### Chapter 7 **Dahlia** In an instant, the atmosphere shifts. Every gaze in the room pivots toward me, pinning me in a suffocating stillness. A rush of heat floods my cheeks, and my heart pounds hard enough to rattle my bones. The air thickens around me, each breath escaping my lips feels like a thunderclap in the tense silence. One figure steps forward, the harsh overhead light illuminating his features. A sense of familiarity tugs at my memory, but I can't quite place him. The disquieting sensation sends my stomach plummeting as a visceral dread washes over me. “Help me.” The raspy plea escapes the lips of the man crumpled on the ground, the words fragile and broken, slicing through the air like a razor. He curls on his side, reaching out with one arm as if I'm his last chance at salvation. Every instinct within me screams to rush to his side, to pull him to safety, but the men enclosing him are armed, their dangerous presence looming large. I am utterly defenseless. Any step I take toward him could mean our instant demise. My only shot at survival lies in fleeing, making it out alive, compelled to scream for help. My nails dig into my palms, reminding me that my first priority must be to survive. The muffled sound of a gunshot punctuates the night, its echo reverberating in my chest like a death knell. The man on the ground jolts, a shuddering gasp escaping him before he goes lifeless. For a brief, agonizing moment, time freezes as my mind races with shock, narrowing my perception to the crimson liquid pooling beneath him. Reality crashes down like a tidal wave. I just witnessed a murder. My fingers grip my phone, acting on instinct rather than reason. I lift it, capturing a photo of this grotesque scene. Suddenly, all three men freeze, their attention snapping to me like a predator honing in on its prey. “Delete that.” The voice of the man with the familiar face slices through the air, low and menacing. “You have no idea who you’re messing with.” Panic surges through me as I jam my phone into my purse, clutching my only evidence to my chest. That twisted smirk of his—a cruel mixture of confidence and threat—shines as he nods toward me. “Get her.” The air thickens with dread as his cohorts shift forward, closing the space like a tightening noose around my throat. My pulse races, a frantic rhythm that dims my vision to pale edges as I instinctively retreat. “It’ll only get worse for you,” he taunts, his tone languid and chillingly calm. This isn’t mere intimidation; it's a sinister promise. “You run, and I will find you.” It's a certainty that reverberates through my body, hitting me like a punch to the gut. And then I run. The sound of my shoes slapping against the pavement echoes like a death knell. Each ragged breath rips through my throat, sharp and desperate. I can hear their footsteps, heavy and relentless, trailing me like a pack of hungry wolves. I dodge a pile of broken crates, splintered wood grazing my skin, a sharp curse escaping my lips before I can catch it. “Go left!” one of them barks behind me, the urgency in his voice punctuating the chaos, while another shouts, “Cut her off!” The alleyway spits me out onto a side street where a car idles at the curb, its headlights glaring menacingly. But I don’t stop. The driver’s voice pierces through the night, but I’m already past him, sprinting over the slick, rain-soaked pavement. Another turn, another narrow passage between looming buildings. I duck into the shadows, pinning myself against the wall, gasping for breath as my heart pounds wildly. Sweat trickles down my back, and my hair clings to my forehead, a testament to my fear. The thrum of their footsteps swells, then recedes, only to rise again. They are dangerously close. A shadow flits past the opening—one of them, his jacket brushing against the brick with a soft rustle. I clamp a hand over my mouth, forcing my breath steady, willing my heart to slow. He moves on. I linger, counting seconds, battling the rising tide of nausea in my stomach. My hand shakes as I pull my phone from my purse; the screen lights up too brightly in the dark. Lowering my head to shield the light, I dial the emergency number. A click, and a calm voice emerges from the other end. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” I blurt the words out in a rush, urgency fueling each syllable. “I need an ambulance. There’s a man shot in the alley behind the Granville Hotel.” “Ma’am, are you safe? What’s your—” “Just send someone!” I plead urgently before I cut the call, shoving the phone back into my purse. At any moment, they could return, and if they find me here in hiding, I would be the next casualty. A chilling realization sinks in—I have nowhere to turn. No home. No job. No one to reach out to. Pushing away from the wall, I start moving again, quick yet cautious, keeping low as I navigate the shadowy streets. They blur around me, but I cling to the darkness, avoiding every patch of light that could betray my presence. A fleeting thought spirals through my mind—images of the hotel room, the warmth of the bed, and Xander’s protective embrace. In his arms, I felt safe, an anchor in a storm. But retreating back to that feeling would be a death sentence. Ahead, a faint light pierces the darkness. Greyhound. The letters illuminate the night in a soft, inviting glow. Relief washes over me, almost making my legs buckle. I push through the glass doors, the frigid blast of air conditioning washing over me like a lifeline. The tiled floor squeaks beneath my hurried steps, my chest constricting as I approach the ticket counter. A middle-aged woman glances up at me, concern flaring in her eyes as she evaluates the panic etched across my face. “Where are you going?” she asks, her voice laced with maternal worry. “Whatever bus leaves next,” I manage, the words spilling out as I fight to stay composed. “Are you sure, honey? You know there are people you can call. People who can help you.” My heart races as I catch sight of movement through the expansive window—a pair of men scanning the street, searching. My stomach lurches. “I’m sure,” I insist, the sharpness in my tone revealing just how urgent the situation is. Her gaze falls to my purse, clutched tightly against my side, then back to my face. I have nothing but the clothes I wear and the cash I withdrew earlier. It’s scant, but enough to secure my ticket out of here. I place the bills on the counter, my hands shaking so badly that one slips free. The woman swiftly scoops it up and returns it to me, her expression marred with concern. “Be careful,” she warns softly. I fight back tears, biting my lip as I nod, stuffing the ticket into my pocket before making a beeline for the boarding area. My legs feel like lead, each step heavier than the last. The bus is sparsely filled, the lingering scent of diesel and stale fabric enveloping me as I take a seat next to the window, pressing my temple against the cold glass. My heart drums loudly in my ears, a frantic rhythm that matches the whirlwind chaos of recent events. The engine coughs to life, and the bus lurches forward, carrying me away from the hotel, the alley, the men—all of it fading into the rearview mirror as the city slips away behind me. Less than twenty-four hours in this madness, and my life has unraveled into a precarious tapestry of uncertainty. Turning to the woman sitting across the aisle, I ask cautiously, “Where are we headed?” She stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. “Houlton.” A blank expression must cross my face because she quickly adds, “It’s in Maine.” A swell of relief courses through me, loosening the tight grip of anxiety on my shoulders. It’s far. That man from the alley, dressed in his expensive clothes, his confident certainty when he promised he would find me—it had felt like a foreboding storm looming just beyond the horizon. The kind of storm that can only yield destruction. In a sudden fit of precaution, my hand dives into my purse. I retrieve my phone and, using a paperclip, extract the tiny SIM card. This small piece of technology—a seemingly innocuous object—could very well bring forth a torrent of trouble. I slide it into my pocket, affirming my decision that giving in to paranoia is wiser than harboring false safety. As the hum of the road fills the air around me, New York City recedes into the distance. Once, I chased after Bradley, convinced in my heart that our future was intertwined. Now, I watch it all vanish behind me, taking with it every promise he ever made, leaving only shadows in its wake. Resting my forehead against the glass, I exhale, watching my breath fog the surface. Perhaps the woman across from me was right. Perhaps I am unraveling. But maybe, just maybe, the thought of starting over doesn’t seem so bad.