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, her 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 had 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 inside 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, the sound foreign even to her own ears. She forced her gaze away, forcing her body to relax back against the cushions, even though every muscle screamed to stay alert. 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 raised an eyebrow as Skylar grabbed her duffel bag - the one she'd left by the door hours ago - and dumped it unceremoniously in the corner. "Just for a while," Skylar said casually. "You know. Until things settle." "You don't have to babysit me," Reagan muttered, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Skylar grinned, unbothered. "It's not babysitting. It's freeloading. Big difference." Reagan shook her head, but she didn't argue. She didn't really want to be alone anyway. Not when every shadow outside the window looked like it was 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 small apartment like she belonged there, filling the empty corners with the chaotic comfort only she could bring.

Later, they went downstairs to check the new security upgrades. The bar was dark and quiet, the heavy smell of old whiskey and cleaning supplies hanging in the air. Skylar flipped on the lights and led Reagan behind the counter, crouching low to show her the new panic button she'd installed. "In case shit hits the fan," Skylar said, tapping the small black device hidden under the edge of the bar. "Press it, and the whole building will scream bloody murder." Reagan ran her fingers over the button, feeling the slight click under her touch. "You really think we'll need it?" she asked quietly. Skylar didn't answer immediately. When she did, her voice was softer than before. "I think it's better to have it and not need it... than the other way around." They stood there for a long moment, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound between them. Reagan let her hand fall away from the button, shoving it deep into her hoodie pocket. As they headed back upstairs, Reagan paused at the bottom of the staircase, glancing once more over her shoulder - out into the dark, empty street. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred.

And yet... the feeling didn't leave her.

The cold knot of dread stayed wound tight in her gut, as real and solid as the new locks on her door. Normal, she told herself again. Safe. But somewhere, deep down, she knew the truth. The cracks were already starting to show.

When they went to sleep, she had another nightmare.. Of course she did: 

The door gave way under her hand, creaking open into darkness thick with the stink of old beer and cigarette smoke, the air suffocating and heavy, pressing against her skin like a warning, but she ignored it, stepping over the threshold, telling herself she was imagining the dread curling in her stomach, telling herself this was safe, that Travis wouldn't hurt her, not tonight, not after the promises he made with sweet words and softer hands when no one else was looking, but the moment the door slammed shut behind her, the world twisted and snapped like a trap closing on her throat, and before she could even turn, the first blow caught her low in the ribs, a sharp burst of pain that stole the breath from her lungs and sent her staggering forward, reaching out blindly, her fingers clawing at the air for something, anything, but there was nothing except the sharp bark of Owen's laughter and Travis moving towards her, fists clenched and eyes glittering with something feral, something she should have seen sooner, should have known was always waiting underneath the smiles

She tried to speak, tried to back away, but another hit drove into her stomach, folding her in half, dropping her to her knees on the grimy carpet, and then rough hands tangled in her hair, yanking her upright so fast her neck wrenched painfully, stars bursting behind her eyes, and she barely had time to register Owen pulling out his phone, smirking as he lifted it, the flash blinding her as he snapped the first picture, his voice a low mocking drawl, "Smile for the camera, sweetheart," and Reagan tried to twist free but Travis's hand cracked across her face, splitting her lip wide open, blood flooding her mouth, metallic and hot and thick, making her gag as she hit the floor again, cheek scraping against the filth, the laughter raining down on her, cutting deeper than fists ever could

She curled in on herself, instinctively, arms shielding her head, knees drawn tight, but it didn't matter, hands caught her wrists, yanked them apart, forcing her open like she was nothing, like she was just a broken toy they could do whatever they wanted with, and more flashes, more laughter, more jeering voices shouting things she couldn't process, couldn't understand, because all she could hear was her own heartbeat roaring in her ears, faster and faster and faster

Travis leaned down, crouching so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her bloodied skin, his voice a vicious whisper slicing straight into her spine, "You belong to us, Reagan. Always have. Always will," and she whimpered, a raw broken sound she barely recognized as her own, because she had promised herself she would never make that noise, would never give them the satisfaction of hearing her break, but the fear was bigger than promises, bigger than pride, and it swallowed her whole

Another kick drove into her side, her ribs screaming in protest, another flash from Owen's phone, another cruel laugh, and then darkness folded in around her, thick and merciful, dragging her down into a place where she couldn't feel them anymore, where the pain blurred into something distant and unreal, and the only thing left was the echo of their voices, their laughter, their hands pulling her apart again and again, until even her own name felt like something they'd stolen from her. The nightmare had ripped her out of sleep like a knife. Sweat clung to her skin, and the thin blanket was tangled around her ankles, half dragged to the floor. For a long moment, Reagan just sat on the edge of her bed, breathing hard, her heart slamming against her ribs like it was trying to break free. Finally, she pushed herself up and padded barefoot into the bathroom, not bothering to flip on the light.

The moonlight slipping through the cracked window was enough. She leaned over the sink, her palms pressed against the cold porcelain, and stared at herself in the mirror. The woman looking back at her was a stranger. Or maybe she was exactly who Reagan had always been - just stripped of the illusions. 5'11 and lean, muscles coiled under skin marked by a life she didn't choose. Her body carried the kind of strength that didn't come from gyms or clean diets - it was the survival kind, carved out of necessity. A hint of abs still lingered across her stomach, despite the nights spent drinking and the days spent fighting ghosts she couldn't outrun. Her hair was a mess - black with stubborn blonde roots creeping through, a fractured reminder of the person she used to be before she had to dye it, before she had to disappear. Ice-blue eyes stared back at her, cold and sharp enough to cut glass, framed by dark lashes she never bothered with makeup anymore. A thin scar split the edge of her left eyebrow - a relic from a fight when she was fourteen and still thought fists could solve everything. Freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, faint but still visible even in the dim light. She hated them when she was younger - thought they made her look soft, weak. Now, they were the last thing innocent about her.

Ink laced her skin in black and gray patterns - a full sleeve winding down her right arm, another running up her leg and curling around her ribs like smoke.

Every tattoo had a story.

Every line was a memory she couldn't erase. Reagan met her own eyes in the mirror, exhaled slowly, and wiped a hand down her face. "I'm still here," she whispered to no one. Still standing. Still breathing. Even if some nights, that felt like the cruelest victory of all.