Chapter 4: The Unhinged Moment

Author's Note: sorry for the late update, but I caught a cold in the past few days and am unable to focus on writing from strong headaches. Imagine the cold came to me a few days before my graduation ceremony. However, I worked hard to write up while I was sick. Anyways, listen to Narcissist by Lauren Spencer Smith while reading this chapter.

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Chapter 4: The Unhinged Moment

"Do you remember Leyla, the one who used to live in my neighborhood?"

"Which Leyla?"

"The one with crazy driving."

"Ay! I nearly died when I rode with her once. She nearly crashed into a building while the police were chasing her for speeding!"

I checked my phone. 5:12 PM. The minutes stretched like melted wax, distorting into an endless, meaningless loop. I was bored.

This entire gathering was just noise—gossip wrapped in social media trends, as if nothing in their world existed unless it was posted, liked, and shared. They lived through screens, unable to separate their reality from the curated fragments they displayed online.

"Why was the police chasing her?"

"Why haven't you checked TikTok? I posted the story there."

That was my cue. I slung my bag over my shoulder and stood up.

"Excuse me, I need to leave."

"Why? We haven't even gone to Mio!"

"We need to be five people to order different dishes for content!"

I blinked at them. They weren't even here for the food, just the photos.

"I drove today. My parents worry when I drive at night, so I need to be back before sunset."

A lie. My curfew was 8pm, sometimes 9 if traffic was bad. But I couldn't last another second. Before they could protest, I turned on my heel and walked out of the café, slipping on my sunglasses as I crossed the street toward my car.

The Mediterranean stretched before me, endless and silver-blue, its waves rolling toward the shore like whispers from an ancient past. Even in destruction, my city was beautiful. The coastline was scarred, bricks crumbled, half-collapsed walls stood like forgotten sentinels of what once was. Yet, the sea remained, unchanged, its salt-laced wind curling around me like a quiet embrace.

A flock of pigeons burst into the sky like scattered ink, their wings slicing the air in a synchronized rise and fall, a silent rhythm against the pulse of the city.

And then—

A scream.

"Give me back my things!"

I turned. A girl lay on the pavement, her body curled slightly, her hands gripping nothing but air. Two other girls walked away, laughing, her bag and phone dangling carelessly in their hands.

They weren't in a hurry. They didn't even bother running. They thought no one would stop them.

I rolled my shoulders, feeling the weight of the moment settle onto me. Fine. I'll stop them. 

I scanned the scene like an equation: time, distance, weight, and speed.

⚫Distance to target: ~15 meters (about five car lengths).

⚫Their pace: Casual, 1.2 meters per second.

⚫Time before they reach the street: ~12.5 seconds (15m ÷ 1.2 m/s).

But before I made a move, I checked my surroundings.

⚫No direct line of sight to the main street.

⚫No nearby shops with outdoor cameras.

⚫No pedestrians close enough to get involved.

The only visible people were across the road, too far away to notice details. If anyone turned to glance, they'd just see silhouettes moving near parked cars.

Good. No interference. No evidence.

Now, my path. The direct chase was inefficient—I needed an optimized trajectory.

⚫Direct path: 15 meters.

⚫Shortcut through parked cars: ~10 meters (cutting diagonally). 

A weapon. I scanned my surroundings. No sticks, no pipes—just debris from the destroyed pavement. But there—a brick.

I knelt and assessed its weight: about 3 kilograms—heavy enough to cause serious damage but light enough for me to swing or throw if necessary. Gravity (9.8 m/s²) meant if I dropped it from head height, it could strike with over 29 Newtons of force—more than enough to fracture a skull if thrown correctly.

Good. Leverage was on my side although it would slow me down.

I estimated my natural sprint speed at about 5 meters per second under normal conditions. But:

⚫Running with a 3kg brick: Slight drag from arm weight, affecting balance.

⚫Barefoot: More grip, but slight shock absorption loss from the pavement.

⚫Wind resistance is minimal—not a factor at my speed.

⚫Sprint speed (without weight): 5 m/s

⚫Running speed with a 3kg brick: ~4.2 m/s

⚫Time to reach them using shortcut: 10m ÷ 4.2 m/s = ~2.38 seconds

Perfect. I would reach them in just under three seconds, with over nine seconds to spare before they hit the street

I ripped out the tie holding my hair up, letting it fall messily around my face. I kicked off my heels, holding them like weapons. 

I grabbed it, fingers curling around its weight. My pulse slowed, my breath steady. Then—I ran.

I launched forward, feet pounding against the pavement, heartbeat syncing with my strides. My muscles burned, but I pushed harder. The weight of the brick forced me to adjust my arm swing, but I compensated with a slight forward lean, maximizing momentum.

The sound of my bare feet slapped against the pavement—SMACK, SMACK, SMACK— like a war drum announcing their fate.

Their backs were still turned. They had no idea.

The weight of the brick pulled at my arm, slightly altering my balance. I compensated by adjusting my stride, keeping my center of gravity low and controlled. The key was not just speed, but precision.

As I closed in in less than three seconds, I visualized my attack:

Stop directly in their path. Create the illusion of chaos. Make them believe I'm unhinged.

They saw me too late.

Their eyes locked onto the brick in my hand, raised high above my head.

Panic.

"What the hell—"

I smiled. Not a normal smile. A slow, unhinged grin. Teeth bared, eyes bright—madness carved onto my face like a mask.

Then, I laughed.

Not just a laugh. A sharp, untamed burst—erratic, jagged, unpredictable.

"You must be crazy!" one of them stammered, stepping back.

People fear what they can't predict.

The girl on the left took a step back. 

Good. Fear is compliance.

I laughed. A sharp, unhinged sound, the kind that made people question reality. I tilted my head just slightly—offbeat, unpredictable. "That's the first true thing you've said."

I stepped forward. They flinched. I had them. Fear had already wrapped its claws around them, squeezing tight.

"If. You. Run," I enunciated each word, letting silence stretch between them. The pause made it heavier. Uncertainty breeds fear. Fear breeds compliance. 

I continued, my voice dropping to a whisper, "I will throw this brick and split your skull open like a watermelon."

Their breath hitched—no more laughter—just wide, terrified eyes.

Fear had flipped the power dynamic.

"Go back to that girl."

They didn't move.

I took another step, lifted the brick higher to let them imagine how it would feel against their skulls.

They turned around and walked in a stiff, robotic way.

The girl on the ground gasped as they approached. She looked past them—looked at me—and her eyes grew even wider.

To her, I was just as terrifying as them.

"Give her everything," I ordered.

They did as I ordered, trembling as they returned the stolen bag and phone to the crying girl.

As the girl clutched her belongings, I subtly slid my phone out of my pocket. Silent mode. No flash. No shutter sound.

Snap.

The first photo caught them mid-apology, heads bowed.

Snap.

The second—clear faces, guilt written all over them.

I tucked my phone away before they even noticed. Evidence secured.

The girl checked her bag, her eyes still teary. "My wallet—it's missing."

I tsked, raising the brick higher. "Tsk, tsk. I asked you to return everything."

They fumbled, pulling out the wallet and handing it back.

I leaned forward slightly, holding the silence just long enough to make their skin crawl.

"And the apology."

Tears clung to their lashes as they mumbled it.

Only when everything was returned did I lower the brick and set it down.

"Good girls," I murmured, watching them sprint away like prey finally freed from a predator's claws.

And I watched them go, smiling to myself.

I knelt beside the girl, scanning her condition like a forensic investigator. Her arms trembled, her fingers curled into weak fists. Every movement was cautious, as if afraid of more pain. A sharp inhale confirmed the damage in her abdomen. She flinched, pressing a hand to her stomach, where dark bruises were already forming, spreading like ink beneath her torn shirt.

Her lip was split at the corner, dried blood trailing down her chin. More bruises marked her arms, shaped like fingers—evidence of being grabbed, yanked, and shaken. But what caught my attention most were the raw, deep scratches on her hands—her own nails crusted with traces of blood.

Perfect.

She might not know it yet, but her own skin held forensic evidence—microscopic traces of their DNA embedded in the wounds they inflicted. If handled correctly, this could be enough to build a case. But first, I needed to secure it before it was lost.

"You need a hospital," I stated firmly, already looping my arm around her back to help her up. She hesitated, as if weighing her pride against her pain, but then nodded weakly, unable to argue.

She leaned on me as I guided her to my car, her weight pressing slightly against me. Every step she took was slow, tense. She winced as she sat in the passenger seat, her fingers gripping the door for balance. I adjusted the seatbelt carefully, making sure she was secure before getting behind the wheel.

As I pulled onto the road, I kept my tone casual but pointed. "Who were those girls?"

She exhaled sharply. "Classmates."

Figures. 

I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. "They beat you up in broad daylight. Why?"

"They've been bullying me for two weeks now," she admitted, voice strained. "It started small—insults, humiliation. Then, yesterday, I fought back. I embarrassed them in front of others."

"They cornered me today when I was supposed to meet a friend."

"When exactly? Where?"

"An hour ago. Near Mio."

I let out a slow, calculated hum, my mind already assembling the pieces. Perfect. That meant there could be security cameras nearby—footage the police could retrieve.

More importantly, she had physical evidence now. Their skin cells trapped in her scratches.

She didn't know it, but I had already decided my next move.

"You'll press charges," I stated, not as a suggestion, but as a fact. "But first, we'll make sure the evidence is secured before they can talk their way out of it."

She blinked at me, hesitant. "You think we have enough evidence?"

I tapped my fingers on the wheel, lips curling.

"Oh, we will."

"Call one of your relatives," I told her. "They're probably worried sick about you."

She gasped, turning to me with wide eyes. "Were you sent to me by God? Are you my guardian angel?"

I smiled faintly but didn't respond. The weight of that title made me uneasy.

She hesitated, her fingers twitching in her lap. Then, as if scrambling to avoid the topic, she started talking—loud, fast, off-topic. She rambled about her favorite song, then suddenly blurted, "Your driving is way better than anyone I know! Even better than my uncle's!"

I raised an eyebrow, watching her from my peripheral vision. Her tone was forced, her smile too quick, her laugh strained. Classic avoidance behavior. She's trying to steer the conversation away.

But her eyes betrayed her. The fleeting sadness, the tightness in her jaw, the way her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve—all signs of someone trying to suppress fear and shame.

"You need to call at least one guardian to report them," I said flatly.

Her shoulders tensed. "My mom will make me homeschooled again. I was already bullied a lot abroad, and then she sent me here to try summer school as a test."

I flicked my gaze toward her quickly, analyzing her microexpressions. Chance of lying? About 30%. Her posture—tight shoulders, avoidance of direct eye contact—spoke of fear. But not of me. Of what would happen if she told her mother.

I sighed. "Don't you have anyone in your family who can cover for you?"

She bit her lip and looked away. "My uncle."

I waited, watching her body language. The slight hitch in her breath. The way her fingers clenched around the fabric of her shirt.

"What did you do?" I asked quietly.

She swallowed hard. "I fought with him. He told me to stay away from the girl that I thought was a friend. I insisted that she might be good. He doesn't trust me."

Ah. Now I understood the guilt. She wasn't just afraid of disappointing him—she regretted not listening. I knew that feeling all too well. Fighting tooth and nail to make your own choices, only to realize later that maybe, just maybe, they had a point.

I sighed. "Did he drop you off?"

She nodded. I tightened my grip on the wheel. "Then he's probably parked somewhere nearby, waiting for you. You need to let him know."

"But I don't want to tell him. He'll be disappointed in me."

I clicked my tongue. "I won't deny that. But at least you fought back, didn't you?"

She hesitated, then nodded weakly.

"Then don't be so hard on yourself. The best thing you can do now is prove that you can come out of this victorious. Start by doing the right thing. Call him. Be honest. Then, face those bullies head-on—not with violence, but by turning their illegal behavior into a legal case."

She took a shaky breath, then pulled out her phone. Her hands trembled slightly as she dialed. "Hey, Uncle… Please, hear me out. You were right. I'm sorry for not believing you. … Yes, they bullied me and stole from me. … No, no, I'm on my way to the hospital… No, listen! My guardian angel swooped in and helped me. She's taking me there now. I'm in pain."

She turned to me. "He's asking which hospital."

I checked the GPS. "MedPark Hospital."

She relayed the message. "Okay. See you in a bit."

As I took the next turn, she let out a breath of relief. "I feel so much better telling him… like a weight lifted off my shoulders."

I smirked. "Do you play chess?"

Her eyes lit up. "Yes! But I never won against my uncle. He always wins."

I chuckled. "Try focusing on pawns. Use them to get your way."

She frowned. "How?"

I met her gaze briefly. "That's what I call the art of manipulation. You guide people into behaving the way you want—even if you have to take the long route."

She grinned. "Woah! I'm so invested. Will you teach me, my angel?"

I smirked but dodged the title. "Family members who care about you prefer honesty. Your uncle will probably be the one to help you stay in school. Try telling him everything. Show him your bravery."

She was quiet for a moment. "Thinking about it… My uncle likes me being honest."

As we pulled up to the hospital, the girl exhaled in relief, her tension unraveling like a loosened thread. The moment we stopped, she turned to me, eyes searching. "Can I have your number?"

I nodded and gave it to her, watching as she quickly saved it without question.

I stepped out first, rounding the car to help her. Her movements were slow, deliberate—like someone testing the waters before wading into the deep. As we entered the hospital, the sterile scent of antiseptic and overworked air conditioning greeted us.

I wasted no time. "This girl was assaulted. She has DNA evidence under her nails and on her wounds." My voice was sharp, cutting through the calm efficiency of the nurses. One of them, a woman with an air of experience, gave me a single nod and gestured for an orderly to assist. Within seconds, gloves were snapped on, swabs were prepared, and the girl was led away for treatment.

As she disappeared behind the swinging doors, I stepped to the counter. "I'll cover her medical expenses."

The receptionist blinked, surprised, but nodded. "Understood. Can I have her identification for the records?"

I turned just as the girl was about to be wheeled off. "Your ID."

She hesitated only briefly before reaching into her bag and handing it to me. I took a mental note of her full name before passing it along, then watched as they wheeled her away.

With that settled, I walked toward a quieter section of the hospital and pulled out my phone. The police needed to be involved. I dialed, my tone cool and precise as I detailed the situation, ensuring every word I said was clear, actionable. Once the report was filed and I'd been given instructions on the next steps, I returned to check on her.

The moment I stepped back into the ward, my eyes swept over the rows of beds, searching. It didn't take long.

A figure caught my attention—not the girl, but the man standing beside her.

I halted mid-step. My breath stilled in my throat.

He was… distracting. No—distracting was too weak a word. He was commanding.

Tall, absurdly so, towering over the hospital bed like a guardian carved from stone. His posture was effortless, casual yet imposing, dressed in a brown blouse with a deep V opening that revealed a sculpted chest—evidence of a man who knew discipline, who worked his body as much as his mind.

And then there was his hair—long waves, nearly straight, kissed by golden threads that shimmered under the hospital's stark fluorescent lights, as if the sun had imprinted itself onto him. It was an unnatural shade of light brown, bordering on blonde, yet rich and deep like expensive honey.

And his face…

I blinked, momentarily spellbound. He was chiseled, sculpted from a different mold than most men—his jawline a work of precision, sharp yet balanced by the subtle upturn of his nose. That nose. I had never thought much about noses before, but his was something else. A perfect, delicate curve, neither too sharp nor too soft, like the crescent of a moon.

I wanted to trace it with my eyes a hundred times over.

His lips were full, refined, a perfect balance between firmness and softness—lips that seemed like they could curve into either the gentlest of smiles or the most devastating of smirks. And his eyes…

They were green. But not just green—piercing, like a blade softened by warmth. There was something strikingly contradictory about him. Stern yet gentle. Sharp yet kind. A man who had seen much, yet carried no bitterness—only life, only soul.

And then—

"My savior! My angel!"

I startled, eyes snapping toward the source of the voice.

I stood at the threshold of the hospital room, my gaze softening at the sight before me. The girl clung desperately to her uncle, sobbing into his chest, repeating "I'm sorry" over and over as if it were a prayer. He held her tightly, whispering something soothing, his hand stroking her back in quiet reassurance.

This was their moment. I knew better than to intrude.

Without a word, I turned away, walking toward the reception desk.

"Please ensure she receives this," I said, handing the nurse the girl's ID. "I also reported the incident to the police. They'll be arriving shortly."

The nurse nodded. I pulled out my card and settled the bill, waiting for the receipt in silence. With everything taken care of, I stepped outside, the evening air crisp against my skin.

The sun, a fiery orange sphere, slumped toward the horizon, its golden embers stretching across the sky in defiance of the approaching night. I paused, taking in the sight, the warmth of the fading sunlight casting a glow on my face.

Alone.

That was how I felt, even in this moment of tranquility.

My mother's voice echoed in my mind—disappointed, dismissive, cold. Our last argument had left an unspoken wall between us. I had locked myself in my room, and when I left, she barely spared me a glance.

Why couldn't she just understand? Why couldn't she see that I was fighting for something greater than the suffocating fate of a housewife? That I had sacrificed so much—my friendships, my home, my sense of belonging—for a dream she deemed futile?

Coming back here had only solidified how alone I was. My relatives barely tolerated me. I had no friends. No one knew me. 

A sudden presence snapped me out of my thoughts.

"Miss!" A deep voice called out.

I turned to see him—the girl's uncle—striding toward me with an effortless grace. I inhaled sharply, bracing myself. He was even more striking up close. Lean, yet undeniably strong, his broad shoulders carried an air of authority. The casual drape of his open-collared brown blouse did little to conceal the sculpted musculature beneath, the subtle ridges of his chest and collarbone hinting at both discipline and privilege.

And he was tall. Towering, really. The sheer difference in height made me feel small in a way I wasn't used to.

His face—a masterpiece of sharp angles and smooth refinement. High cheekbones, a jawline so chiseled it looked carved from marble, and a nose so perfectly shaped it almost seemed unreal. His golden-brown hair, kissed by the last remnants of sunlight, cascaded in soft waves that framed his face with effortless elegance. And his eyes—a piercing green, sharp yet brimming with something gentle, something alive.

I averted my gaze, suddenly hyper-aware of my own awkwardness.

I wasn't particularly stunning—plain, even. And yet, he was staring at me, analyzing my face with an intensity that made my skin prickle. My first instinct was to straighten my posture, to look unaffected, but his presence was suffocating in a way I couldn't define. I could almost hear my own heartbeat.

It didn't matter what he thought of me. His opinion was irrelevant. Completely irrelevant.

So why did I feel the urge to check if my hair was in place?

"I wanted to thank you for saving my niece," he said, his voice rich and smooth, carrying an underlying note of sincerity. "I'd like to compensate you."

I straightened, forcing my tone into something rigid and unbothered. "That's unnecessary. If you truly want to repay me, assist your niece in suing those bullies—and make sure she wins."

A slow smile stretched across his face, genuine and almost… admiring. "You're very kind."

I stiffened, brushing off the praise. "The police will be here shortly. I'll need to provide my testimony, and then I'll leave it to you."

He nodded. "She's doing much better now, but they hit her stomach pretty hard. She'll need an X-ray."

My lips pressed together. "I hope she recovers soon."

I tried to maintain eye contact, just enough to be polite, but the warmth in his gaze made it impossible. He was looking at me—really looking—and it made something in my chest tighten. Not in fear, but in… something I didn't want to name.

I wasn't helpless. I had worked in a male-dominated field, surrounded by men every day, and I had held my own. I had seen good-looking men before. This wasn't new.

And yet, my reactions betrayed me. Why was I suddenly self-conscious? Why did I feel so small under his gaze, so acutely aware of my own plainness in comparison?

He stepped closer. Too close. I had to tilt my head just to meet his eyes.

"Thank you for paying her medical fees. Maybe I can owe you something?"

I shook my head, but my eyes flickered down, searching. No ring.

Still, a man like him—handsome, composed, and clearly well-off—surely had someone waiting for him. The thought unsettled me more than I cared to admit.

I took a step back, then another. "There they are!" I blurted, spotting the police approaching. "I need to go."

Without waiting for his response, I turned and walked away, heart pounding as I disappeared into the evening shadows.