# Chapter One ## SUNNY I should be dead. Yet here I am, perched at the airport gate, anxiously biting at my nails, remnants of his blood still staining the crescents beneath them. A dull ache pulsates at my temples, and my nose throbs, still tender from the impact of his fist the night before. Pulling the hood of my sweatshirt low to obscure the bruises and scrapes decorating my face, I chew on the inside of my cheek, desperately trying to focus. Before me lies both nothing and everything, a paradox of freedom shackled by the weight of my escape. A plan. Gazing out through the vast glass of the airport window, I watch as the sun rises, casting glimmers over the ocean—an expanse I’ve known intimately my entire life. My heart swells with love for my parents, who created a haven for me, a childhood that felt like a dream. I will miss this place. I’ll miss the carefree five-minute stroll to the beach, the feel of sand beneath my feet as I sprint around in a bikini, the joy of nurturing my parents’ garden, and the serenity of painting beneath the towering trees that cradle my childhood home. I’ll miss the sun-kissed, salty skin that feels alive after endless days in the surf. The final call for my flight ricochets through the terminal, sending my heart racing as the weight of it all bears down on me, heavy like an anchor tethering me to the only home I've ever known. But there’s a pull inside—a powerful force urging me to board that plane, dragging me away with an irresistible intensity. I have no choice but to listen. With a deep breath, I hoist my backpack over my shoulder. I stand still for a moment, my heart locked in a furious battle with my mind. Stay or go. The voice overhead calls out one last time, and my eyes are drawn back to the familiar sunrise, the one I shared with my family each morning in our backyard. Tears threaten to spill as the thought sinks in—that I may never return. But even as I walk away, I find comfort knowing that wherever I go, the sun will follow me. Turning my back to the rising light, I surrender to the unseen force pulling me from all I’ve ever known. I walk through the gate, resolutely determined not to look back. ## TYLER Midnight strikes as I lounge alone on my couch, cradling a glass of bourbon in one hand. Just like that, I find myself twenty-nine years old. Memories whirl around me, and suddenly I'm thrust back twenty years in time, to a frigid hospital bed where I lay, wide-eyed, watching the clock chime on my ninth birthday. Confusion gnaws at me—why on earth hadn’t my father been arrested? After all, he was the reason I was there, tethered to a bed by the invisible chains of his violence. Even then, I understood that it would only get worse—like a nightmare from which I couldn’t awaken. Not long after, our family name adorned the walls of the pediatric wing, a mockery of gratitude via a generous donation meant to scrub away every trace of my existence in that sterile room, fighting for a life he had tried to extinguish. I would have welcomed death’s embrace if it weren't for my mother and sister; protecting them became my unyielding duty, defaulted to me. “Save no one, not even yourself,” he spat during each brutal beating. Perhaps it’s the reason he remains the monster he is—because no one tried to save him. In the flicker of innocence, I clung to the hope that somehow, he could change. Naive dreams of a family filled with warmth and love danced in my mind, as I prayed for days when my birthday gifts were not bruises, but real presents wrapped in shiny paper—something I could treasure. But that night, drunk on despair, I realized the bitter truth; it would never change. It still hasn’t. The echoes of despair reverberate through my thoughts as I silently vow to myself: I would rather embrace death than endure another moment of his cruelty. Now, as I navigate my way further into adulthood, the illusion of hope flickers dimly before I extinguish it entirely. The harsh realities of my parents’ flaws have shattered any belief in a god I once held dear. After that night, I stopped believing in my father, too. The desperate optimism I had clung to withered alongside my humanity. I buried the boy I was deep within the earth, and the moment I laid the last shovelful of soil above him, I stopped grieving that version of myself. Lying in that sterile hospital bed, I resolved to transform into the man I needed to be—the kind of man my father had intended. Not prey, but a predator. Without my humanity, he could never hurt me. No one could. Two weeks into my twenty-ninth year, I rub the sleep from my eyes as my sister, Sam, rambles on at a million miles an hour. We aren’t twins in the traditional sense; instead, we’re Irish twins, born less than a year apart—ironically, she’s the elder, despite her more juvenile tendencies. Sprawled across my couch, she plays on her phone, unleashing an unending stream of words loathed with color and crude humor that’s a bit too much for dawn. I run my fingers through my short brown hair, listening half-heartedly while pouring coffee into my mug—a desperate attempt to revitalize myself after a night marked by tossing and turning, shadows of a personal hunt still clinging to me. I had a job to wrap up and three targets left in my sights. One down, three to go. Sam glances up, her emerald eyes narrowing, a perfect contrast to the oceanic hue I inherited from our father. With her hair in vibrant pink pigtails, she embodies a defiance that I admire. In a family that often smothers individuality, she shines like a beacon of hope, a rainbow splashed across a grayscale world. “Anthony should be here soon too. Then we can all walk to work together,” she chirps, her tone brightening a moment before it dives back down. “Have you heard from Cole?” I let out a yawn, rubbing the fatigue from my eyes, “Sam, it’s too early for this.” Grabbing my coffee, I settle onto the couch beside her, surrounded by the familiar comfort of this townhome—all the space I need in a life already devoured by the darkness of my profession. My parents would scoff at my choice of residence, their brilliance screaming for me to occupy the penthouse above our family’s business. But space—my own space—is a necessary luxury in this line of work. This place is a sanctuary, and my friends here are more family to me than blood ever was. “Tyler,” Sam’s voice cuts through the air, drawing my attention. Her gaze pierces into me with a fierceness that demands honesty. “Is everything okay? You look like trash.” “Thanks,” I reply, sarcasm lacing my words. “Seriously. Is it Shelby?” I wish she wouldn’t pry. “Sam, please.” But she persists. “All I’m saying is—” I stand abruptly, cutting her off before she can plunge into that can of worms. “I’m going to get ready.” “Right, right. Just—put a shirt on,” she dismisses with a wave of her hand, but her concern lingers in the air long after I leave the room.