The next two hours dragged on like a slow punishment. The shop was still empty, suspended in time. The old television murmured something irrelevant in the background, shaky images that Bea didn’t bother to look at. The fluorescent lights buzzed above her, in a high-pitched, insistent sound, like an insect trapped inside her skull.

She was trying to keep herself busy. She cleaned a counter that was already clean. She organized shelves that no one touched. She sat down. She stood up. She sat down again.

The unease wouldn’t go away. It vibrated beneath the skin, like a bare electrical wire, just waiting for the right moment to deliver a shock.

Around eleven o’clock, her stomach started to ache. It wasn’t hunger. It was a hollow, deep pain, like a warning. Bea’s body always knew before she did when something was going to go wrong.

It always worked.

And, as if the universe took pleasure in confirming its worst expectations, the store door burst open with a bang.

Nico.

He was not alone.

The men followed him in like an extension of his own body – large, broad, made of muscles and barely contained aggression. They stormed the store as if they owned the place, kicking shelves, laughing loudly, shoving each other. Bags of chips tumbled to the floor. A bottle shattered near the door.

No one apologized.

The smell arrived before the words. Stale sweat, alcohol, violence. A thick odor that clung to the throat and made it difficult to swallow.

Bea’s stomach clenched.

That was it.

The warning had been given earlier. The day was only just beginning to take its toll. And she already knew, without needing anyone to tell her, that from then on nothing would go unpunished.

She tried to bend behind the counter, shrug her shoulders, curve her spine, as if her body could shrink until it fit into the cracks of that filthy place. Invisible. She had always believed that disappearing was a skill learned over time. Nico was proving, right there, that she had never been good enough at it.

His footsteps pounded on the ground like hammer blows. Each one vibrated within her, reverberating in her bones, her empty stomach, her weary chest. Bea didn’t need to look to know he was closer. She felt it. As if his presence sucked the air away from her.

Her eyes betrayed what little control she had left and slid to the shelf beside her. The overturned bottle of alcohol slowly dripped onto the floor, the clear liquid spreading among the shards of glass like an open wound. The smell rose strongly, mixed with the sweat of the men, the old dust of the shop, the mold. A wave of nausea crept up her throat.

They laughed. They laughed as they grabbed what they wanted, as they knocked things over, as they broke what little was still standing. One of them stared at her, not as one sees a person, but as one assesses a forgotten object in a corner. He winked. A dirty gesture, too intimate. Bea’s skin burned, as if that look had touched her.

She turned her face away.

Ballie appeared in her mind like a distant echo. Be careful.

She almost laughed. Be careful of what, exactly? The bad luck that had followed her forever? The rotten legacy of the man who had called her daughter? Her luck had been broken long before Nico walked through that door.

He stopped in front of the counter.

His calmness was worse than any explosion. It wasn’t an empty calmness, but one that demanded no haste, that didn’t need to prove anything. The calmness of someone who knew he had the time, the power – and the permission – to be cruel.

Bea watched his hand reach for the lighter attached to the cash register. A dry click. The flame rose small, alive, reflecting in his eyes. Empty eyes. Too deep. Like wells where nothing good survived.

Nico lit his cigarette slowly, savoring the moment. Then he blew the smoke in her face.

It burned. In her eyes, her nose, deep in her chest. Bea inhaled involuntarily and coughed inwardly, but didn’t give him the pleasure of moving. She stood still. Staring into nothingness. Wearing the mask.

Indifference had always been his last resort. A fragile, cracked shield – but it was that or crumble right there.

That irritated him.

She saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his fingers gripped the lighter before letting go. Nico hated when he didn’t get a reaction.

When he encountered no fear. When he came face to face with someone so broken that not even terror could penetrate him.

The attack came without warning.

The hand appeared in Bea’s field of vision like a blur, and the next second it was buried in the back of her neck. Thick fingers closed tightly, pulling her head forward. The impact against the counter exploded inside her.

The sound was dry. Strong.

Her forehead met the hard wood, and everything shattered. The pain didn’t come immediately; it came as a flash, a burst of white and red light, followed by a dull emptiness. The world spun. Her body became too heavy to support itself.

Bea felt the blood before she saw it. Warm. Trickling slowly down her eyebrow, into her eye, down to her mouth. The metallic taste spread across her tongue, all too familiar. Bitter. Almost comforting in its predictability.

Nico’s face was too close.

His hot breath, heavy with stale beer and cheap cigarettes, clung to hers. The smoke mingled with the smell of his own blood. His fingers tightened, pinning her head against the counter as if he wanted to pierce it, as if Bea were just another breakable thing in that place.

And, strangely, what she felt was not fear.

It was exhaustion.

A deep, heavy, old weariness. The feeling that this was just another confirmation. More proof that the world never needed to make an effort to hurt her. It simply happened.

And she was always in the way.

“Just look at you,” Nico growled, his gruff voice scratching the air. “Always with that dead face. Always staring into space.”

His fingers dug deeper into the nape of Bea’s neck. Not enough to break anything, but enough to remind her that she could. That she chose not to. Yet.

“You think you’re better than us, is that it?” he continued. “That act of someone who feels nothing… Your father raised you very badly, girl.”

The word ’father’ hit Bea like another blow. She didn’t respond. Not out of strength – but because there was no answer available within her. The pain in her forehead pulsed in waves, an insistent drum marking a familiar rhythm. Deeper than the physical pain, something twisted inside: a knot made of fear, swallowed anger, and a weariness too old to have begun there. A weariness that seemed to have been born with her.

The men around her laughed. Not loudly, not hysterically – they laughed in that low, satisfied way of those who feed on the downfall of others. The sound trickled from Bea’s ears straight to her stomach.

She closed her eyes.

She breathed slowly through her mouth. Trying not to smell the alcohol, the sweat, the violence. Trying not to feel the weight of his hand. Trying not to feel anything. Because feeling hurt too much – and she was already full of pain.

Nico eased his grip for a second. Just enough for Bea to make the mistake of thinking it was over. But his hand remained there, firm, possessive, like someone holding something that belongs to them.

“Next time your father tries to fuck me over…” he leaned in, his mouth almost touching her ear. His voice dropped to a dirty, venomous whisper. “You’re going to pay. Understand?"

The word ’pay’ hung between them, heavy, full of possibilities that Bea didn’t want to imagine.

Something inside her stirred. It wasn’t courage. It was exhaustion. A last shred of dignity trying to breathe.

“Dad?” her voice came out broken, hoarse, almost unrecognizable even to herself. Bea swallowed hard. “I haven’t seen him in four years. Good luck finding him.”

The silence that followed was short. And dangerous.

For a moment, Bea thought he was going to hit her again. That it would end there. Part of her even wished it would end, just so she wouldn’t have to endure that moment any longer.

But Nico laughed.

A low laugh, devoid of any humor.

“Someone always gets the short end of the stick, girl," he said, before pushing her hard.

Bea’s head fell forward. She braced herself on the counter just in time to avoid falling, her whole body trembling now that the hand had left the back of her neck. Her legs threatened to give way. Her vision blurred – not only from the blood, but from the tears burning behind her eyes.

She didn’t cry.

Not there. Not in front of them.

She heard footsteps receding, laughter echoing through the destroyed store. The door bell tinkled as they left – a small sound, almost too gentle for the damage they had left behind. As if the world insisted on pretending everything was normal.

Bea brought her hand to her forehead. When she pulled her fingers away, they were stained red.

“Be careful,” Ballie had said.

She rested her forehead on the counter, taking a deep breath, feeling the blood drip slowly onto the wood. One drop. Another. Another. Like a broken clock marking a time that never moved forward.

What good was being careful when you lived on the edge of a precipice?

The silence that remained was crushing. Not the comfortable silence of childhood, at one’s mother’s feet. It was an empty, hostile silence, which only provided company because there was no one else around.

Bea stood there for a few seconds – or minutes, she couldn’t tell – trying to piece together the fragments of herself scattered across the shop floor. Trying to remember exactly where she had gotten lost. Trying to decide if it was still worth getting up again.

She exhaled slowly, as if any sudden movement could completely unravel her. She grabbed the dirty cloth from under the counter – damp, smelling of mold and old alcohol – and pressed it against his forehead. It stung. The pain came hot, vivid, almost a cruel reminder that she was still there. It didn’t truly stop the bleeding, but at least it hid it. Sometimes, that was all Bea knew how to do: hide.

The sound of shuffling footsteps outside made her lift her head. For a second, her whole body stiffened, instinct screaming danger. But it was different. Slower. More tired.

The door opened with a familiar creak, and Miss Martha entered, carrying her faded knitted bag and her usual crooked parasol. Too small for that world.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry for the delay!” she said, her smile coming before her eyes. “The traffic was a nightmare today...”

She spoke while adjusting her glasses, until her gaze swept across the store. The broken shelves. The shards. The smell. Bea.

“Oh my God…” her voice faltered. “What happened here? And you… you’re hurt.”

Bea shrugged. The gesture came out automatic, empty, like everything about her lately.

“Nico stopped by,” she murmured. “Not a big deal…”

Not a big deal Like just another annoying detail of the day. Like a burnt-out lightbulb. Like a jammed door.

Miss Martha approached slowly, as if afraid of startling her. She touched her face gently, her fingers too light for that heavy world. The woman’s eyes filled with something Bea knew well: sadness mixed with guilt. A guilt that wasn’t hers, but that still hurt.

“You shouldn’t have to go through this alone,” she said quietly. “I’ll clean everything up. Leave early. You’ll be late for your other job.”

Bea looked at the clock. 11:45am.

The number flashed like a fragile promise. If she ran, maybe she could make it. Maybe she’d arrive in time. Maybe the day wouldn’t be completely lost.

“Thank you, Miss Martha,” she said quickly, already putting her backpack on her back.

“Take care, dear!” the woman called, as Bea pushed the door open.

The sun outside hit her like a slap. The street seemed too indifferent to someone who had almost fallen apart. Bea started running. Her feet ached. Her forehead pulsed in time with her heart. Each step demanded more than she had to give, but she kept going. Because stopping had never really been an option.

The bus stop was right there.

The bus too.

The doors were open. The engine was rumbling impatiently. Bea reached out, her fingers touching the cold handrail…

The doors slammed shut with a dry, definitive crack.

The bus sped off, kicking up dust and smoke, carrying with it the last crumb of hope she had saved for that day.

Bea stood still, her hand still suspended in the air.

Silence settled within her once more. A heavy silence, one that neither screamed nor cried… it simply filled everything. Her eyes burned, but she did not cry.

It wasn’t enough sadness to warrant tears.

It was just that old, familiar feeling that no matter how fast you ran, life always slammed the door in your face.

She lowered her hand slowly.

She took a deep breath.