Bea was almost at the store when she noticed the figures on the corner.

Three, maybe four. Leaning against the unlit lamppost, their shadows ill-defined against the peeling facade of the building next door. They weren’t laughing, they weren’t arguing. They were just there. Observing something she didn’t want to name.

The pace slowed instinctively.

That neighborhood had always been like that. Strange. Dangerous in a silent way. People who don’t announce themselves, alleys that seem to change location depending on the time of day. She didn’t recognize anyone – and that in itself meant nothing. Recognizing someone there would be more unsettling.

She lowered her head and continued on.

She had learned early on that looking too long was too expensive an invitation. Sometimes, surviving meant pretending not to see.

The shop appeared as an illuminated rectangle in the middle of the dark street. Fogged windows, cold fluorescent light, the sign flickering once before stabilizing. Bea pushed the door open with her shoulder and the bell rang – that small, domestic sound that always gave her a false sense of security.

Mrs. Martha was still there.

“Bea, darling.” The smile came easily, tired, but sincere. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Of course,” she replied, dropping her bag behind the counter. “Did everything go well at the hospital?”

Martha nodded, already grabbing her bag.

“Yes. Now I need to run. My daughter arrives today, her flight was delayed.” She approached and squeezed Bea’s arm lightly. “Call me if anything happens. Seriously. And if you think something bad is going to happen... close the shop, okay?”

“Got it.”

She left in too much of a hurry, the bell ringing again, the door slamming shut with a hollow click. The silence spread quickly, heavy, broken only by the constant hum of the drinks refrigerator.

Bea was left alone.

She took a deep breath.

She went behind the counter, hung up her coat, and pulled her red vest off the hook. The fabric was rough, worn from so many washes. She put it on over her t-shirt, buttoned it up without looking – a ritual too ancient to require attention.

The door opened again.

The bell barely had time to finish ringing.

Quick steps. Heavy steps. The wrong pace for that time of day.

Bea looked up and recognized Nico instantly.

His face was red, distorted by an ancient, barely contained fury. His eyes didn’t search for her; they found her. Directly. Without hesitation. His whole body carried a violent urgency that took a second longer to make sense of.

“Nico, now it’s not-”

She didn’t finish.

The hand came too fast. The fingers closed in her hair with enough force to steal the air from her lungs. The world tilted.

“I warned you that if your father tried to screw me over, you’d pay the price…” he growled, too close.

Before Bea could react, before she could even properly feel fear, her head was pulled forward.

The impact against the counter was sharp.

There was no immediate pain. Just a white flash, a crack inside his skull, as if something had come out of place. The icy marble hit her forehead. Her vision fragmented into blurry lights.

The taste of iron.

Her hands reached for support, then slipped. The red vest scraped against her skin as her body swayed slightly – not enough to fall, not enough to escape.

And in the midst of the pain, the confusion, and the fear that finally arrived, a part of her – the weary part, the part that always accepts – understood that this was not just violence.

That was the breaking point.

His hand did not let go of her hair.

He tightened his grip even more.

Bea was pulled again, and this time the counter didn’t greet her head-on: she was dragged along it. The worn wood scraped her skin, the world slid crookedly. Something fell—bottles, perhaps—shards she couldn’t locate. The doorbell remained silent. They were too alone.

“You should have told me where that son of a bitch was hiding!” he yelled, spitting the words close to her ear.

Bea tried to answer. She really tried. But only a broken sound came out, something between air and pain. Her hands hit the counter, slipped again. He felt the damp heat before he understood.

Blood.

The blood was hers.

He shoved her against the cash register. The impact made the metal vibrate; a sharp creak echoed through the store. Something fell to the floor and shattered.

Her wrist burned, as if it were ripped open from the inside.

“You think you can make a fool of me?” the voice came from above, distorted. “You think you can-”

She didn’t hear the rest.

The punch came from the side.

First, the displacement of air. Then, the dry impact on the face. A deep crack went through the entire head. Vision went black for a second far too long.

When it returned, everything was down.

Bea was on the ground.

The taste of iron filled her mouth. The world spun slowly, as if it had lost its axis. The fluorescent light flickered above her, indifferent. She couldn’t move her legs. Nor her arms.

The silence lasted less than a second.

Then came the tug.

Something held her by the arms, dragging her. Her body was too heavy to react, her skin scraping against the cold floor. The counter passed by, and with it the dark stain that stretched out – an irregular trail betraying every inch she had tried to stand before failing.

She thought of the wrong name. The wrong order of things. She thought that perhaps this was how it all ended – not with sense, but with a miscalculation.

In the last fragment of consciousness, before the darkness closed in completely, she only wished that someone had seen. That someone had cared enough to call the police.