Reagan is the blade - sharp, brutal, relentless.

Skylar is the shadow - silent, watchful, lethal.

They don't trust the world. They trust each other. In a life built on broken promises and bloodstained hands, they are each other's armor. Together, they don't just survive.

They make sure the world never forgets why it should have feared them.

Meet Reagan Wilde and Skylar Grey and how they chose battle a world full of evil, mafia men, undeniable and all consuming lust for a man everyone fears, friendship, heartbreak and everything inside between

Reagans apartment

The door clicked shut behind her, and Reagan slid the bolt without thinking. Habit. Instinct.

The city howled outside - sirens, distant screams, the low hum of something always ready to break. She kicked off her boots, dropped her keys on the counter, and scanned the apartment with a glance.

One room. One window. One way in, one way out. Safe enough. For now. She shrugged off her jacket, letting it fall to the floor, and moved to the window. Bare toes against the cool wood. Fingertips brushing the edge of the glass.

Across the street, a black car idled too long at the curb. Her body tensed before her mind caught up.

Not tonight.

She let the curtain fall back into place and turned away.

Survival wasn't fear.

It was preparation.

She moved like a ghost through the apartment - quiet, sharp, always half-listening.

The kitchen was barely a kitchen. A battered fridge. A chipped counter. One knife, sharpened to a lethal edge, sitting by the sink. She didn't believe in clutter. Clutter got you killed.

Reagan grabbed a beer from the fridge, twisted the cap off with her teeth, and sank into the sagging leather chair by the window. The city glowed outside - ugly and beautiful all at once.

She had no family. No safe place. No promises left to believe in.

Only herself. That was enough. It had to be. A soft knock rattled the door. She didn't flinch - just set her beer down, crossed the floor in three silent steps, and checked the peephole.

Skylar.

Reagan unbolted the door and opened it just wide enough. "You're late," she said, voice dry as sandpaper.

Skylar grinned, holding up a greasy paper bag and two bottles of cheap 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 - the closest she ever got to a real smile - and stepped aside to let her in. Skylar flopped onto the floor like she owned the place. Reagan locked the door again and slid the bolt into place. Always. Always lock the bolt. "Brought sustenance," Skylar said, tossing the bag toward the coffee table.

"You're a saint," Reagan muttered.

"Don't push it," Skylar shot back, popping open a bottle with her teeth like a savage.

For a while, they ate in silence - comfortable, familiar. Two broken pieces fitting together without trying too hard.

O

utside, the city roared.

Inside, Reagan allowed herself the luxury of pretending she wasn't alone. Just for tonight. "So," Skylar said after a while, wiping her fingers on a napkin, "are we ever gonna talk about it?" Reagan didn't look up. "Talk about what?"

"That thing you're doing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you pretend you're fine, but you keep checking the windows like someone's coming for you."

Reagan forced herself to keep breathing evenly. "Just habit."

Skylar snorted, low and knowing. "Yeah. And I'm the King of England." Reagan picked at the label on her beer bottle. The city lights blurred in the corner of her vision, soft and dirty against the night.

She didn't owe anyone the truth. Not even Skylar. But sometimes, the silence felt heavier than the truth ever could. "Someone from before," Reagan said finally, voice flat. "A mistake I made. Might be back."

Skylar's eyes sharpened instantly. "From New Haven?"

Reagan nodded once.

S

kylar didn't ask more. She knew better. Reagan appreciated that more than she could ever say.

"You want me to stay tonight?" Skylar asked, casual like it didn't mean anything.

Reagan shook her head. "I'm fine." She wasn't. The shadows outside shifted. A flicker she might've imagined. Might not.

"Alright," Skylar said, standing up and stretching. "But you call if anything feels off. I mean it, Rae." Reagan gave her a mock salute. "Yes, ma'am."

Skylar threw an empty beer cap at her and laughed, the sound filling the apartment with something almost close to life. After Skylar left, Reagan bolted the door again, slid the chain across, and leaned her forehead against the cool wood. She closed her eyes and listened. Nothing but the heartbeat of the city.

But she knew better than anyone: monsters didn't always announce themselves.

Sometimes they waited, patient as rot, just outside the door. Reagan sat back in the chair, staring at the street below. She hated how good she'd gotten at reading shadows. A car door slammed three blocks down and her body tensed automatically. Slow breath. Count to five. Let it out through her nose. Stay calm. Stay sharp. The black car was gone. Maybe it had never been anything. Maybe it had. That's what they did-the ones who hunted you. They made you doubt yourself. Made you second-guess every flicker in a mirror, every footstep behind you, every shadow that moved when it shouldn't. Reagan knew better. She had lived this way before. She had survived it before. She stood up, muscles coiled under skin like wires pulled tight. Years ago, she'd started training because of Travis and his sick little brother. Punching, kicking, bleeding, breaking. Every hour spent in the ring wasn't therapy. It was survival. She didn't have medals. She didn't have trophies. She had a black belt in kickboxing and scars no one ever saw. A lifetime of building herself into a weapon because no one else would ever protect her. And if they came this time-if they dared-she wouldn't run. She wouldn't beg. She would end it. She paced the floor, silent, measured. No pictures on the walls. No junk to tie her down. She had built her life like a bunker: stripped down, hollowed out, ready to be abandoned if necessary. But even bunkers cracked under pressure. Paranoia had sharp teeth. She stopped by the window again, scanning the black outside. What if they already knew? What if the car was a warning? What if this was the start of something worse? A noise. A whisper of sound outside her door. Reagan didn't think. She moved. Knife in hand before her mind caught up, feet placed light on the floor. Breath held. Heart pounding. She stood at the door, every nerve tuned to the quiet. Nothing. Silence. She waited five long seconds. Ten. Nothing. Still, her fingers stayed clenched around the blade. Sleep was a myth. Safety was a lie. If they wanted her, they would have to come and take her-and she'd make damn sure they paid for every inch of it.