was cracked. Spiderwebbed. But it still glowed.

I opened messages. Found Niko's name.

My fingers were slippery. Red. I had to try three times to type.

*I gave you everything I had. I have nothing left—not even the will to hate you. Goodbye, Niko.*

I hit send.

Then I let the phone fall from my hand.

Above me, stars tried to break through the city haze. I stared up at them. Tried to focus.

Everything was getting fuzzy. Soft around the edges.

I thought about my father. About Keegan. About the girl I used to be—the one who played violin and believed in fairy tales.

I thought about Niko. The way he'd looked at me on our wedding day. Before everything broke.

I thought about three years. Three years of selling my blood. Three years of believing love was enough.

It wasn't.

My eyes closed.

And the world went dark.