characters: Maddie Buckley, Chimney Han, Eddie Diaz, Athena Grant
word count: 4 640
warning: none?
prompt: something isn't right
you can read it here, or on AO3.
Chimney walked Maddie up the path toward her apartment door, their steps slow, unhurried, the kind people take when they weren’t quite ready for the night to end. The air was cool but gentle, the courtyard lanterns casting warm halos across the stone walkway. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed softly. A door closed. Normal sounds. Safes ones.
They were still laughing about dinner, about something Chim had said, or the waiter’s face when Chim had butchered the name of the dessert. Maddie wasn’t even sure anymore. It didn’t matter. Everything felt warm and soft around the edges, like the world had decided to give her a small kindness and not take it back immediately, the kind of quiet happiness she didn’t get nearly often enough.
“Okay,” Chim said, bumping her shoulder lightly with his, “that restaurant officially owes me free dessert for life. Did you see the chef glare at me after you took the last panna cotta?”
Maddie snorted. “You said you didn’t want it!”
“I didn’t know you wanted the whole thing!”
“You hesitated,” she shot back with a grin. “That’s on you.”
Chim sighed dramatically, pressing a hand over his heart. “If I starve, it’s your fault. I hope you can live with that.”
She rolled her eyes but her smile only widened. God, it felt good to smile like this. To laugh without flinching. To walk home with someone who didn’t rush her, who didn’t press, who didn’t make the quiet feel heavy. For the first time in a long while, the word home didn’t tighten something in her chest. It felt… earned.
They stepped into the small alcove outside her apartment’s door, lanternlight spilling warmly over the carved wooden frame of the door. Maddie reached for her purse automatically, fingers already searching for her keys as she turned toward the lock, still laughing–
And stopped.
Her hand froze mid-motion.
The key was already there. Slipped into the lock. Turned halfway.
For half a second, Maddie didn’t breathe. Her smile didn’t vanish all at once. It faded slowly, like a dimmer being turned down, confusion flickering through her before something colder crept in behind it. Her stomach tightened, not with panic yet, but with a sudden, instinctive awareness that didn’t have words attached to it.
Chim noticed the second she stopped moving. It wasn’t dramatic. Maddie didn’t gasp or step back or say anything at all. She just… went still. Like someone had hit pause on her mid-laugh.
“Hey?” he asked softly, the humor still lingering in his voice. “You’re okay?”
Maddie didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were fixed on the door.
“The key.”
Chim’s smile faded. Not all at once, but enough. “What?”
“The key,” Maddie said, lifting her hand and pointing at it like she needed proof it was real. “It’s already in the lock.” She stared at it, pulse beginning to thrum in her ears.
Chim leaned closer, brow furrowing. “Did you forget them?”
She shook her head, lifting her hand without realizing she was doing it. Her keys were already there, cool and familiar against her palm, metal biting lightly into her skin where she’d been gripping them since they got out of the car.
She stared at them for a beat too long. Then back at the door again.
Two keys.
One door.
The logic of it didn’t line up, and her body knew it before her mind caught up. A subtle, nauseating pull settled low in her stomach, the kind that came not from fear yet, but from recognition. From experience. From all the times she’d ignored that feeling before and paid for it later.
Her pulse began to tick louder in her ears.
“I didn’t,” she stated, then stopped. There was no sentence that made sense. No explanation that didn’t feel forced. She hadn't been distracted. She hadn’t forgotten. She knew how she left her door.
“Something isn’t right.” She said.
The words didn’t tremble. They didn’t need to.
They sat heavy in the small space between her and Chim, solid and undeniable, and once spoken, they couldn't be taken back.
Chim leaned in a little, peering around her shoulder toward the door. “Maybe Buck came home exhausted after his shift and forgot them?” he said, voice light. “He does that kind of stuff at the station all the time when he’s wiped.”
He tried to smile, easy and teasing, like this was nothing more than a harmless oversight. But it didn’t reach Maddie.
“He’s probably passed out on the couch watching some documentary,” Chim added, nudging her gently with his elbow. “You know him, the kid falls asleep to documentary shows like a grandpa.”
Normally, that would have made her laugh. Normally, she would have pictured Buck sprawled out, boots kicked off, some dry narrator droning on in the background while he snored softly through it. But the image wouldn’t settle.
Maddie didn’t nod, didn’t smile. Her eyes stayed locked on the key, on the way it sat half turned in the lock, neither open nor closed, suspended in a position that made her skin prickle. Like someone had started to unlock the door and then… stopped.
“No,” she whispered, barely shaking her head.
Chim straightened, the shift in her tone finally cutting through. “Maddie–”
“No, Chim, look,” She shifted her hand pointing at the lock, fingers trembling now. “It’s halfway turned.”
She swallowed hard, throat tightening. “He’s not home. If Buck had come in, he would have turned it all the way. Or taken the key out. He wouldn’t have left it like that.”
She knew his habits. She knew the rhythms of living with him, how he triple-checked the lock when Maddie worked late, how he always kicked his shoes off in the same place, how he never left things unfinished like this.
Never.
The unease in her gut sharpened, sinking lower, heavier, pressing down until it was hard to breathe around it. This wasn’t forgetfulness. This wasn’t Buck being tired or careless.
Something had interrupted him.
Something had stopped him mid-motion.
Her fingers curled tighter around her own keys, metal biting into her palm as if grounding her to the moment.
She pulled the key from the lock with slow, careful fingers, like the slightest wrong movement might shatter something fragile. The metal scraped softly as it slid free. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, reaching automatically for the light switch.
The room flooded with warm yellow light. Familiar and comforting. But wrong at the same time. Because the apartment looked exactly the same.
Not mostly the same. Not close enough to explain away.
Exactly.
Chim followed her in, closing the door behind them with deliberate gentleness, like he was trying not to startle her.
“Maddie,” he said softly, “maybe he just stepped out. Ran to the store. Forgot his phone or–”
His voice trailed off as Maddie moved farther into the space. She wasn’t listening to the comforting possibilities, she was looking. Really looking.
Her jacket still hung over the back of the couch, sleeve half folded the way she tossed it before changing for the date. The TV remote sat on the coffee table at the same angle it had been hours ago. The bedroom door stood exactly as she’d left it, open just enough to let light spill in, not touched since she walked out.
No scuffed footprints near the door, no displaced cushions, no half-finished glass of water. Nothing disturbed. Nothing shifted. Nothing lived in.
Her heart dropped, slow and sickening, like an elevator cutting its cable.
“No,” she whispered, the word thin and unsteady as it scraped out of her throat.
“If he left,” she said, more to herself than to Chim, “something would be off.”
She turned slowly in a full circle, eyes tracking every familiar detail. “He always drops his bag by the chair. Always.” Her voice cracked around the edges. “He didn’t come inside at all.”
Chim hesitated behind her. She could hear it in his silence, in the way his reassurance faltered before it reached his mouth. “Maddie–”
“No,” she shook her head, sharper now, denial giving way to something colder and clearer. “He’s not here.”
She looked at Chim then, really looked at him, fear blazing openly in her eyes. “He never came home.”
Her hands shook as she pulled her phone from her pocket. She didn’t waste time thinking. Didn’t weigh whether she was overreacting. Instinct had already taken the wheel. She just dialed.
Eddie picked up on the first ring.
“Maddie?” his voice was alert immediately, sharp in a way that made her chest tighten. Like he heard something in her breathing she didn’t realize she was giving away. “You’re okay?”
She swallowed hard, her throat felt tight, swollen, like it didn’t want to let the words through. “Yeah,” she said, too fast. “I…I’m fine. I just…” her voice wavered despite her effort to steady it. She tried again. “Eddie, is Buck with you?”
There was the briefest pause on the other end of the line.
“No,” Eddie said, tone tightening instantly. “Why? What’s going on?”
Her grip tightened around the phone. “He’s not home,” she said. Saying it out loud again made something cold bloom behind her ribs. “I mean… His Jeep is here, parked where it always is. But he’s not.”
She forced herself to keep going before doubt could creep back in. “His key was in the lock. Half-turned. Like he started to unlock the door and then didn’t finish.”
Eddie didn’t interrupt. Chim shifted behind her, close enough that she could feel him there, solid and steady, but Maddie barely registered it. Her focus tunneled in on Eddie’s silence, on the way he was listening.
“Chim thought maybe he ran out to the store,” she continued, her voice thinning. “
But he wouldn’t do that. He would have left a note, or texted. Or something.” She shook her head, even though Eddie couldn't see it. “I don’t think he… I don’t think he ever made it inside.”
The silence on the line stretched for a heartbeat longer. Then Eddie spoke, and the calm in his voice was deliberate, practiced.
“Maddie,” Eddie said, urgency threading beneath control. “I need you to lock the door and stay inside. Right now.”
Her pulse spiked “What? why…Eddie–”
“I’m coming,” he continued, already moving by the sound of it. “Don’t open the door for anyone but me. Call me if anything changes. If you hear anything. Anything at all.”
Her chest felt tight, breath coming shallow and fast. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.” She ended the call with shaking fingers and looked up at Chim. Something in her expression must have said everything, because his jaw set immediately, concern sharpening into readiness.
“Eddie?” he asked quietly.
She nodded. “He’s on his way,” And then, softer, like admitting it made it real. “He doesn’t think Buck’s okay either.”
Maddie sank down onto the edge of the couch without realizing she’d moved, her legs suddenly unreliable beneath her. Chim stayed standing, hovering nearby, giving her space but not distance.
Her phone was still in her hand.
She stared at the screen for a long second before unlocking it, thumb trembling as she opened her messages.
BUCK sat right at the top of the list.
Of course it did.
Her chest tightened as she scrolled.
On my way home.
Traffic’s not awful tonight.
You two have fun ❤️
That had been hours ago.
Maddie read the messages again. Then again. Searching for something she hadn’t noticed before. A missed call. A gap. A tone shift. Anything.
There was nothing after that.
No home safe. Not dumb meme. No you still out? text he always sent if she was late.
Her throat tightened painfully.
She tapped Buck’s name and brought the phone to her ear.
There was no ringing.
No dial tone stretching out. No familiar sound of it trying to connect. It went straight to voicemail.
Maddie pulled the phone away slowly, staring at the screen like it had done something wrong. Like it might fix itself if she looked hard enough.
Buck never let his phone die. He kept it charged obsessively, like it was a lifeline. Even on his worst days, even when he was exhausted, it never went straight to voicemail.
Never.
Her hand curled into her sleeve, fingers pressing hard into her palm as guilt bloomed hot and sharp in her chest.
“I should have checked in,” she said, voice cracking.
“Maddie, listen to me. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
But the thought had already lodged itself deep. Because Maddie could see it now, Buck stopping mid-step, mid-motion, because he thought he heard something. or someone. Buck being Buck, careful, curious, kind and trusting.
Her phone buzzed suddenly in her hand. She flinched so hard it almost slipped from her grip.
But it wasn't Buck.
It was Eddie.
I’m five minutes out.
She stared at the message, her heart pounding painfully. Five minutes felt impossibly long. And terrifyingly short. She looked up at Chim, fear no longer contained, no longer quiet.
“He made it to the door,” she said hoarsely. “I know he did.”
Her eyes flicked back to the lock, to the empty apartment “And then something, or someone stopped him.”
And suddenly the quiet in the apartment felt oppressive, pressing in on her from all sides.
Minutes stretched too long. The apartment felt smaller with every passing second, the silence pressing in until Maddie couldn’t stay still anymore. She paced the length of the living room, hands twisting together, then unclasping, then clenching again. Every breath felt thin, shallow, like it stopped short of where it was supposed to land.
Every shadow looked wrong. Every sound, the hum of the fridge, the distant traffic outside, felt too loud and not loud enough all at once.
Then came knock.
Not polite, not tentative. Urgent.
Chim was already moving, crossing the room in two long strides and pulling the door open before Maddie had fully registered the sound.
Eddie stood there. His breath was a little fast, chest rising and falling like he’d come straight from motion to stillness. His eyes were sharp and focused, scanning the space beyond Chim’s shoulder before either of them spoke. He looked like he had his turnout gear on, even without it, coiled and ready.
“Maddie?” he said, already leaning forward slightly, gaze cutting past Chim into the apartment.
She stepped into view. Relief flashed across Eddie’s face, then vanished just as fast, replaced by something tighter.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
Maddie took a breath that didn’t quite reach her lungs. “We just got home,” she said, words coming out too fast now that she’d started. “The key was still in the lock. Half turned.” She shook her head, a sharp, disbelieving motion. “Buck doesn’t do that. Ever.”
Eddie’s eyes flickered immediately to the door. He didn’t touch anything, didn’t step further in yet. He just looked, really looked, cataloging every detail.
“Inside looks exactly the same as when I left,” Maddie continued, her voice wobbling despite her effort to steady it. “Nothing moved, no note. It’s like he never came home at all.”
She swallowed hard. “Except his Jeep is parked outside.”
That did it.
Something shifted in Eddie’s posture, subtle but unmistakable. His jaw set. His shoulders squared.
“When was the last time you heard from him?” he asked.
Maddie lifted her phone with shaking hands. “He texted when he was on his way home. Nothing after that.” She hesitated, then added, quieter. “His phone goes straight to voicemail.”
Chim crossed his arms, jaw tight. “I thought maybe he ran out to a store for something, and forgot his keys. But Maddie’s right, he–,”
“He would have said something.” Eddie finished quietly. The words came out steady, certain, not a guess.
For a split second, his mind slipped backward.
Buck, sprawled awkwardly on Eddie’s couch months ago, one arm dangling off the side like gravity had simply given up on him, Christopher asleep against his shoulder, mouth slightly open, after a movie night that had turned into babysitting that turned into Buck passing out mid-sentence. Eddie remembered draping a blanket over both of them before heading to bed, pausing for a second just to watch them. Buck’s face had been slack with sleep, peaceful in a way he rarely allowed himself to be when he was awake.
He remembered waking up early the next morning to a quiet house, the couch had been empty.
Buck gone.
For a brief, sharp second, that same spike of unease had flared in Eddie’s chest, the instinctive where is he? that came with having Evan Buckley in your life.
Except there had been a note.
A crooked scrap of paper left on the counter, weighted down with Eddie’s favorite mug like Buck had thought about it, like he’d wanted to make sure it didn’t blow away or get missed. The handwriting had been unmistakable, too big, too enthusiastic for the small space, letters slanted and uneven like he’d been half-awake when he wrote it, probably still yawning too.
Ran to the store. Tried to make breakfast for you and Chris. We’re out of eggs. And milk. And apparently everything. How do you even cook, man? Be back soon. – B.
Eddie remembered standing there longer than necessary, reading it twice. Then a third time. A quiet smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. He’d shaken his head, warmth settling in his chest because that was just Buck. Incapable of leaving without explaining himself, even for five minutes. Incapable of not reassuring the people he loved, even when no one asked him to. Even when it didn’t matter.
Because Buck always made it matter.
The memory vanished as quickly as it came, warmth snuffed out by the cold certainty of the present.
And Eddie knew, with a clarity that hurt, that if Buck had walked away from that door tonight, there would have been a note. There would have been something. But there wasn’t. Which meant that Buck hadn’t left at all.
Buck didn’t leave.
Maddie nodded slowly, her composure finally starting to crack. Her eyes shone, tears threatening but not falling yet, held back by sheer force of will. “He always leaves a note,” she said softly. “Even if it’s stupid.”
Her voice wobbled on the last word, a sad, broken smile flickering and dying before it could fully form.
“Especially if it’s stupid.”
The room went quiet again. And this time, the silence didn’t feel uncertain. It felt like a confirmation.
“Okay,” Eddie said calmly, already moving again. “Let’s assume he never made it inside.”
The words landed like a dropped plate. Maddie’s heart stuttered. “Eddie,”
“I’m just checking something,” he said gently, meeting her eyes. “Stay here.”
She nodded because she didn’t trust herself to speak.
Eddie stepped fully into the courtyard and let the door ease shut behind him, careful not to let it latch loudly. The soft click echoed too much in the open space.
He didn’t rush. Rushing missed things. He stood still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the low light, letting instinct settle into place. He scanned the courtyard the way he scanned a scene after a call, not looking for what he expected, but for what didn’t belong.
The ground first.
Tile. Concrete. Edges. Corners. Shadows cast by the fountain, by the planters, by the low walls people leaned against when they thought no one was watching.
Then he saw it. Near the base of the fountain.
A dark smear against the pale tile, irregular and uneven. Not a spill. not water. Not rain. The shape of it was wrong, elongated, directional, like something had been pulled instead of dropped. Eddie crouched slowly, heart beginning to thud harder with each inch closer.
He didn’t touch it right away.
He studied it, then pressed two fingers to it lightly.
His stomach dropped.
Blood.
Eddie straightened slowly, breath tight in his chest, and followed the smear with his eyes. It didn’t stop at the fountain. It thinned, stretched out into faint streaks and uneven droplets leading away across the courtyard, like someone had been moved against their will.
Dragged.
His eyes followed the trail toward the far side of the courtyard, where the tiles changed. The blood thinned there. It didn’t vanish, it stretched.
Broken into smaller marks, but it didn’t disappear. It led straight to the gate. Beyound it, the sidewalk lay quiet, washed in dull yellow streetlight.
For half a second, Eddie thought the trail ended there.
Then he saw it.
A dark smear along the concrete curb, partially absorbed into the rough surface. A footprint, not full and not clean.
Eddie’s gaze tracked the faint marks farther along the sidewalk, toward where a vehicle could have pulled up. There were no clear tire tracks, nothing obvious, but the absence itself spoke volumes.
Whoever did this, hadn’t panicked. They hadn’t rushed. They’d known exactly how much time they had. They had planned everything. And that, more than anything else, made his blood run cold.
Eddie didn’t hesitate. He pulled his phone out as he turned back toward the courtyard, already dialing. “Athena,” he said the second the call connected. “I need you. Now. It’s Buck.” There was no preamble. No softening.
Something in his voice must have carried, because Athena didn’t ask for context. “Where are you?”
He gave the address, concise and clipped. “Buck never made it inside the apartment. There’s blood. A drag out to the street.”
“Don’t touch anything else. I’m on my way. Ten minutes.”
Eddie ended the call and turned back inside.
Maddie was standing near the kitchen counter, phone still in her hand, knuckles white around it. Chim hovered close, one hand braced against the counter like he was holding the room upright.
Eddie didn’t sugarcoat it. “There’s blood. Not a lot though.” he said. “And it leads out to the street.”
The words hit hard. Maddie swayed, breath catching sharply in her chest. Chim moved instantly, steadying her with one arm, grounding her before her knees could give.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no–”
“I’m sorry,” Eddie said quietly.
“Who would,” Maddie’s voice broke before she could stop it. “This doesn’t make any sense. He’s a firefighter, he’s not… he doesn’t have enemies.” The words sounded thin even to her.
Eddie didn’t answer right away. He stood still, gaze fixed somewhere past the coffee table. His jaw was set, eyes dark with a certainty he didn’t want to speak too fast.
“This wasn’t random,” he said quietly.
Both Maddie and Chim looked at him. Maddie’s throat closed, her hands curled into her sleeves, fingers pressing hard against her palms. “Do you think whoever did this… knew him?”
“Or they knew of him. They waited, they knew where he lived. They picked a time when he’d be alone.”
Chim’s jaw tightened. “You’re saying this was planned.”
Eddie nodded. Silence settled over the room again, heavier this time, weighted with implication.
“He would have thought,” Maddie whispered, more to herself than to either of them. “He doesn’t go quietly.”
Eddie’s expression didn’t change. “I know.”
Chim moved closer, resting a steady hand on her shoulder, grounding her. “Maddie,” he said firmly, waiting until she looked at him. “Hey, we’re going to find him.”
“We’re not doing this by ourselves.” Eddie said.
Maddie’s breath stuttered. “What… what do you mean?”
“Athena’s on her way,” he replied. “She’s already looping in LAPD.”
Sirens cut through the night seconds later. Red and blue lights washed across the courtyard walls, turning familiar stone into something harsh and unreal. An LAPD cruiser pulled up first. Then Athena arrived right behind them, already moving before the engine fully cut.
The knock came sooner than Maddie expected.
Chim was already moving, opening the door before the sound fully faded. Athena stood on the threshold.
“Maddie,” she said, crossing the threshold immediately. She didn’t ask. She didn’t waste time. She pulled her into a quick, fierce hug, one hand pressing solidly between her shoulder blades.
“Okay,” Athena said, “tell me everything.”
And Maddie and Eddie did, from the key in the lock, half turned like Buck had been interrupted mid-movement. From the apartment that looked untouched, frozen in time. From the blood in the courtyard, smeared and dragged, leading out toward the street. From the certainty sitting heavy in their chest that Buck hadn’t gone anywhere by choice.
Athena listened without blinking. Without interrupting. When they finished, she nodded once, then turned to Maddie. “Did you try to call him?”
“Yes.” she said quietly. “It went straight to voicemail.”
Eddie spoke up without looking at either of them. “I did too,” his voice was steady but there was something bruised underneath it. “Straight to voicemail too.”
Athena’s gaze flicked between them. “No answer. No missed call returned.”
“No,” Maddie whispered. “Nothing.”
“Okay,” Athena said, already pulling her phone from her pocket. “If Buck’s missing against his will, then time matters.”
Maddie’s breath caught. “Can you find him?”
“I can try,” Athena replied. “But we need to do this the right way.”
She stepped a few feet away, dialed dispatch and put the call on speaker.
“This is Sergeant Athena Grant, badge 727-L-30. I need an emergency carrier ping initiated. Missing person, possible abduction. Adult male. Immediate danger.”
The dispatcher didn’t push back. Athena’s tone didn’t allow for it.
“Name: Evan Buckley. Phone number:– ” She glanced at Maddie who recited it immediately. “Yes,” Athena confirmed. “That’s correct. The last known location is 6538 Franklin Avenue.”
A pause.
“Okay,” the dispatcher said. “We’re contacting the carrier now. Stand by.”
The room seemed to shrink around them. No one spoke.
Eddie leaned back against the counter, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw locked. Chim stood close to Maddie, close enough that his shoulder brushed hers, like proximity alone might keep her upright if her knees gave out. Maddie’s eyes never left Athena.
“This won’t be GPS,” she said quietly. Already anticipating the questions. “If his phone’s on, we’ll get tower triangulation. That gives us a radius, not a dot. Could be a few hundred meters. Maybe more.”
“How long?” asked Eddie.
“Minutes,” Athena replied. “If we’re lucky.”
The dispatcher's voice cut back in. “Carrier confirms the phone is powered on.”
Maddie sucked in a sharp breath.
“Good,” Athena said. “Proceed.”
Another pause followed. Longer this time. Athena closed her eyes briefly, focusing on the cadence of the dispatcher’s voice, the background clicks and muffled exchanges she recognized from years of doing this.
“Carrier is initiating triangulation now,” dispatch said. “We should have an approximate location within–”
Maddie’s phone rang.
The sound cut through the room like a gunshot. She flinched so hard she nearly dropped it. The screen lit up in her trembling hand.
Buck’s name filled the display.
“It’s Buck.” Maddie whispered.
For half a second, no one breathed. Athena’s head snapped up, every muscle in her body going alert. Eddie took a step forward without realizing he’d moved.
“Dispatch,” Athena said immediately, already turning away, already moving. “We’ve got the victim’s phone active. Audio only so far. Patch this call through if you can. Trace it live.”
She covered the phone and fixed Maddie with a look that brooked no hesitation. “Maddie,” she said softly. “Hold that call as long as possible. Okay?”
Maddie nodded, throat tight, fingers trembling so badly she had to steady the phone with both hands. Her pulse roared in her ears as she lifted it to her cheek.
“Buck?”
For a moment, there was nothing. No background noise, no breath, just an empty, dead line that made her heart lurch painfully upward.
Then came a voice she hoped she’d never hear again.
“Evan’s not home right now,” the man said lightly, almost amused, “Please leave a message.”
warning: physical abuse, pain, pain, and pain again.
prompt: (alt) failed escape
you can read it here, or on AO3.
Buck blinked himself into a blurry, wavering consciousness.
For a moment, maybe longer, there was nothing but static. No sense of before or after. Just a heavy, drifting awareness that felt disconnected from time, like he’d been dropped back into his body without instructions.
He couldn’t tell if he had slept or blacked out or simply… ceased. His thoughts felt padded, dulled around the edges, like someone had packed cotton into his skull and left it there. Everything came slowly. Too slowly.
He didn’t remember closing his eyes. He didn’t remember falling asleep. He didn’t even remember the moment Doug left the room.
One second Doug had been there, too close, breath warm against Buck’s face, voice low and certain, and the next, Buck had been nowhere at all. Floating in a dark and weightless place where thought slipped sideways and time didn’t exist.
The realization sent a jolt of unease through him.
How long had he been gone? A minute? An hour? Longer?
His head throbbed with something thick and chemical, a deep pressure behind his eyes that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Light bled into shadow at the edge of his vision, brightness blooming and receding in nauseating waves. His stomach churned weakly.
His body felt… wrong. Heavy in places it shouldn't be. Light and buzzing in others. His arms trembled faintly without him telling them to, muscles fluttering like they couldn't decide whether they were awake or not.
He tried to inhale properly but his breath caught instead– sharp and shallow, his ribs flaring with a hot, bruised ache that made him hiss softly through his teeth. The pain wasn’t new. It was waiting for him, fully formed, like it had been holding its breath while he was gone.
Panic surged immediately, unhelpful and bright.
It hadn’t faded. It hadn’t dulled with unconsciousness. It was still there, coiled tight in the center of his chest like a clenched fist, ready to squeeze harder the moment he noticed it.
Doug was gone.
For now.
The absence didn’t soothe him. It made everything worse.
Buck’s pulse skittered painfully, too fast, too loud. He could feel it in his throat, in his temple, in the raw, overstretched places where the rope bit into him. His mouth felt dry and thick, tongue sticking uncomfortably to the roof.
He swallowed. It scraped.
He needed to move. He needed to think. He needed to try something, anything, before the fog closed back in, before his body decided to betray him again.
Before Doug came back.
His wrists were still bound overhead. Still pulled taut. Still holding his weight.
The realization hit him with a sick drop in his stomach, like he’d hoped, stupidly, that maybe something would have changed while he was under. That maybe the ropes would be looser, or his arms would be lower, or this would somehow be less real.
But nothing had changed.
His fingers tingled violently, that sharp pains-and-needles burn of circulation cut off for too long. Parts of his hands felt numb, distant, like they didn’t quite belong to him anymore. He flexed his fingers once and barely felt it.
A wave of dizziness rolled through him, fast and frightening. The room tilted, vision dimming at the edges.
No, no, no–
For one dizzy, terrified moment, he thought he might pass out again. And he couldn’t let that happen. If he went under again, Doug would come back to this, to him helpless and slack in the ropes, and he had a horrible feeling that would end much worse than waking up.
He dragged a shallow breath, pain flaring sharply in his ribs, and forced himself to focus.
The rope.
That was the only thing that mattered.
He twisted his wrists.
Pain flared bright and immediate. Raw skin scraping against coarse fibers, the friction brutal and unforgiving. A burning line shot up his forearms, white-hot and nauseating. The rope dragged at the edges of already torn skin, blood, dried and fresh, pulling and reopening abrasions that hadn’t had a chance to close.
Buck gasped, breath hitching hard.
But then–
The rope moved.
Not much.
Barely a sound. A faint scrape against the ceiling hook, more felt than heard.
Hope surged fast and reckless, flooding him with a desperate, electric energy that almost made him dizzy all over again.
He could work with that. He could try. He had to.
Buck angled his body forward and to the side, shifting his weight despite the way his shoulders screamed in protest. The movement pulled at everything at once, his wrists, his arms, his spine, and his vision sparkled with black spots.
He twisted his wrists again, harder this time. It felt like his skin was being peeled away.
His shoulders burned, muscles near his spine spasming violently as they strained past exhaustion. Something deep in the joint protested with a sharp, grinding ache that made his breath stutter. His fingers twitched uselessly, strength bleeding out of them as numbness crept farther up his hand.
But the rope shifted again.
A fraction.
Enough to feel. Enough to keep him going.
Buck clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together as sweat beaded along his brow and slid down the side of his face. His heart hammered erratically, each beat sending another spike of pain through his arms.
He tugged harder.
The rope bit deep.
Pain tore across his wrists, hot and wet now, unmistakable as fresh blood soaked into the fibers. He hissed sharply between his teeth, a broken sound forced out by instinct rather than choice but he didn’t stop, because if he stopped, then hope would die. And Buck wasn’t ready to let it go yet.
“Come on…come on,” he whispered, the words barely audible, torn out of him on shallow, shaking breaths.
Twist.
The rope burned.
Grind.
Pain flared sharp and blinding, skin dragging against coarse fibers that felt like they were stripping him down to bone.
Pull.
His arms shook violently now, muscles screaming in protest, tremors racing through his shoulders and down into his hands. Sweat slicked his palms, stung his eyes. His vision swam, darkening at the edges.
Blood soaked into the rope.
Not enough to make it painless, nothing could, but enough to make it slide.
Another centimeter.
Another scrape.
Another pulse of hope twisting painfully in his chest, so sharp it almost hurt worse than the rope
Buck sucked in a breath through clenched teeth and forced himself into another twist– brutal and reckless, everything he had left thrown into it.
Something tore.
A hot, tearing sensation ripped across his wrist, and he gasped, a broken sound wrenched from his throat as white static flooded his vision. His head pitched forward, nausea rolling hard through him.
For a terrifying half-second, he thought he’d lost it.
Then–
His left wrist slipped free. The sudden release threw his balance completely. He dropped hard, the full weight of his body yanking down on his right arm as he sagged, suspended now by a single wrist.
Agony detonated through his shoulder.
A blinding, electric bolt shot down his arm, exploding behind his eyes, ripping a sound out of him that he didn’t recognize as his own. His body convulsed reflexively, legs kicking uselessly in the air as stars burst across his vision.
He didn’t stop.
He couldn’t.
Before the pain could overwhelm him, before his shoulder could give out entirely, Buck lunged with his free hand and grabbed the dangling rope. His fingers barely closed around it slick with blood, numb and clumsy, but he held on.
He wrapped the rope around his palm and yanked it toward him, using the rough fibers like a saw against the last knot binding his right wrist.
It burned.
God, it burned.
The rope chewed into his already shredded skin, friction grinding raw nerves into screaming fire. His arm shook uncontrollably, strength bleeding out of it second by second.
His right wrist slid.
Caught.
The knot bit back into him, stopping just short of freedom. Buck sobbed once, breath hitching violently.
Then he pulled again.
Slide.
Another inch.
“Please,” he breathed, voice breaking, completely now, desperation pouring out of him unchecked. “Please, come on…”
His shoulder felt like it was tearing itself apart. His ribs screamed with every breath. His fingers were numb, slipping, barely obeying him anymore.
A final, desperate wrench, fueled by nothing but terror and stubborn refusal…
And the rope gave.
Buck dropped.
Not gracefully. Not even fully aware of the exact moment his wrist tore free. One second he was suspended, pain screaming up his arm, the next gravity took him.
His body fell faster than his muscles could react, faster than instinct could catch up. There was no brace, no time to twist or protect himself.
He hit the concrete hard.
His knees struck first, bone slamming into unforgiving ground with a sickening crack that shot sharp blinding pain up through his thighs and into his hips. The impact buckled him instantly.
His ribs crashed next, the force punched straight through his chest, compressing everything at once. Pain detonated across his torso, hot and violent, and the air was ripped from his lungs in one brutal blow.
Buck gasped, or tried to. Nothing came. No breath. No sound. Just pain. A blinding, body-wide detonation that folded him inward, muscles spasming uselessly as his diaphragm locked. His vision whited out completely, sparks bursting behind his eyes as his body convulsed around the shock.
His face struck the floor last. His cheek scraped roughly across the concrete, skin burning as it dragged. His teeth clicked together hard enough to make his jaw sing, and the sudden taste of copper flooded his mouth, warm and unmistakable.
Then, nothing but trembling.
He lay there, sprawled and shaking, chest heaving uselessly as his lungs refused to cooperate. Pain surged and receded in heavy waves, each one stealing something from him, breath, thought, orientation.
For a second, maybe two, his mind simply disappeared under the shock. No thoughts. No hope. No fear. Just the raw, overwhelming reality of pain.
Then the instinct punched through the fog.
Doug.
The thought was sharp enough to cut.
If Doug came back and found him like this…
He didn’t let himself finish the thought. He forced his numb fingers to curl against the floor, nails scraping weakly over grot and dust. They barely responded, hands shaking uncontrollably as he tried to push himself up.
His arms gave out immediately. His elbows buckled, muscles screaming in protest, and his forehead dropped back toward the concrete with a dull, helpless knock. The impact sent another flare of pain through his skull, making his vision pulse dark.
A ragged noise tore out of him– half a sob, half a frustrated, breathless gasp, before he could stop it.
He tried again.
His arms shook violently as he planted his palms against the concrete. His shoulders screamed in protest, sharp and electric, muscles spasming as they fought to lift weight they were never meant to carry like this. His ribs felt like they were splitting apart from the inside, every breath tugging at bruised bone.
But he lifted himself.
An inch.
Then another.
His breath came in short, panicked bursts, each inhale slicing through his chest like a shard of glass through. His lungs burned, shallow and ineffective, refusing to fill properly. His fingertips scraped forward, leaving faint streaks of blood behind as his hands slid across grit and dust.
Crawl. Just crawl.
He dragged his elbows under him and pushed. His right arm collapsed, buckling without warning as pain flared through his shoulder. He barely caught himself before his face hit the floor again. But his left arm held, just long enough. He scraped himself another few inches across the floor, teeth clenched hard enough to make his jaw ache. His wrists screamed as raw skin dragged across the concrete. Every pull sent a fresh jolt of pain ricocheting through his arms.
He bit down on a sound, breath trembling, refusing to give it voice. He clawed forward with both hands, weak, shaking drags that felt less like movement and more like survival reflex. His muscles burned. His hands slipped. His palms left smeared marks behind him that he didn’t want to look at.
Then his fingers brushed the wall. The contact sent a rush of relief through him so sharp it almost hurt. He reached it and slumped sideways, shoulder pressing into the cold surface. He stayed there for a single, precious second, panting hard, chest heaving uselessly. Sweat dripped from his hairline, stung his eyes. His heart hammered wildly, too fast, too loud.
Every muscle felt like it was tearing itself apart.
But he wasn’t done.
He flattened his palm against the wall and pressed. His arm shook violently under the effort, tendons standing out as his body resisted the demand. His knees slid on the concrete. His ankles wobbled, weak and unsteady. His ribs screamed in protest, pain flaring hot and deep with the shift in weight.
He couldn’t stand.
Not yet.
But he got to his hands and knees. It hurts just as much as hanging from the rope, maybe more, but it was different. This pain wasn’t imposed. It wasn’t restraint. It was his. His movement. His choice.
He planted one foot beneath him.
It buckled instantly.
He hit the floor again with a dull, breath-stealing thud, pain blooming fresh across his chest. His vision flashed back at the edges, nausea rolling hard through his gut.
He didn’t stay down.
He pushed again, harder this time. His leg shook violently beneath him, muscles quivering as they fought to hold his weight. His foot slid in a smear of his own blood, traction vanishing but he caught himself against the wall.
His head throbbed so badly he thought he might vomit. His stomach lurched. His breath came out in a broken whine he couldn't quite stop.
Still.
He rose. First into a crouch, knees trembling uncontrollably. Then higher. Half-standing. Bent and swaying, spine screaming, one hand clawed against the wall for balance like it was the only thing anchoring him to the room.
Then upright. Barely.
He stood there, shaking, chest heaving, vision tunneling, the world tilting under his feet. But he was standing. And for the first time since Doug had put his hands on him, Buck was on his own feet.
Buck stayed there for a moment, forehead pressed against the cold concrete, breathing like something cornered and wounded. He had never felt so weak. But he also never felt so determined.
The two sensations tangled together inside him, fear sharpening into something harder, steadier. Doug was gone. The ropes were gone. And Buck was still on his feet.
He was up. Barely. But up. His legs shook beneath him, muscles quivering like theu might simply give out without warning. He tested his weight carefully, shifting it from one foot to the other. Pain flared bright and immediate, but nothing snapped, nothing collapsed. He was still standing. And standing meant moving.
He pushed off the wall, took one unsteady step, then another. Each one was a negotiation between strength and pain, between what his body wanted and what he demanded of it. His knees threatened to buckle. His vision swam, his ribs screamed with every breath. But he kept going, jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he forced himself forward.
He didn’t know where to go yet. He didn’t know how much time he had. He didn’t know if escape was actually possible. But he was moving. And right now, that was enough.
His shaking fingers curled around the cold, rusted handle. The texture bit into his skin, rough and unforgiving. Even that small motion sent a hot, stinging ache flaring through his wrist, pain echoing up his arm. He swallowed hard, blinked rapidly to clear the dizziness from his eyes, and shoved.
The door creaked open.
Loudly.
The sound seemed to ricochet down the space beyond, echoing back at him far too long, far too sharp. Buck froze instantly, heart slamming against his ribs, breath locking in his chest as he listened. Waited for footsteps, for a voice, for the soft, terrible sound of someone else breathing behind him. But nothing came.
He let out a shaky exhale he hadn’t realized he was holding and slipped through the opening, easing the door shut as carefully as he could manage with hands that barely obeyed him.
The hallway beyond was dim and narrow, claustrophobic in a way that made his chest tighten. A single fluorescent strip buzzed overhead, flickering unevenly, its light casting harsh shadows that jumped with every movement. The sound was constant, insistent, like an angry insect trapped above him.
The walls were concrete; stained, cracked and water-marked. The air smelled of dust and mildew, something stale and untouched, as if this part of the building existed outside of time.
Each step echoed faintly beneath his feet, too loud in the silence, making him wince as if the sound itself might give him away.
Buck moved forward anyway. Slowly and carefully.
Every instinct screamed at him to hurry, to run, to put as much distance between himself and that room as possible. But his body refused the idea outright, pain flaring hot and sharp at even the thought. So he walked. One careful step at a time.
He gripped the doorframe with both hands, knuckles whitening as he fought to stay upright. His legs wobbled beneath him, strength bleeding out in unpredictable waves. A hard swallow did nothing to stop the vertigo crashing over him. The hallway tilted sharply to the left– no, he tilted, and he lurched sideways, shoulder slamming into the wall hard enough to jar his teeth.
“Come on,” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re okay…you’re okay. Just move.”
He wasn’t okay.
But the lie gave him something to hold onto. Something to push against. He eased away from the wall inch by inch, waited for the dizziness to settle just enough, then took another step.
Then another.
The hallway stretched forward in a long, flickering tunnel of shadow, too straight, too narrow, like it was deliberately funneling him somewhere. The overhead light buzzed angrily, stuttering every few seconds, throwing his surroundings into sharp relief and then plunging them back into gloom.
Old pipes rattled overhead, vibrating faintly with each step he took. Somewhere above him, water dripped steadily, collecting in shallow puddles along the concrete floor. Buck’s boots splashed softly through one.
The sound echoed. Too loud.
He flinched violently, heart jerking in his chest, breath snagging. For a split second he was sure he’d given himself away.
But nothing happened. No footsteps. No voice. No shadow stretching toward him.
He forced himself to keep moving.
One hand dragged along the wall for balance, fingers trembling, leaving smeared streaks of blood behind him like a trail he couldn’t stop marking. Every few steps his vision blurred, dimming at the edge like a faulty signal losing his strength. Black spots danced in his periphery.
He blinked hard and pushed through it.
Behind him, far enough that he couldn’t hear it yet, but close enough to feel, was Doug.
Doug, with his steady eyes and calm, precise movements. Doug, who wouldn’t rush. Wouldn’t shout. Wouldn’t panic.
The thought made Buck’s breath quicken, shallow and sharp.
No.
He couldn’t think about that, he couldn’t let Doug get into his head now.
At the end of the hallway, a dark doorway yawned open.
Buck slowed instinctively, every step measured. His heart hammered painfully against his ribs, each beat sending a dull ache through his chest. The darkness beyond the doorway felt thick, heavy, like it was waiting.
Every instinct screamed that stepping into the unknown was dangerous.
But staying where he was felt worse.
He leaned into the doorway and found another hallway.
Longer.
Darker.
Empty.
His stomach dropped. The building unfolded in front of him like a maze that didn’t want him to leave, each path leading only to another stretch of shadow, another corridor that offered distance but no direction.
He swallowed, throat dry and burning, jaw tight with effort. He stepped through anyway. Behind him, the light flickered again, buzzing louder, angrier. It made his shadow jump across the wall like a distorted version of himself.
He winced and kept walking. Because stopping meant turning around. And turning around meant Doug.
He reached the midpoint of the hallway and braced a hand against the wall, chest heaving. His breath rasped in and out of him, loud in the narrow space, each inhale scraping against bruised ribs. His legs trembled so badly he had to lock his knees to stay upright.
A sound creaked somewhere far behind him, not clear enough to understand. Just a subtle shift in the air, followed by a low, metallic groan, like something heavy settling into place. The vibration rolled through the building more than it echoed, felt rather than heard.
Buck’s stomach dropped.
He didn’t know what it was.
He didn’t wait to find out.
He shoved himself off the wall and staggered toward the far door, fear cutting through the pain with brutal clarity. Every step came faster now, sharper, desperation overriding caution. His body screamed in protest, but adrenaline drowned it out just enough to keep him moving.
His hands reached for the next handle.
Fingers trembling, bloody, barely closing around the cold metal.
He twisted.
The latch clicked softly.
Buck flinched at the sound but pushed it open anyway and slipped through, pulling the door shut behind him with shaking hands.
The air changed immediately.
It was colder here. The difference brushed against his skin like a promise. Buck sucked in a breath, chest burning, and for a split second something fragile bloomed in his chest.
Airflow.
Movement.
This room wasn’t sealed.
A storage area maybe, wide but low-ceilinged, the space pressing down on him. The smell of dust and old metal was thick in the air. Boxes were stacked against the walls in uneven towers, some half-collapsed, others leaning precariously. A worktable sat off to one side, scattered with tools dulled by rust and disuse. An old mop lay abandoned near a cracked plastic bucket, water long since evaporated.
Not an exit.. But not a dead end either.
Buck swallowed hard and forced himself forward, steadying his weight against the edge of a metal shelf. He moved carefully between crates, dragging his hand along whatever surface he could reach. His fingers slipped on dust and grimes, leaving reddish smears behind.
The floor tilted beneath him again.
He grabbed a crate, knuckles screaming as he caught himself, waited for the dizziness to pass.
Then he felt it.
A faint current of air.
His heart kicked hard. He followed it, step by shaky step, until he reached the far wall.
He reached the far wall. Another handle. Another door, another chance.
He reached for it, and froze.
There it was again.
The sound. Clearer this time.
A footstep.
Coming from the hallway he’d just left.
Buck’s pulse slammed into his throat so hard it made him dizzy, again.
He clamped a hand over his mouth, choking down the sharp, instinctive gasp that clawed its way up anyway. His chest burned with the effort of holding still, of forcing silence into a body that wanted to scream.
Maybe it’s not him.
The thought was thin and fragile.
Another step sounded in the hallway and Buck closed his eyes shut.
It was Doug. There was no one else here. There was never anyone else.
He forced himself to breathe as quietly as he could, instinct dragging air through his nose and pain flared instantly, sharp and blinding, and the breath hit resistance, wet and wrong. He choked it off and switched to shallow mouth-breathing, lips barely parted, every inhale burning his ribs as he fought to keep it silent. The air stuttered anyway, uneven and shaky, and he pressed his teeth together hard, trying to control it. His ribs screamed with every restrained inhale. Sweat slid cold down his spine.
The footsteps entered the hallway he’d just come through. Slow and steady. Doug wasn’t searching. He was following.
Buck’s heart pounded so violently he felt it rattle in the backs of his teeth, a relentless drumbeat he was sure Doug could hear. He pressed himself deeper into the shadows between stacked boxes, shoulders brushing cardboard and wood, body trembling uncontrollably.
Make yourself smaller.
Make yourself nothing.
The faint squeak of the hallway door sounded behind him.
Then Doug spoke.
“Evan,” voice soft and low, almost disappointed.
The sound hit Buck like a physical blow. He flinched like he’d been struck. He clamped both hands over his mouth this time, biting down on his fingers to keep himself silent. His breath hitched sharply in his chest, a thin, broken sound he barely managed to smother.
Doug stepped into the storage room.
Each quiet step felt like a countdown, ticking closer, and closer.
Buck’s chest rose and fell in rapid, trembling bursts as panic hollowed him out from the inside. His vision tunneled. His ears rang. Every sound felt magnified– the buzz of the light, the distant drip of water, the soft shift of his own weight as his legs shook.
The footsteps stopped and Buck’s blood turned to ice.
Doug was listening. He wasn’t moving nor speaking. Just waiting.
Buck could almost feel his attention sweeping the room, precise and patient, like a hand skimming over the surface of water.
Doug inhaled slowly. The sound was deliberate. The breath of a man waiting for a frightened animal to make its next mistake.
Then he took another step. Closer to the interior of the room.
Buck swallowed a sob that burned its way down his throat and made a decision.
It was now or never.
He forced both feet under him, and pushed off the crate he was pressed against. His legs wobbled violently, nearly buckling out from under him. A sharp bolt of pain lanced up his side as his ribs protested the sudden movement.
He almost went down.
Almost.
But he caught himself on the next box, fingers slipping, breath tearing out of him in a harsh, uncontrolled gasp. The sound echoed in his head, deafening.
He staggered toward the opposite door, every step clumsy and uneven, boots scraping softly against concrete that felt miles too loud. His heart felt like it was trying to tear its way out of his chest.
Behind him, Doug spoke again.
“Evan,” he said, closer now. Too close for Buck’s liking.
He didn’t look back.
The handle was only a few feet away.
Three.
Two.
One.
His hand spasmed as it closed around the metal, pain flaring hot through his wrist. His grip slipped. He cursed silently and tightened it, twisting hard.
The latch resisted.
The door creaked.
The sound ripped through the room.
Buck shoved himself forward with everything he had left, shoulder slamming into the door as it gave way. He stumbled through the opening, barely managing to turn and slam it shut behind him with shaking hands.
The impact jarred his arms, sending fresh pain screaming through his shoulders.
He didn’t stop.
He launched himself into the next corridor, stumbling blindly into the darkness beyond, lungs burning, legs threatening to fold beneath him.
Behind him, the door rattled once. Just once.
And Doug laughed softly.
Buck ran.
Or tried to. It was less a sprint than a broken, uneven lurch forward, his body jerking with each painful impact. His stride was off, balance shredded, but both legs moved. Not well, not smoothly, but they carried him.
And that was enough for him.
His boots thudded against the concrete in a frantic, stumbling rhythm. Every few steps he careened sideways, shoulder or hand against the wall to keep himself upright.
Pain screamed. But fear screamed louder.
Behind him, through the door he’d slammed, a soft creak echoed. The kind that made your blood run cold.
Buck didn’t look back. He didn’t have time. Distance was the only thing he had. Distance and time, and both were slipping through his fingers fast.
He staggered down the next hallway, lights overhead buzzing and flickering like they might give up at any second. Shadows jumped along the walls, stretching and snapping back with his movement.
Behind him, a door clicked open. Not slammed. Not kicked. Opened. Doug wasn’t sprinting. He didn’t need to.
The realization hit Buck all at once, cold and suffocating. Doug was letting him run. Letting him burn himself out. Letting him believe, just for a few seconds longer, that escape was possible.
Terror flooded him so fast his breath hitched painfully, ribs flaring in protest.
He ran harder. The hallway ended abruptly and Buck shoved through the next door with both hands, momentum nearly carrying him straight to the floor.
A stairwell.
Concrete walls. Metal railings. A narrow vertical stretch disappearing upward.
Relief cracked through him so hard he almost sobbed.
Up.
Outside was up.
He grabbed the railing, fingers slipping on metal slick with his own blood, and hauled himself upward. His legs trembled violently beneath him, muscles screaming but they held.
One step. Another. A third.
Behind him, the stairwell door opened. His heart plummeted. He begged his legs to move faster. And somehow, they did. Not gracefully, but more like he was dragging himself with the railing, boots scraping and slipping on each step, body pitching forward with reckless urgency. His breathing tore out of him in harsh, broken sounds he couldn’t control anymore.
He reached the landing, turned the corner and saw it.
The exit door.
A metal push bar. A narrow window. The faint grey-blue of dawn bleeding into the sky outside.
Freedom.
So close it hurt.
Buck stumbled toward it, chest heaving, tears burning hot behind his eyes. He slammed both hands onto the bar and shoved.
The door resisted. Heavy and stiff. Rust groaned in protest, but it moved.
An inch.
Another.
Cold air spilled through the gap, sharp and clean, kissing his face like a promise.
Buck made a broken, desperate sound and shoved again, teeth clenched hard enough to ache. His ribs screamed, his arms shook violently. The door opened a little more.
He could taste freedom.
Right there.
Doug’s voice rose behind him, calm and close and impossibly steady.
“You really shouldn't have done that, Evan.”
Buck’s entire body went rigid. His hands kept shoving against the door on pure reflex, but the strength drained out of his arms all at once. It felt like someone had reached inside him and pulled out a plug, letting all the adrenaline spill out in a sudden, nauseating rush. His muscles went hollow. Weak. Useless.
His breathing stuttered, caught, then scraped painfully through his chest in shallow, panicked pulls. Each breath burned. Each one felt smaller than the last.
The pressure of Doug’s presence filled the stairwell like rising water pressing in from all sides.
Buck shoved at the door again, weak and frantic, but the door barely budged. His arms trembled violently, fear overtaking exhaustion now, his legs shaking so badly he wasn’t sure they could keep him upright another second.
Too slow.
Too late.
Doug moved.
There was no warning, and no sound. Or at least, Buck didn’t hear any. One moment he was braced against the door, the next a fist clenched in the back of his shirt and yanked.
Hard.
His feet lifted clean off the stairwell floor. For a split second, all he was, was airborne, legs kicking, air punched from his lungs, before gravity and Doug’s strength tore him backward.
His feet left the stairwell floor entirely. For a split second, he was weightless, legs kicking uselessly, a startled, broken sound tearing out of his throat as air was punched from his lungs. Then gravity snapped back in, Doug’s strength tore him away from the door like he’d never touched it at all.
Buck’s hand slipped off the push bar, palms scraping painfully across the metal. Skin split. Fire flared. The exit door slammed shut in front of him with a hollow clang.
Daylight vanished like it had never been there.
Doug dragged him backward in one brutal, decisive motion. Buck hit the landing hard, his knees slamming into concrete with a sickening crack that sent a sharp, electric pain shooting up his legs.
He barely had time to gasp before Doug hauled him again. The motion was violent, uncontrolled. Buck was yanked fully off the landing and into the stairwell shadows below. His boots scraped and screeched against the steps as he tumbled down the first two, catching himself on his elbows with a painful, breathless grunt. Pain detonated through his arms, his ribs, his shoulders.
He tried to scramble upright, and tried to twist. Tried to do anything.
Doug didn’t allow it. Another vicious pull slammed Buck flat onto the next step, the impact jarring his teeth together hard enough to make his skull ring.
“– Stop!” Buck gasped, the word breaking apart as it left him.
Doug didn’t stop.
He dragged him down the remaining steps like he weighed nothing, each jolt sending a shockwave of pain through his already battered body. His head bounced once. His hip struck concrete. His breath tore in and out of him in helpless, ragged sounds he couldn’t control.
When they reached the bottom, Doug planted a knee between Buck’s shoulder blades and pressed down, hard.
The air crushed out of Buck’s lungs in a strangled wheeze as his chest was forced flat against the concrete. His arms splayed uselessly, fingers clawing weakly at the floor. Pain flared everywhere at once until it blurred into something overwhelming and bright.
Doug’s weight didn’t shift. Didn’t waver.
He held Buck there with terrifying ease.
“You should have stayed where I left you,” Doug said, voice cold and close to Buck’s ear. There was no heat in it. No anger. Just cold certainty. “But stubbornness runs in your family, doesn’t it?”
Doug exhaled softly, like he was thinking something over. “Just like Maddie,” he continued. “She fought every step, too. Every rule. Every correction.” A pause. “Until she understood what happens when you push me.”
The words slid down Buck’s spine like ice. His breath hitched sharply, chest trembling beneath Doug’s knee. The concrete scraped painfully against his cheek as he tried, instinctively, to turn his head away, to create even an inch of space.
Doug didn’t let him move.
“You’re a runner, Evan Buckley.” he said. “You don’t fight head-on. You don’t freeze. You bolt. Every time.”
Buck shook his head weakly, panic flooding his chest. “Doug, please, I can’t–”
The pressure between Buck’s shoulder blades increased just enough to steal the breath from his lungs again, pinning him flat. Then he shifted. Not much. Not fast. Just enough to make Buck’s stomach drop.
“I don’t need to break your hands,” he went on calmly. “You need those. I just need to make sure you don’t forget what happens when you try to leave. I need you here Evan, until Maddie comes back to me.”
A hand slid down his back, fingers trailing with clinical precision. Not comforting, not searching, simply mapping him, studying him. Assessing the muscles locked up under his touch, the way his breath stuttered, the involuntary tremor that ran through his legs.
“No…no,” Buck gasped, the words tumbling over each other, voice cracking. “I swear, I won’t run again, I won’t. Please, Doug. You don’t need to– I’ll stay, I’ll–”
His fingers curled around the back of Buck’s knee first and applied light pressure, testing the joint, gauging resistance. Buck flinched hard, breath catching in a sharp, panicked gasp. Doug followed the reaction without comment, sliding his hand down to his calf.
“Evan,” he said, mildly reproachful, “interrupting me isn’t helping your case.”
Then his grip closed fully around Buck’s lower leg. The warmth of it was wrong. Intimate in a way that made Buck’s skin crawl. Doug’s fingers tightened just enough to be unmistakable. Then his hand moved again. Closed around Buck’s right ankle.
“You see,” he continued evenly, voice steady as Buck shook beneath him, “pain teaches better than fear. Fear fades. Pain stays. And I need you to remember this every time you think about leaving.”
Buck sobbed once, “...please.”
“I’m not doing this because I’m angry.” Doug added. “I’m doing this so you don’t make the same mistake again.”
A helpless sound tore out of his throat before he could stop it, something broken and terrified. He twisted instinctively, trying to yank his foot away, but Doug’s grip didn’t shift. Didn’t even strain. His fingers dug in, firm and unyielding, anchoring him exactly where he wanted him.
“Don’t,” Doug said, as Buck struggled. “You’re going to make this worse if you don’t stop moving, Evan.”
Doug adjusted his hold, he slid Buck’s leg straighter along the floor, forcing the joint into alignment with slow, careful pressure. His thumb pressed into the soft place at the inside of Buck’s ankle, right where the tendon stood out beneath thin, vulnerable skin.
Buck froze, not because he wanted to, but because his body knew when it had reached the end of its options. His heart hammered so fast it hurt, each beat a sharp thud against bruised ribs. His breath trembled out of him in rapid, uneven gasps, throat tight, lungs burning.
His body recognized the threat before his brain did.
Doug leaned closer, breath brushing the back of Buck’s calf. “Just so you know,” he murmured, almost gently, “you brought this on yourself.”
Buck’s heart slammed against his ribs. “No, Doug, please don’t–”
Doug didn’t answer. Instead, his free hand moved. Slowly. He slid it into his pocket with the calm, almost absentminded precision of a man reaching for a pen. Buck heard the soft rasp of fabric, the quiet shift of movement far too deliberate to be accidental. Then Doug held it up where Buck could see.
“Look.”
He didn’t want to. Every instinct screamed at him to squeeze his eyes shut, to disappear into the concrete beneath his cheek, but fear pried his eyelids open anyway.
Doug’s hand rotated slightly, showing him the small, compact shape resting in his palm. A small folding blade. Doug tilted it so the dim stairwell light flashed along the metal, making the edge gleam cold and deadly.
Buck sucked in a sharp, panicked breath, “You don’t have to do this,” he choked. “Doug, please–”
Doug didn’t blink. Didn’t soften either. He let Buck look at it. Really look. Long enough for the terror to settle under his skin like poison. Then, with a calm flick of his wrist…
Click.
The sound snapped through the stairwell like a gunshot. Buck jerked violently, a strangled cry ripping out of him before he could stop it, his body convulsing instinctively beneath Doug’s weight.
“This is your reminder,” Doug said. “that running isn’t an option.”
He angled the blade downward. Buck felt the air shift, cold and precise against the back of his ankle.
“Doug– stop– STOP– please,” Buck sobbed, words tumbling over each other, desperate and broken. “I’m sorry– okay, I won’t run again…I swear– I swear–”
Doug’s voice remained terrifyingly calm. “Sorry, I can’t take that risk,” he replied. “Your sister ran from me. You almost did too. I can’t let you leave before I get her back.”
Doug lowered the blade until the cold metal kissed Buck’s skin. Buck froze completely, breath locked in his chest, every muscle screaming as terror drowned out pain. “Hold still,” he said, almost patient. “this will be over quickly.”
And then Doug brought the blade to his tendon.
A tearing, blinding shock that ripped through the back of Buck’s leg and detonated upward, stealing sound from his throat and the air from his lungs. He screamed, a raw, instinctive, broken sound, and his body convulsed beneath Doug’s weight. His fingers clawed uselessly at the concrete, his vision went white around the edges. His breath shattered into sobs he couldn’t control.
Doug didn’t give him a second. Not one. While his body still spasmed uncontrollably, while the shock still hadn’t settled, Doug released his ankle and reached higher, fingers brushing Buck’s trembling calf with clinical detachment.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he murmured, tilting his head. “I’m a cardiothoracic surgeon.”
A faint, almost amused exhale. “Not an orthopedic one.” His fingers lingered, assessing, as if inspecting his own work.
“I may have made a small… miscalculation.” Doug continued, tone drifting into something darker. “But don’t worry,” he whispered, fingers brushing Buck’s trembling calf as if checking his own handiwork. “You won’t need that ankle anytime soon.”
Without a warning, Doug twisted Buck’s torso sharply and rolled him onto his back. The movement tore through his injured leg like lightning. Buck gasped, the sound jagged and thin, pain flaring so bright it erased everything else for a split second. His body arched reflexively, vision blowing out into white static as Doug grabbed a fistful of his shirt at the collar and hauled him backward in one brutal motion.
Buck’s shoulder lifted off the ground. His head knocked against the concrete, once, then again, the impacts dull and distant compared to the agony screaming through his leg. Each uneven pull dragged him farther from the stairwell, farther from light. Farther from freedom.
His right ankle followed behind him, exposed and defenseless, leaving a streak of smeared, wet red across the floor. Buck saw the trail he was leaving without quite understanding it, dark streaks against pale concrete, a blurred line that seemed unreal, like it belonged to someone else. The sight punched panic into his chest so violently his throat closed around it.
“Doug…stop…” His plea shattered into another scream as another jolt of movement sent shockwaves ripping up his leg. His hands clawed weakly at the floor, fingers skidding uselessly, his whole body shaking.
Doug didn’t slow.
“Like I said before,” he said calmly, breath even, unbothered. “You brought this on yourself.”
Another pull.
“Running was a choice,” Doug’s voice stayed steady, conversational. “Now you’re living with the consequences.”
The words slip past Buck without landing properly.
The sound started to warp. Doug’s voice felt too far away, stretched thin, like it was echoing down a tunnel. The hallway elongated, lights smearing into indistinct bands of brightness. Buck’s crying sounded wrong to his own years, distant and disconnected, like it wasn’t coming from him at all.
His mind began to slip. Not all at once. Just…sideways.
He was aware of pain, but it no longer had edges. It was everywhere and nowhere, a roaring background sensation that his brain could no longer process piece by piece. His thoughts came apart, fragments drifting without order.
Doug dropped him only when they reached the room he was kept before again. He hit the ground on his side, the impact knocking what little air he had left from his lungs. He curled instinctively, hands trembling as he tried to pull his injured leg inward, protect it, make it smaller.
It didn’t work.
A hand clamped onto his shoulder and shoved him flat. Buck tried to twist away but his body lagged behind his command. He was grabbed by the arm and hauled upright. The sudden movement made his vision swim again. The room tilted, spun, then fractured.
The rope hanging from the ceiling swam into view. The same rope that had held him before, the same rough fibers still stained with his own dried blood.
Something inside Buck recoiled, a delayed, muted horror, but it couldn’t fully surface. His mind was already retreating, slipping away from the reality his body was still trapped in.
Doug worked efficiently.
Buck registered pieces of it out of sequence, pressure at his wrists, the pull of the rope, the way his shoulders screamed again as gravity reclaimed him. The sensation of being lifted came dulled, distant, like it was happening to someone a few feet to his left.
By the time Doug stepped back, Buck was barely present enough to understand that he was no longer on the floor.
He hung.
Doug regarded him from a moment, head tilted, assessing his work like a craftsman considering a finished piece. He nodded once, satisfied.
“You should rest,” he said mildly. “Fun’s not over yet.”
The words didn’t land. They slid off Buck’s consciousness without sticking.
The light clicked off.
The door shut.
And in the sudden darkness, Buck’s mind finally let go.
The pain didn’t stop, but it drifted farther away, wrapped in cotton and distance and static, until it felt unreal, until he felt unreal.
Doug had told himself that for months, the thought looping endlessly until it stopped feeling like an opinion and settled into something closer to a fact. She hadn’t left because of him, not really. She’d left because she was scared. Scared people did irrational things. They panicked. They listened to the wrong voices. They mistook discomfort for danger and freedom for safety.
Doug had understood that from the beginning and he hadn’t chased her. He’d followed her. There was a difference.
A husband followed. A husband made sure his wife was safe. A husband cleaned up the mess when emotions got out of control. He hadn’t been angry when she disappeared. Worried, yes. Frustrated but mostly determined.
Maddie needed help. She’d always needed help. She’d been clever about it, he’d give her that. She’d disappeared cleanly. No forwarding address, no credit trail, no notes, no explanations. She knew what he was good at. She knew exactly how easily he could find her if she wasn’t careful.
But she had never been good at keeping everything to herself. She needed reassurance. Validation. Someone to tell her she was doing the right thing. She always told someone.
Laurie Hathaway.
ED Nurse Manager.
Doug remembered her name clearly. The woman with the calm voice and the careful eyes. The one who spoke in soft tones about “autonomy” and “independence” and “boundaries”, as if Maddie were a child learning to walk instead of a wife who simply needed steadiness.
Doug never liked her. Laurie treated Maddie like she was fragile, breakable. But Doug knew Maddie better than anyone. She wasn’t fragile. She was…emotional. And there was a difference.
And Maddie has trusted her. Confided in her. Let her speak into decisions that weren’t hers to make. Doug knew how Maddie was, she needed someone calm when her emotions started spiraling. Someone authoritative. Someone who sounded like they knew better. Laurie fit that role perfectly.
So Doug dressed carefully. Neatly. The way Maddie liked it. The way people expected a worried husband to look. He rehearsed the right expressions in his head as he drove– concert, confusion, restraint. He didn’t rehearse anger. Anger made people defensive. Concern made them talk.
When Doug stepped into the staff lounge, Laurie froze mid-sentence, coffee hovered halfway to her lips. Her eyes widened just enough to be noticeable before she caught herself. Then came the smile. Tight and professional. The kind people used when they didn’t like someone but couldn’t afford to show it.
“Doug,” she said carefully.
He smiled back. Gentle. Tired. The smile of a man who hadn’t slept enough, who’d been carrying worry longer than was healthy. He let his shoulders sag just slightly, like the weight of it all had finally caught up to him.
“Do you know where she is?” He asked softly. Not accusing. Not demanding. Just concerned.
Laurie’s jaw tightened as she set her coffee down with deliberate care, like she needed both hands free. Like she was grounding herself.
“I’m not doing this with you,” she said quietly. “You need to leave.”
He let the words sit between them, then stepped closer, not invading her space, not yet, just enough to lower his voice further. As if he didn’t want anyone else to overhear. As if this was private. Respectful.
“You know where she is,” he said. “She trusted you.” He softened the words, slowed them down. “She told you things she couldn’t tell me.”
That landed. He saw it in the way Laurie’s shoulders tensed.
“And you told her to leave me,” Doug went on gently. Not accusing, just observing. “You framed it as concern. Safety. Independence.” A small, sad smile. “And she listened to you.”
Laurie’s eyes flashed with something– fear, anger, guilt. Doug didn’t bother naming which was which. Any reaction at all was confirmation.
“Because now she’s nowhere to be found.” Doug finished.
“You need to leave,” Laurie said again, sharper this time. Louder.
Doug sighed softly, like this hurt him.
“She can’t just disappear,” he said. “Maddie isn’t capable of that.”
Doug already knew Maddie tried to leave one. Three years ago. She’d never said it to him directly, of course. Maddie had always been careful about that. But she talked when she was anxious. When she needed reassurance. When she wanted someone to tell her she wasn’t imagining things.
She said it at work. Doug hadn’t been standing there when she said it. Different department, different floor– but hospitals were porous places. Voices carried. Stories leaked. Patients listened. One of them had repeated it later. A man Doug had treated, chatty, bored, eager to share something he’d overheard between nurses like it was harmless gossip.
I think Doug made it pretty clear what would happen if I left.
Doug remembered exactly where he’d been when he heard it. The antiseptic sitting in the air. The low hum of fluorescent lights. The way the sentence had landed in his chest and settled there. Not anger. Bur relief. That meant she’d understood.
He hadn’t wanted to hurt her. Not really. He’d wanted to be clear. Maddie had a tendency to spiral, to confuse fear with intuition, emotion with truth. She needed firm boundaries. Consequences that couldn’t be misinterpreted.
That line told him he’d succeeded.
“Someone helped her,” Doug continued. “Someone hid her. Someone lied to me.” He paused, then added quietly: “or is lying to me.”
He tilted his head just slightly, studying her face the way one might watch a crack forming in glass.
“You wouldn’t do that,” he said. “Not to Maddie.” His smile returned. It was small and reassuring. “And not to me.”
The words weren’t a question. They were an invitation, to agree, to correct the situation, to make this easy. “You wouldn’t lie to me,” he finished softly. “Right, Laurie?”
“I’m calling security,” Laurie said, reaching for her phone.
Doug moved before the thought finished forming. His hands closed around her wrist, not hard enough to break anything, but firm to stop the motion cold. Laurie gasped as the phone slipped from her fingers and clattered uselessly to the floor.
Doug didn’t raise his voice. “Tell me where she is,” Doug murmured, leaning in, close enough that this stayed contained. Private. “Please. Don’t make this harder for Maddie.”
Laurie yanked against his grip. “I’m not telling you,” she hissed.
Doug felt his patience thin. He adjusted his hold, twisting her wrist a fraction more. Just enough to make her knees dip, breath stutter, reality settle in. He wasn’t trying to injure her. He just needed her to understand.
“Maddie left because she’s emotional,” he said calmly, almost soothingly. “She panicked. You encouraged her to make an impulsive decision.”
Laurie sucked in a sharp breath.
“And now,” Doug continued evenly, “she’s all alone.”
“She’s not alone,” Laurie snapped.
The words landed with surprising force. Doug went very still. Not because he was shocked. Not because he was angry. Because something had just aligned.
His grip didn’t tighten. His fingers didn’t loosen either. He simply…paused, as though listening for the echo of the sentence inside his own head. His expression remained calm, attentive, almost curious.
Not alone.
For a brief moment, Doug replayed the facts as he understood them. Maddie had no address, no money trail, no car, no family nearby willing to hide her. She wasn’t resourceful. She wasn’t independent.
So if she wasn’t alone, then someone was with her. Someone had taken her in. Someone had decided they knew better than him. Someone had given her safety he hadn’t authorized.
Doug felt a quiet, internal shift. Not rage. Not panic.
Understanding.
That was the missing piece, of course.
His gaze lifted slowly from Laurie’s face, unfocused now, as if she’d already stopped being relevant. His mind moved past her, past the room, past the hospital entirely.
Maddie didn’t run away.
She ran to someone.
Doug’s fingers loosened at last, releasing Laurie’s wrist without ceremony. Her arm dropped back to her side, breath coming fast, but he barely noticed. She had served her purpose.
“Not alone,” Doug repeated softly, more to himself than to her.
It explained everything, the confidence it took to disappear, the clean break, the silence. Maddie didn’t have that kind of strength on her own. Hadn’t for a very long time.
Someone had lent it to her.
Doug looked back at Laurie then, really looked at her, eyes sharp and assessing.
“Who?” he asked quietly.
Not where, not how. Who. Because whoever it was had crossed a line. And Doug already knew what he did with people who interfered with his marriage.
Laurie tried to pull away, her breath coming short and uneven now. Her voice trembled with barely-contained fear. “She didn’t tell me,”
She was lying.
Doug didn’t doubt it for a second. He recognized lying the way other people recognized accents. He’d heard it every day, from patients minimizing pain, from families omitting details, from people who thought fear could be disguised as composure. From half the people he’d dealt with in this hospital.
From Maddie. Her tone had the same strain. The same forced steadiness. The same need to control the narrative.
Doug leaned in closer, lowering his voice until it was almost intimate. “Last chance,” he whispered. “Or this won’t end nicely.”
He wasn’t threatening her. He was warning her.
“If you don’t tell me,” Doug continued gently. “I’ll have to assume you don’t care what happens next.”
Laurie’s face was drained of color. Her lips parted, breath hitching, and for a split second, Doug thought she might finally do the sensible thing.
But heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway before she could. He didn’t need to look to know what they were.
Security.
“Sir,” One of the guards said sharply, stepping in. “Step away from her.”
Doug straightened slowly. He lifted his hands, palms open, movement deliberate and nonthreatening. His voice, when he spoke, was calm. Even. Reasonable. “This is a misunderstanding,” he said calmly, voice perfectly composed. “I’m just trying to locate my wife.”
“Step. Away.” The guard’s tone left no room for negotiation.
Doug assessed them, two men, tense, already convinced they understood the situation. He could see it in their posture. Their eyes. They weren’t interested in explanations.
Fine.
Doug stepped back, then back again, then walked out of the room entirely.
He didn’t run. Doug never ran. Running was what people did when they were guilty. When they were panicking. And Doug was not a panicking man. He never panicked.
He simply removed himself from the people who couldn’t understand him.
The hospital asked him to take “some personal time”. A “cooling-off period.” Words meant to sound neutral, professional, fair.
A suspension, dressed up as concern. They treated him like he was the problem. Just like Laurie had. Just like Maddie had.
Doug didn’t internalize that. He understood ir. People always blamed the one who insisted on order. On clarity. On accountability.
But he wasn’t the problem. He was the solution. And now, finally, he knew enough to act.
Maddie wasn’t alone. And he knew who she was with.
The realization didn’t arrive in a rush. It settled slowly, neatly, clicking into place with the quiet satisfaction of a solved problem. Doug felt the last of the uncertainty drain away as the thought rooted itself, solid and immovable.
Someone had taken her in. Given her a couch, a spare room, reassurance wrapped in soft voices and familiar routines. Someone had told her she was right to leave. Right to be afraid. Someone had made her believe she could disappear without consequences.
He didn’t bother running through possibilities. There was no list to check. No mental roulette of names. That kind of guessing was for people who didn’t understand Maddie. And Doug understood her.
He understood patterns. Dynamics. Dependency. He didn’t need proof. He didn’t need confirmation from Laurie or paperwork or an address. This was instinct sharpened by observation.
Maddie hadn’t just ran away. She had run to the one person who would never question her version of events. The one person who would wrap her fear in validation and call it safety. The one person who wouldn’t challenge her emotions, wouldn’t push back. Wouldn’t insist she face consequences.
Evan Buckley.
Doug almost smiled at the inevitability of it. They clung to each other the way frightened children did. It was predictable. Obvious. And inconvenient.
She should have turned to Doug.
She should have come home to Doug.
Instead, Evan had gotten to her first.
Doug felt something cold and precise settle behind his ribs. Not anger, not jealousy. But focus and clarity. The kind that only came once the real problem revealed itself.
Evan Buckley wasn’t just a shelter. He was an interference.
And interference could be removed.
Doug balanced his laptop on his knees, the pale glow of the screen lighting the inside of the dark rental car in stark, clinical white. The parking lot around him was quiet, the hour late enough that no one paid attention to a man sitting alone in a car.
He hadn’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours, but he didn’t feel tired. He felt focused.
Fatigue was for people who didn’t know what they were doing. Doug knew exactly what he was doing. He was narrowing the field. Removing nuisance.
Maddie had disappeared without a trace. But she had weaknesses. She had only ever trusted one person with her whole heart.
Her brother.
Doug typed the name into the search bar without any fanfare, expecting very little.
EVAN BUCKLEY
He didn’t expect much. Most people didn’t leave much of themselves behind online. A social media account, maybe. A few tagged photos. Nothing useful.
He hit enter and the browser populated instantly. Dozens of results. Headlines, mentions, images. Doug’s attention sharpened. He skimmed quickly, dismissing the irrelevant, until one result stopped him cold– not because it surprised him, but because it fit.
A news thumbnail from last year, showing a rollercoaster stuck upside down, emergency lights flashing in the background, and beside it, the headline: “Tragic Accident at an Amusement Park - Firefighter Evan Buckley speaks out.”
Doug frowned slightly and clicked.
The video buffered briefly before freezing on the image of a tall man with a rigid posture and a trembling jaw, eyes shadowed and haunted. A birthmark near his left eye, unmistakable even through the grain.
Evan.
Doug studied the face longer than necessary. Not with curiosity, but with assessment.
In the background, partially out of focus, sat a fire engine. The number painted on its side was clear enough.
118.
Doug leaned forward, interest sharpening into something like satisfaction
“Well,” he murmured quietly. “That is helpful.”
Numbers were traceable.
Departments were traceable.
Firehouses were public.
He opened a new tab and typed: FIREHOUSE 118.
Results popped up instantly.
Los Angeles.
Station 118.
Articles.
Public interviews.
Doug’s pulse didn’t rise, but a sense of clarity washed over him. There it was.
A location.
He hadn’t been sure he’d find anything. He certainly hadn’t expected this.
Doug closed the laptop with a quiet finality. He was going to Los Angeles.
Los Angeles was loud.
Crowded.
Chaotic.
Doug didn’t like it. Too much movement. Too many variables. Too many places for mistakes to hide.
But Maddie was here, so he adapted.
He parked the rental car a bloc from Station 118, far enough not to draw attention, close enough to observe. The sun was sinking low enough, spilling long shadows across the pavement. He sat quietly, engine off, hands loose on the steering wheel, and watched firefighters filter come and go of the building, laughing, talking, unaware that someone was studying them.
He wasn’t interested in them.
He only needed one.
And right on cue, Evan Buckley stepped out of the firehouse doors. Doug noted the time without checking his watch.
End of shift, then.
Evan wasn’t in uniform, just a T-shirt clinging to a sweat-damp chest, duffel slung casually over one shoulder. He looked relaxed, comfortable. Like a man finishing a normal day of work.
Doug watched closely. Evan checked his phone. Smiled at something on the screen. Slowed to talk to another firefighter on his way. He crossed the street with that easy, unguarded confidence, like someone who believed the world around him was safe. Protected. Familiar. Like someone who’d never learned to look over his shoulder.
Doug’s gaze followed Evan until he reached a car parked two rows down. At first, it barely registered. Just another vehicle in a city full of them. His attention tracked Evan more than the object of his destination, the loose roll of his shoulders, the unhurried pace, the absence of caution. Then he slowed and turned slightly.
Doug’s focus snapped sharp.
A Jeep Wrangler.
Doug went very still.
The exact model and the exact color.
The recognition didn’t arrive all at once. It crept in, detail by detail. The shape of the hood, the angle of the headlights, the particular shade that caught the dying sunlight. Familiar in a way that tightened something unpleasant in his chest.
Maddie’s Jeep.
The one she’d told him she had totaled years ago. The one she’d cried over, hands shaking, voice breaking as she explained the accident, the damage, the tow, the insurance headache. Doug remembered standing there, listening, swallowing down his irritation. Remembered the anger he hadn’t let himself show. The disappointment, the frustration at how careless she’d been, how emotional, how easily overwhelmed by her own mistakes she had been.
He had believed her.
But Maddie hadn’t crashed it. She hadn’t lost control. She hadn’t panicked. She hadn’t been careless. She had chosen to give it away. She handed it over deliberately, quietly, to the one person she trusted more than her own husband.
Doug felt the weight of that choice settle in his chest, heavy and unmistakable. Maddie had been hiding things from him longer than he thought. It wasn’t even a desperate one. It was practiced. Evan hadn’t just helped her now. He’d been part of her escape long before Doug even realized she was planning one.
Doug’s fingers curled slowly against his thigh as he watched Evan unlock the driver’s door and toss his duffel inside without a second thought. Casual and familiar, like the vehicle belonged to him.
He watched the Jeep pull away, taillights dissolving into the flow of traffic. He didn’t move right away. He waited three seconds. It was enough time for the gap to look natural. Enough to keep Evan from registering another car behind him as anything more than coincidence.
Evan drove like someone who knew exactly where he was going. Confident, unhurried. He navigated through traffic with practiced ease, changing lanes without hesitation, slipping through intersections like this was muscle memory rather than conscious decision making.
Doug stayed three cars back, sometimes four, adjusting smoothly when traffic shifted. He let other vehicles slide between them when necessary, let red lights stretch the distance without pushing it. Far enough not to raise suspicion, close enough not to lose him.
As they moved deeper into the neighborhood, the streets narrowed, noise softening, the chaos of the city thinning into something quieter and more residential. Doug slowed further, letting Evan pull ahead just enough that the Jeep no longer felt connected to him at all.
When Evan finally turned and rolled into a parking space near a courtyard complex, Doug slowed but didn’t stop. He followed just far enough to look natural, then pulled into a spot a short distance away, close enough to keep Evan in sight, far enough that it wouldn’t register as attention. Another car among many. Nothing memorable.
Doug cut the engine and stayed where he was.
Doug watched as Evan crossed the street and disappeared beneath the lantern glow, reaching out to pull open a heavy wooden door like it belonged to him. For a brief second, warm light spilled outward, soft and golden, carrying the impression of plants, tiled walkways, something domestic and enclosed. A private interior, carefully hidden from the street.
Then the door swung shut.
Doug’s line of sight went dark, replaced by carved wood and iron hardware that offered nothing back. No glass panel. No silver of visibility. No accidental reflection.
He exhaled slowly and through his nose.
Of all places Evan could have chosen to live, he’d picked something that sealed itself off like a fortress. No exposed courtyard. No open sightlines into the walkways or windows. No easy way to observe who came and went without committing to being seen.
Privacy, by design.
Doug leaned back in the driver’s seat, jaw tightening as he adjusted his posture. Irritation flickered, not because the wooden door blocked him, but because Evan had chosen well.
Doug checked the mirrors out of habit, then let his gaze roam the street slowly. He noted the neighboring buildings, the angles between them, the shadows cast by overhangs and trees. Which windows faced the courtyard walls. Which ones didn’t. The rhythm of passing cars. The occasional pedestrian.
The environment began to assemble itself in his mind. No line of sight didn’t mean no access. It just meant patience. Doug settled deeper into the seat, hands resting loosely on his thighs, eyes never fully leaving the entrance.
Sooner or later, someone would open that door again.
So he waited.
Hours slipped by as he watched the entrance with a stillness most people couldn't sustain. He barely shifted. Didn’t check his phone. Didn’t distract himself with music or movement. His focus stayed anchored to the arched doorway, his attention narrowing until everything else blurred into background noise. The sky shifted from late afternoon warmth to a washed-out dusk, then into full darkness.
The courtyard door never opened.
Doug catalogued the absence the same way he catalogued presence. Every minute that passed without movement became information. Confirmation. Whoever was inside didn’t come and go casually. They were careful. Protective.
The world around him kept moving. Dog walkers passed by, leashes taut, conversations half-heard. Couples headed out to dinner, laughter spilling into the street. Cars rolled past in steady intervals, the distant hum of traffic never fully fading. Life went on around him, unaware that Doug had stopped participating in it entirely.
Nothing came out of that archway.
Eventually, night thinned into the pale hush of early morning, that strange, suspended hour where the city seemed to hold its breath. Streetlights hummed softly. The air cooled. Doug’s eyes never left the door.
At exactly 8:30 a.m, a car pulled up to the curb directly in front of the courtyard.
Doug straightened imperceptibly.
A man stepped out of the driver’s side. Doug took him in at once, posture, build, the easy familiarity with the space. Not cautious. Not hurried. Someone who belonged here, or believed he did.
The man walked up to the wooden door and pressed a button Doug hadn’t noticed before. Intercom. Doug’s gaze sharpened. Set into the stone beside the doorframe was a small panel, subtle, well-placed, with a tiny built-in camera. The man leaned in slightly and waved at it, casual, almost playful, like this was routine.
The man waited.
One minute.
Two.
Doug counted the seconds without meaning to.
Then the heavy wooden door swung open.
And Maddie stepped out.
She looked smaller than he remembered. Wrapped in a cardigan that hung loosely on her shoulders, her hair was neatly done, not hurried or careless, pulled back with intention. Clean clothes. Comfortable shoes. She smiled at the man. Not a polite smile. Not a forced one either. Not the brittle, thin-lipped she used to give him in Boston when she was exhausted or overwhelmed. That smile was a real smile, gentle and warm, softening all the lines of her pretty face.
That was the part that hit him the hardest.
Doug had memorized every version of Maddie’s expression over the years: the frustrated tilt of her eyebrows, the tight little grimace when she tried to hide nerves, the hesitant smile she learned to shape around him.
But this smile, this contentment, this ease…
He hadn’t seen that in years.
Not since early in their relationship. Not since she’d stopped laughing freely around him. Not since her nights twisted into knots of tension and fear she never fully acknowledged.
And here she was now, stepping into the morning air as if all of that never existed.
And that was the problem.
She stood on the sidewalk beneath the morning, shoulders relaxed, posture easy, no frantic scanning of the street. She adjusted the strap of her bag and glanced back toward the courtyard door once, not nervously, but familiarly. Like someone checking a place she knew she could return to.
Doug’s jaw tightened.
This wasn’t flight.
This was shelter.
The man who’d arrived, the one who’d used the intercom, stepped closer to her now. Doug watched them exchange a few words, too far to hear, but close enough to read body language. Maddie smiled. Not the brittle, placating smile she used to wear. A real one. Brief and unforced.
The man laughed at something she said and Doug felt something shift sharply inside his chest.
They stood too close. Familiar in the way people were when they’d spent time together without tension. The man reached out, adjusted something on Maddie’s sleeve without asking. An easy, unconscious gesture.
Protection.
Doug recognized it immediately.
This wasn’t a stranger helping her out of pity. This was someone who had been vetted. Folded in. Someone Evan trusted enough to bring into the perimeter.
Doug’s gaze drifted back to the courtyard door.
Her brother wasn’t just hiding her. He was building something around her. He had given her options. And options were dangerous.
Doug watched as the man gestured toward his car, opening the passenger door for her. Maddie slid inside without hesitation. No second-guessing. No looking back.
She trusted him.
Doug’s finger curled slowly against his thigh.
So Evan hadn’t just taken her in. He had distributed her safety. Turned her into something that didn’t rely on a single point of control.
That wouldn’t do.
Doug’s gaze returned to the courtyard entrance one last time, lingering there with cold intent.
All because Evan had brought her into this place and given her a life Doug didn’t permit.
His fingers curled slowly around the wheel. That look on her face was supposed to be his doing. It was supposed to be his.
And he would get it back. Soon.
Evan Buckley wasn’t comfort. He was a system. And systems could be dismantled, but only if you removed the central piece.
Doug watched the car pull away, Maddie inside it, unaware she was being watched, unaware that the man who loved her had already been reclassified in Doug’s mind.
Not as family.
Not as shelter.
But as a threat. And threats required decisive action.
Weeks passed, and Doug learned their patterns the way other people learned melodies, slowly at first, then with growing fluency. Repetition turned movement into meaning. Meaning into expectation. Until he could anticipate each beat before it happened, feel the rhythm of their days settle into his bones.
Mornings were the easiest.
Maddie often left early with the same man, Chimney, he eventually heard someone call him. The routine rarely varied. Chimney’s car would pull up to the curb at roughly the same time, engine idling while he pressed the intercom and waited. Always waited. Never honked. Never rushed her.
Doug noted that.
Maddie would emerge a minute or two later, the door closing firmly behind her. Some mornings she smiled, talking as she crossed the sidewalk. Other mornings her shoulders slumped, fatigue evident even from a distance. But she never hesitated. Never scanned the street. Never looked like she was bracing herself for something to go wrong.
Evenings required more attention.
Some nights Maddie came home alone, walking from the direction of the bus stop or stepping out of a rideshare. Other nights both siblings returned together, Evan’s presence unmistakable even before Doug could see his face– the jeep pulling in, the way Maddie’s posture changed when she knew he was there.
And some nights, the Jeep didn’t appear at all.
Those nights made Doug’s jaw tighten as he widened his surveillance radius, circling farther out, scanning side streets until he found it again. Parked at a grocery store. Outside a gym. Near a bar where Evan met friends.
He watched Evan go on runs, noting the routes, the pace, the times he favored. Watched him leave for shifts, duffel over his shoulder, posture loose, confident in the predictability of his world. Watched him speak to neighbors with the easy warmth of someone who belonged, someone rooted, recognized. Someone integrated.
And that was the problem. He wasn’t just sheltering Maddie. He was anchoring her.
Doug understood then why Maddie hadn’t looked afraid. Why she hadn’t rushed. Why she hadn’t come back. Evan had given her a life that functioned without Doug in it. A life with routines. Backup. People who noticed if something went wrong.
Doug sat in his car night after night, memorizing that life until it felt like something he’d once owned himself. And the more he learned, the clearer it became: as long as Evan remained at the center of it, Maddie would never feel cornered enough to return. Which meant Evan wasn’t just a threat. He was the lock. And Doug was already thinking about the key.
Doug studied him the way a surgeon studied a patient before making the first incision. Not with emotion. With assessment.
Evan was strong, visibly so. The kind of strength that came from use, not vanity. He moved easily through the world, careless in the way people became only when they felt protected. Confident in the assumption that tomorrow would look like today. That if something went wrong, someone would notice.
At exactly 7:00 p.m, a familiar car pulled up to the curb outside the courtyard entrance.
Chimney.
Doug’s attention sharpened immediately. He watched Chimney step out, straighten his shirt like he cared how he looked, then walk to the intercom.
A minute later, the heavy wooden door opened. And Maddie stepped out.
Doug’s fingers tightened slowly around the steering wheel.
She was wearing a dress.
Not something thrown on. Not something practical. A choice. Light makeup. Hair styled loosely around her shoulders, intentional without being rigid. She looked…prepared. Like someone who had time to think about what she wanted to wear. Like someone anticipating something good.
The smile that crossed her face when she saw Chimney was unguarded. It bloomed slowly, warm and genuine, not the brittle politeness Doug remembered. Not the placating expression meant to keep peace.
Chimney’s expression softened in response. Doug watched him say something, a quiet comment meant only for her, and Maddie laughed. Not loud. Not forced. A shy, real sound that curled inward.
Doug felt a cold, clean sting settle behind his ribs.
Chim extended his hand and Maddie took it without hesitation.
Doug felt a cold, clean sting behind his ribs.
Chimney opened the passenger door for her. She slid inside smoothly, smoothing her dress as she settled, entirely as ease. Chimney rounded the car, a small, nervous grin on his face, anticipation mirroring hers.
A date.
They were going on a date.
Together.
Doug watched the car pull away, headlights cutting through the street, taillights shrinking until they vanished completely into the city.
He stayed there long after they were gone.
And waited.
Time passed differently. Not as hours to endure, but as space opening up. Doug didn’t watch the clock. He watched the street– the rhythm of passing card thinning, the way porch lights flicked on one by one, the subtle shift as the neighborhood settled into evening.
At 8:30 p.m, headlights appeared at the far end of Grace Avenue. Doug’s pulse didn’t rise, but his attention sharpened.
The Jeep.
It rolled into its familiar spot, engine humming softly before cutting off. The sound lingered in the quiet for a second longer than it should have, then disappeared entirely.
The driver’s door opened, and Evan stepped out. He looked tired. The kind of tiredness that sank into the shoulders and slowed the feet. He rubbed a hand through his hair, posture loose, weighted by the end of a long shift. Doug watched him sling his duffel over one shoulder and walked toward the courtyard entrance with no urgency, no awareness, no idea he was being watched.
The timing couldn’t have been cleaner.
Doug opened the door of the rental and slid out without a sound. He didn’t rush. Didn’t close it too quickly. Every movement was measured and deliberate.
The street lay still around him, a pocket of silence carved out just for Doug. The lamps cast long, empty stretches of shadow across the sidewalk, the kind of darkness most people walked past without noticing. The kind of darkness someone like Doug knew how to use.
He stepped into the shadow and became part of it.
Ahead of him, Evan’s keys jingled softly between his fingers as he walked. A small ordinary sound. A sound of someone relayed enough not to notice how loud it was in the quiet.
Doug followed at a distance that felt almost intimate, counting steps, matching pace, letting Evan lead him exactly where he needed to go.
He watched the sway of Evan’s steps, the subtle imbalance of fatigue pulling at his gait. The small slump of exhaustion in his shoulders, the way his head dipped forward, attention already loosening as the day finally let go of him. The way he didn’t glance left or right. Or back.
He had no idea.
Doug let his eyes sweep the surroundings one final time, slow and methodical. Apartment windows were dark or tightly curtained. No televisions flickering. No silhouettes moving behind glass. The street lay empty– no passing headlights, no doors opening, no dog walkers.
Nothing.
The city had folded in on itself, narrowing until it left a perfect vacuum. A perfect opportunity.
Evan reached for the wooden door and wrapped his hand around the handle without hesitation, keys already slipping into his pocket. Doug watched the casual confidence of the motion.
Doug moved.
Not fast.
Certain.
The door creaked softly as Evan pulled it open, just wide enough to slip through. Warm light spilled out across the tiled entryway, soft and inviting, carrying the faint scent of greenery and stone. Evan stepped inside without a second thought, already angling his body toward the interior of the courtyard.
Evan didn’t look back. He didn’t pause and didn’t check the street behind him. His attention was already drifting toward his apartment, toward routine, toward safety.
The wooden door began to swing shut behind him, slow and heavy on its hinge. Doug slipped forward. One hand caught the edge of the door just before it could close completely, fingers fitting into the narrowing gap with practiced ease. He eased it back open without a sound, timing his movement with the soft echo of Evan’s footsteps ahead.
He stepped inside the courtyard like a shadow sliding into the light.
Evan didn’t notice.
Doug pushed farther into the courtyard, steps soundless against the tile. Evan’s back filled his field of vision now– board, relaxed, radiating exhaustion and the dangerous comfort of someone who believed he was alone.
Doug let the door shut behind them with a gentle, final click.
And just like that, the street disappeared.
And so did Evan’s way out.
He reached the door, breath sharp in his chest. The metal scraped softly as one slid into the lock. He twisted it, shoulder angling toward the door, body leaning into the promise of safety on the other side.
Evan didn’t have time to understand what was happening before Doug caught him, like a hunter claiming a cornered prey.
stormborns
origamiaround
turnnoffyourmind
discoholicmusic
yousharknotpass
baratheonpilled
pixelskylines
