Chapter 4: Cracks in the glass
Hi, it's Line. Before you dive into this chapter, quick heads-up: it's a heavy one. We're talking trauma, violence, and the kind of past that doesn't stay buried just because we want it to. I didn't write this to be dramatic—I wrote it because Reagan's scars are real, and sugarcoating them would be an insult to her fight. If you need to skip this one for your own peace of mind, that's totally valid. Go grab a snack, take a breather, and come back when you're ready. We'll still be here, plotting vengeance and drinking emotional support wine. Thanks for sticking with me—and for walking through the shadows with your head held high.
---
The soft hum of the TV filled the living room, the glow from the screen casting long, shifting shadows across the worn wooden floor.
Somewhere in the distance, the pipes groaned—old bones complaining in the silence.
Reagan sat curled up on the couch, knees tucked tight to her chest, a threadbare blanket wrapped around her shoulders. An untouched cup of coffee sat cooling on the table in front of her, forgotten the moment she'd set it down. The sharp, bitter scent clung to the air, mixing with the faint dampness seeping through the cracked window.
Across from her, Skylar stretched out with a lazy sigh, one socked foot hanging off the edge of the couch. She mumbled something incoherent about screws and anchors, her voice thick with sleep.
Normal. This was supposed to be normal.
Reagan's eyes kept flicking toward the front door, tracing the outline of the new deadbolts Skylar had installed earlier that afternoon. Three locks, reinforced hinges, an emergency panic button wired straight into a hidden siren downstairs.
Safe. It was supposed to make her feel safe.
But every creak of the building, every gust of wind rattling the old windows, twisted itself into something darker in her mind.
"You know," Skylar muttered without opening her eyes, "if you keep staring at the door like that, it's gonna get performance anxiety."
Reagan let out a short, humorless laugh. It startled even her.
She forced her gaze away, sinking back against the cushions even though every part of her screamed to stay upright. Alert. Ready.
Normal. Safe.
She repeated the words like a prayer, but they rang hollow.
Skylar shifted, kicking her feet off the couch and stretching with a groan. "Alright," she announced, voice a little brighter, "since it's obvious you're about two minutes away from chewing through your own arm, guess I'm moving in."
Reagan blinked. "What?"
Skylar grabbed her duffel bag—the one she'd left by the door hours ago—and dumped it in the corner. "Just for a while," she said casually. "You know. Until things settle."
"You don't have to babysit me," Reagan muttered, pulling the blanket tighter.
Skylar grinned. "It's not babysitting. It's freeloading. Big difference."
Reagan rolled her eyes but didn't argue. Truth was, she didn't want to be alone. Not when every shadow outside the window looked like it might be breathing.
Skylar spent the next hour unpacking—tossing her clothes into the empty dresser, setting up an extra set of boots by the door. She moved through the apartment like she belonged there, filling up the empty corners with chaotic comfort.
---
Later, they went downstairs to check the new security upgrades. The bar was dark and quiet, heavy with the smell of old whiskey and lemon cleaner.
Skylar flipped on the lights and led Reagan behind the counter, crouching low to show her the panic button she'd wired into the underside.
"In case shit hits the fan," Skylar said, tapping the small black device. "Press it and the whole building screams bloody murder."
Reagan crouched awkwardly beside her, her foot slipping on a wet patch and nearly sending her sideways. She grabbed the counter to steady herself, muttering, "I swear this place is trying to kill me."
Skylar snorted but didn't comment.
Reagan ran her fingers over the button, feeling the click beneath her touch. "You really think we'll need it?"
Skylar didn't answer immediately. When she did, her voice was quiet. "I think it's better to have it and not need it… than the other way around."
They stood there in the low hum of refrigeration, letting the silence stretch. Reagan pulled her hand away and shoved it deep into her hoodie pocket.
On the way back upstairs, Reagan paused at the bottom of the staircase and glanced over her shoulder.
Nothing moved. Nothing stirred.
And yet…
The feeling stayed.
The knot of dread wound tight in her gut, heavy as the bolts on her door.
Normal. Safe.
But she knew better.
The cracks were already showing.
---
When they went to sleep, she had another nightmare. Of course she did.
---
The door gave way under her hand, creaking open into stale darkness thick with the stink of beer and cigarettes. The air pressed against her skin like a warning.
She told herself it was nothing. That she was imagining things.
That Travis wouldn't hurt her. Not tonight. Not after the soft words and sweeter hands.
But the moment the door slammed shut behind her, the world twisted. The first blow landed low in her ribs—sharp, fast, breath-stealing.
She staggered, reaching blindly, fingers clawing at the air for balance.
Nothing. No hand to catch her. Just Travis. Just Owen.
Laughter like razors.
Another hit. This one to the stomach. She dropped to her knees. Carpet burned her skin.
Rough hands tangled in her hair, yanked her up. Her neck wrenched. Stars exploded behind her eyes.
Flash.
Owen's phone.
"Smile for the camera, sweetheart."
She tried to twist away, but Travis's hand cracked across her face, splitting her lip.
Blood in her mouth. Metallic. Thick.
She gagged.
She curled in, arms over her head.
They pried her open like she was made of hinges and wire. Like she was nothing.
More flashes. More laughter.
More hands.
Her name disappeared under them.
Travis crouched close. Breath hot and sour on her skin.
"You belong to us, Reagan."
Another kick. Another flash.
And then—darkness. Blessed and deep.
---
She woke gasping, sweat clinging to her skin, the blanket tangled around her legs like a trap. She kicked free, tripping over it as she stumbled to her feet.
"Shit—" she hissed, bumping her shin on the edge of the bedframe.
Breathing hard, she padded into the bathroom, barefoot and shaky.
She didn't turn on the light.
The moonlight from the cracked window was enough.
She gripped the sink, knuckles white, and stared into the mirror.
The woman staring back was a stranger. Or maybe the real version. The one left behind when you strip away the lies.
5'11, lean, muscle beneath skin that carried too many stories. The kind of strength built from pain, not workouts.
A faint line of abs still lingered beneath the scars. Black hair tangled at the ends, streaked with blonde roots she hadn't bothered to cover.
Her eyes—ice-blue, sharp, exhausted. Ringed with smudges of memory.
A scar split her left brow. Freckles dusted across her nose. She used to hate them. Now, they were the last part of her that still looked soft.
Ink wound down her right arm in careful lines. Another traced her ribs. Each one a memory.
She wiped a trembling hand down her face.
"I'm still here," she whispered.
Still breathing. Still standing.
Even if some nights… that felt like the cruelest victory of all.