Chapter 6: TRICK OR TREAT

The past hit me like a fist. Gunshots. Screams. Flashes—sharp, brutal—erasing the present. My limbs went numb, air crushed from my lungs, as if time itself had split open, dragging me under.

“Trick or treat!” a little girl’s voice rang out, her laughter swallowed by the bustling crowd. The street pulsed with noise, color, and movement. The scent of roasted meat, spices, and something sweet drifted past.

My stomach clenched and growled, a sharp, hollow twist echoing inside me.

Then I saw her—a woman with a baby clutched to her chest, eyes flicking around, searching… or running from something. Her dark hair swayed over her shoulders as she moved quickly, hurrying toward a car.

I followed, palms burning in my pockets. The baby squirmed in her arms as she slid into the driver’s seat.

I hesitated, knuckles inches from the glass, eyes flickering toward the baby cooing in the passenger seat.

Her eyes darted to mine, pupils tight, fumbling with the seatbelt. “How may I help you?”

My breath hitched. “Please,” I begged, my voice rough and cracked. “Food… I need food.”

Her eyes flicked to the street, then to her wristwatch. A warm breath escaped me, briefly fogging the glass before it cleared.

She stared at me for a long moment, then, without a word, unlocked the door.

Then—the gunshot. A sharp crack ripped through the street, making my teeth ache. A high-pitched shriek erupted nearby, followed by a chorus of panicked yells. Figures blurred—a wave of bodies scattering like startled birds.

Her head snapped up.

The softness vanished. Her eyes sharpened—tight, hunted. “Get in,” she barked, already yanking the baby’s blanket over its face.

My thoughts shattered—sharp, splintered. I scrambled in, slamming the door as the window blew out behind me.

The car lurched, throwing me against the door. Tires shrieked against asphalt. Streetlights smeared into streaks of color, pierced by the baby’s scream.

Her shoulders locked. Knuckles bone-white on the wheel, fist slamming against the dashboard. Her eyes snapped between the baby and the gunfire outside.

Her chin dipped fast, eyes scanning the console.

Clack—clack.

The sound jolted me. My gaze shot to the mirror above her head. Her face was carved from stone, eyes slicing side to side. Then—her fist darted up. A flash of dark metal, the barrel swinging into view—cold, gaping, aimed.

Her fingers tightened, seconds from pulling the trigger. She lifted it one-handed past the baby’s seat. The car jolted, tires screeching—but her grip didn’t falter.

My head whipped back and forth. Eyes darted between the thin gap—too thin—between their car and ours. My legs itched to bolt. No room. Nowhere.

Her head tilted, eyes snapping sideways. Gunshots cracked—one shattered her window in a burst of glass. Bullet shells clinked as she fired back through the opening. Shards grated beneath the tires, glass grinding against glass.

Their car was almost beside us now. My ears rang—then drowned in the hollow roar between gunshots.

Another shot cracked through the air. The engine coughed and died; the car skidded, rubber burning against asphalt, slamming to a halt.

“Drive!” I shouted, but it was too late. Dark shapes peeled from the shadows, guns glinting, pointed like daggers.

Gunshots blasted relentlessly. I ducked instinctively, my head crashing against the cold glass. Blood trickled down my temple, pounding inside my skull—each pulse a scream: Trapped.

Her hand shook as it clenched the baby’s leg. The other hovered, fingers stretched wide, barely touching the blanket. She snapped at me, voice cracking, “Run.”

Before I could react, another shot—and her head hit the wheel with a sickening thud. Blood poured from her shoulder, racing down her arm. Her fingers, still curled near the baby, twitched once—then fell away, dragging the blanket halfway off.

For a stretched, horrible second, the baby lay still. No wail. No stir. Just… bare legs slick with her dark, wet blood.

The pistol clattered to the floor. The silence after hit harder than the gunshot.

Leather groaned, metal whining. A shadow moved. Boots scraped against glass. Voices—muffled, clipped, dead.

No, no, no.

My legs jolted before my brain caught up. I threw the door open, slipping—palms raking against shattered glass, knees slamming into asphalt.

A shout cracked the silence. “Hey—”

My spine snapped straight. I bolted. Zigzagging. Legs pumping, feet slapping the concrete. A gunshot cracked behind me. I didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Shouts flared. “GET HIM!” Boots thundered behind me.

I ducked between alleyways, weaving through trash bins and broken fences. Bullets tore past my ear, splintering wood, punching holes through rusted metal.

Another voice, distant: “Forget the kid—grab the package!”

Boots slowed behind me, curses fading into the distance. The sounds of pursuit thinned, swallowed by the maze of streets. Until only the echo of my own ragged breath filled my ears.

Then—finally—my knees buckled. I collapsed, gasping, fingers digging into the cold, oil-stained ground. My lungs burned. Vision blurred. I couldn’t breathe.

Not even when the baby still wasn’t crying.

Not even when my blood was still slick on my hands.