Chapter 1: Born in the darkness, built through the madness
The door clicked shut behind Reagan, the bolt sliding into place before she even thought about it.
Outside, the city howled—sirens in the distance, a scream too close for comfort, and that low, ever-present hum of something ready to break. She kicked off her boots, dropped her keys on the counter, and scanned the apartment. One room. One window. One way in, one way out.
Safe enough—for now.
She shrugged off her jacket, catching her elbow on the coat hook and muttering a curse under her breath. Smooth. She crossed to the window, her bare feet meeting cold floorboards that bit at her skin. Her fingertips brushed the edge of the glass.
Across the street, a black car idled too long.
Her body tensed before her mind caught up. That familiar jolt—panic before logic. She swallowed hard.
Not tonight.
She let the curtain fall and turned away, trying not to notice how badly her hands shook.
Survival wasn't fear—it was preparation. That's what she told herself, anyway.
---
The kitchen barely counted as a kitchen. A battered fridge hummed too loud in the corner like it was trying to fill the silence. A chipped counter. One knife sharpened to a lethal edge by the sink. No coffee maker. No toaster. No cute mugs with passive-aggressive quotes. She didn't believe in clutter. Clutter got you killed.
Reagan grabbed a beer, tried to twist the cap off, failed, muttered "you've got to be kidding," and finally bit it off with her teeth like some feral gremlin. She sank into the sagging leather chair by the window, letting out a noise halfway between a sigh and a grunt.
The leather stuck slightly to the backs of her thighs. She shifted and immediately knocked her knee into the coffee table. "Ow. Cool. Good talk, table."
Outside, the city glowed—ugly and beautiful all at once.
No family. No promises. No illusions of safety.
Just her.
And that would have to be enough.
---
A soft knock rattled the door.
She didn't flinch. Just rose—her sock slipping slightly on the floor, because of course it did—and caught herself on the arm of the chair. Three silent steps (plus a very loud fourth when she accidentally stepped on a chip bag). She checked the peephole.
Skylar.
Reagan unlocked and opened the door just wide enough.
"You're late," she said, voice dry.
Skylar grinned and held up a greasy paper bag and two bottles of wine. "Sue me. I had to dodge three drunks and a guy selling 'designer watches' out of a van. I'm lucky to be alive."
Reagan smirked and stepped aside.
Skylar flopped onto the floor like she lived there. Reagan re-locked the door. Bolt. Chain. Deadbolt. She checked it twice, even though she knew she didn't need to. Her fingers itched until it was done.
"Brought sustenance," Skylar announced, tossing the bag toward the coffee table.
"You're a saint."
"Don't push it," Skylar muttered, already popping open a bottle with her teeth.
They ate in silence—the kind that only existed between people who had seen each other at their worst and stayed anyway. Reagan nearly knocked over the wine while reaching for fries and then spent a full minute pretending it hadn't happened. Skylar didn't say anything, which somehow made it worse.
Outside, the city kept roaring.
Inside, for once, Reagan allowed herself to pretend she wasn't completely alone.
---
"So," Skylar said after a while, licking sauce from her fingers, "are we ever gonna talk about it?"
Reagan didn't look up. "Talk about what?"
"The thing you're doing. Where you act like everything's fine, but you keep checking the windows like someone's coming."
"Just habit."
Skylar snorted. "Yeah, and I'm Queen of England."
Reagan peeled the label off her beer. The lights outside blurred at the edges of her vision.
"Someone from before," she said eventually. "A mistake. Might be back."
Skylar's entire body went still. "From New Haven?"
Reagan nodded once.
Skylar didn't ask more. She knew better. Reagan appreciated that more than she'd ever say.
---
"You want me to stay tonight?"
"I'm fine."
She wasn't.
She'd said the words automatically, like muscle memory, even though her gut twisted and her neck itched like someone was watching her.
The shadows outside shifted. A flicker she might've imagined. Or not.
"Alright," Skylar said, standing and brushing crumbs off her jeans. "But you call me if anything feels off. I mean it, Rae."
Reagan raised a hand in mock salute. "Yes, ma'am."
Skylar tossed an empty bottle cap at her and laughed, the sound echoing through the room like a memory of better days.
---
After she left, Reagan locked the door again. Bolt. Chain. Deadbolt. She tested it three times, then stood there with her forehead resting against the wood.
She listened.
Nothing.
But she knew better.
Monsters didn't always knock. Sometimes, they waited. Patient as rot. Just outside the door.
---
She sat back down, eyes scanning the street below. She hated how good she'd gotten at reading shadows. A car door slammed somewhere down the block. Her muscles tensed automatically, the bottle in her hand sloshing slightly.
She barely noticed.
Deep breath. Count to five. Let it out slow. Stay sharp.
The black car was gone.
Maybe it had never been anything.
Or maybe it had been everything.
That's how they worked—the ones who hunted you.
They made you doubt. Made you second-guess every footstep, every flicker, every breath.
Reagan knew better.
She'd lived this before.
---
She stood, her body taut with memory.
Years ago, she started training because of Travis and his sick little brother.
Punching. Bleeding. Breaking.
It wasn't therapy—it was survival.
No medals. No trophies.
Just a black belt in kickboxing and scars no one saw.
A life spent turning herself into a weapon because no one else ever would.
And if they came this time—if they dared—
She wouldn't run.
She wouldn't beg.