The tension in the room was so thick it felt like breathing through gauze.

I stared at Terry's outstretched hand for a moment longer than was polite, my reluctance betraying me before I forced myself to take it.

His grip was firm but not overbearing, his palm rough like someone who didn't just sit behind a desk.

Frida shifted nervously beside me. "Ruby, I didn't—"

"It's fine," I interrupted, though it wasn't.

Terry dropped my hand and adjusted his glasses.

"Ms. Nielson, I owe you an apology," he said evenly, cutting Frida off before she could speak again. "Showing up unannounced was unprofessional. Frida had no idea I'd be stopping by—I take full responsibility."

His words were careful, his voice steady, but I still felt the prickle of annoyance at the base of my neck.

"Let's just get this over with, Detective."

Terry gave a small nod, as though he'd expected nothing less.

"I understand this won't be easy," he said. "Your statement is vital to this investigation, but I know the memory itself can feel like... like ripping open an old wound."

I narrowed my eyes at him, the residual tension in my chest flaring again.

"Have you ever fought for your life, Detective? Been so close to losing it that you couldn't even think beyond the next breath?"

The question hung in the air like smoke.

Terry's gaze didn't falter.

"More times than I care to count," he admitted, his voice low but steady. "And every time I get back up and put on this badge, I know the risks. Sometimes, they're worth it."

Something about his honesty—raw, unpolished—disarmed me. The walls I'd built all day didn't crumble, but they shifted enough for me to sit down.

Frida cast me a worried glance, but I gave her a small nod, signaling it was okay. She hesitated, then smiled faintly, a mixture of pride and relief, before slipping upstairs to give us space.

Terry waited until her footsteps receded before pulling a small recorder and notebook from his coat pocket. His movements were methodical, deliberate, like he didn't want to startle me.

"We'll begin with what we know," he said, flipping open his notes.

"According to the police report, the incident occurred on Wednesday evening, around 7:46 PM. A patrol car nearby responded to gunshots and arrived at the scene to find you unconscious and a burned body several meters away. Does that align with your memory?"

The images surfaced instantly, unbidden. Smoke. Flames.

Gabriel's scream slicing through the air. I closed my eyes and took a slow, measured breath. "Yes. That's accurate."

Terry gave a slight nod, his pen poised. "Can you walk me through what happened?"

I hesitated, my throat tightening, but I forced the words out. "I went to the store for some things," I began quietly. "When I came out, I saw them. Three men. They were beating him—Gabriel."

I paused, my heart pounding. Terry waited silently, giving me the space to continue.

"They set him on fire," I said, my voice breaking despite my efforts to hold it together. "He tried to put himself out, but then they... shot him."

Terry scribbled something down, his expression grim. "And then?"

"One of them came for me," I said, my voice sharper now, the fear mingling with anger. "He hit me, tried to strangle me. I fought back as hard as I could. Then I heard the sirens, and he ran off. That's it."

Terry handed me a catalog of photographs, his tone gentle but firm. "This is a collection of the victims from the serial incidents. We're trying to establish if there's any connection. Do you recognize anyone here?"

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing down on me as I flipped through the pages. The first face that stopped me was one I already knew too well.

Gabriel.

Tears prickled at the back of my eyes as I stared at his picture. That smile—kind, unassuming, so vividly etched in my mind. He didn't deserve what happened to him. He'd done nothing wrong.

"That's him," I said quietly, my finger trembling slightly as I pointed to the photo. "That's Gabriel."

Terry nodded, scribbling a note in his book. "We suspected as much."

"You knew him?"

"Not well," I admitted. "He stayed at the homeless shelter. He was kind. Quiet. Never bothered anyone. He didn't deserve this."

I pressed my lips together, blinking back the tears before they could spill. I couldn't afford to break down now.

Terry gave me a moment before prompting gently, "Anyone else look familiar?"

I turned the page, my focus wavering until it stopped cold.

My breath caught in my throat.

The man's face stared back at me—young, unremarkable, but his eyes... something about them sent a chill down my spine. Predatory, cold, calculating. The memory of those eyes, watching me, hunting me, flashed in my mind like lightning splitting the night sky.

I hesitated, the catalog trembling in my hands.

"Ms. Nielson?" Terry's voice was calm, but I could hear the undercurrent of curiosity.

I shook my head quickly, closing the catalog and shoving it toward him. "No. I don't recognize anyone else."

He studied me for a beat too long, his sharp gaze lingering on my face, but he didn't push. Instead, he nodded, slipping the catalog back into his bag. "Thank you, Ms. Nielson. Your cooperation means more than you know."

As he stood to leave, his next words struck a chord I wasn't ready for. "I'm sorry about Gabriel," he said softly. "No one claimed his ashes. They're still at the funeral home."

I felt a sharp pang in my chest, the weight of his words almost too much to bear.

Gabriel deserved better.

He had no one—no family, no one to mourn him. Just another nameless face in a system that didn't care enough.

Terry hesitated, as though he wanted to say more, but instead, he gave a small nod and walked to the door.

The second it closed behind him, I sank onto the couch, my head falling into my hands. Donald. Gabriel. The faceless predator who haunted my nightmares. How had my life unraveled so quickly?

I heard Frida's footsteps descending the stairs, her soft voice cutting through the fog in my mind. "Terry's gone?"

I nodded without lifting my head.

Frida lingered in the doorway, her expression unreadable, before disappearing into the kitchen. Moments later, she returned with a steaming mug of green tea.

"Here," she said gently, setting it on the table in front of me. "You look like you need it."

I picked up the mug, the warmth seeping into my hands like a lifeline. "Thanks, Frida," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

She sat beside me, silent but present, her quiet support speaking louder than any words could.

🏡🏡

Frida's room was as lively as ever, a patchwork of color and chaos. Her open suitcase took up half the bed, already overflowing with neatly folded dresses, sandals, and a ridiculous number of scarves.

I was perched on the other side, folding a blouse I'd picked up from the laundry pile, trying to shake off the weight of my thoughts.

Frida, naturally, noticed. She always did.

"Okay," she said, pausing mid-fold to look at me.

"What's going on? And don't say nothing. You've been staring at that shirt like it holds the secrets to the universe."

I smiled weakly, glancing down at the shirt. "It's just been a long day."

"Uh-huh." She wasn't buying it, but thankfully, she didn't press. Instead, she gestured at her suitcase. "Help me with this mess, and maybe it'll distract you."

I chuckled softly, reaching for the next item in the pile.

"You sure you're not overpacking?"

"It's Italy, Red," she said, tossing a pair of sunglasses into the mix. "There's no such thing as overpacking for Italy."

I shook my head, amused despite myself. "You're only going for a few weeks, not moving there."

"Maybe not this time," she teased, winking.

Her lightheartedness was contagious, but beneath it, I felt the familiar pang of envy. She had a life full of plans and possibilities, while mine felt... stagnant.

"You could still come, you know," she said after a pause, her voice soft but hopeful.

I sighed, placing a carefully folded blouse into her suitcase. "I can't. I'm seeing my family this weekend."

"I know, and I'm glad you are," she said. "But after that, why not come join us for a bit? My parents would be happy to see you. It could be just the break you need."

The offer was tempting, but the thought of leaving everything behind—even for a little while—felt impossible. I shook my head.

"I'll think about it," I said, not meeting her eyes.

Before she could say anything else, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. I reached for it, glancing at the screen. My stomach flipped.

Alex.

"Who is it?" Frida asked, folding a cardigan.

"Alex," I said, swallowing hard.

Her eyebrows shot up. "Well, answer it!"

With a sigh, I put the call on speaker and set the phone down so I could keep folding.

"Hello?"

"Ruby." His voice came through, smooth but tentative. "It's been a while."

"Almost two weeks," I said, keeping my tone polite. "How have you been?"

"Well, I think I'm finally recovering from the embarrassment of you having to haul me to my hotel room like a sack of potatoes," he said with a soft laugh. "You must think I'm a disaster."

I couldn't help but smile a little. "Maybe just that night."

"Fair enough," he said, his tone playful. "I owe you a proper apology—and a drink, though I promise to keep it to one this time."

Frida smirked at me, clearly listening in.

"But seriously," Alex continued, his voice softening.

"I was hoping we could catch up. Dinner, maybe? My treat."

I hesitated, trying to come up with an excuse. "I don't know, Alex. It's been a busy week—"

"You're not saying no, are you?" he interrupted, feigning hurt. "Don't make me beg, Ruby. I'm not above it, but I'd rather keep my dignity intact."

Frida's quiet snicker nearly made me laugh. "Alex—"

"She'll be there!" Frida cut in loudly, grinning as she grabbed the phone. "Seven o'clock works, right? She'll meet you."

I stared at her, mortified. "Frida!"

Alex chuckled on the other end.

"Seven it is. I'll text you the address. Looking forward to it, Ruby."

Before I could protest, he hung up. I glared at Frida, who looked entirely too pleased with herself.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because you've been stuck in your own head for weeks, and you need a break," she said, crossing her arms like the argument was already won.

"Alex seems sweet, and he clearly likes you. One dinner won't kill you."

I sighed, slumping back against the bed. "You're impossible."

"And you're welcome," she said, throwing another pair of sandals into her suitcase.

I shook my head, half-annoyed, half-grateful. Maybe she was right—maybe I did need to get out of my own way for once.

Still, as I folded the next shirt, the thought of dinner with Alex made my stomach twist with nerves.

🚿🚿

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, fingers gently pulling apart a tangle in my hair. It had been too long since I'd done this—taken the time to truly care for myself.

Life had been moving so fast, a blur of stress and survival, that even something as mundane as detangling my 4C hair felt like a luxury.

I reached for the tub of conditioner and slathered a generous amount over my curls, watching them spring to life with a renewed softness. As I worked the deep conditioner through my hair, the rhythmic motions brought a sense of calm.

It wasn't just my hair I was trying to untangle; it was my thoughts.

The sound of the shower running felt like a shield from the rest of the world. Inside the steam and warmth, I let myself relax, scrubbing away not just the day, but the heaviness lingering in my chest.

For the first time in ages, I wasn't dreading the idea of stepping out, of being in someone else's company.

Alex wasn't a stranger, and maybe that made it easier.

By the time I was out of the shower, towel wrapped around me and water dripping from my hair, I felt... lighter. My reflection in the mirror looked brighter too, like the person staring back at me had been waiting for this—a spark of excitement.

After blow-drying my hair, I parted it down the middle, carefully plaiting the ends and pinning them into an elegant up-do. A few tendrils framed my face, softening the overall look.

I paused, touching one of the plaits. It wasn't extravagant, but it was me.

For the outfit, I reached for my closet, scanning the options.

My fingers landed on a white milkmaid dress, simple and light. It felt safe—too safe, maybe, but comfortable. I held it against myself in front of the mirror, debating whether it was enough for dinner.

Before I could decide, Frida appeared in the doorway, her sharp eyes instantly locking onto the dress.

"Nope," she said, crossing her arms.

"What?" I turned to her, frowning. "What's wrong with this?"

She sighed dramatically, stepping into the room.

"Red, where did Alex say he's taking you?"

I glanced at my phone, finding his message: Syrah, 7 PM.

My heart stuttered. "Syrah?"

Frida's grin was equal parts amused and smug.

"Exactly. You're not going to wear that to Syrah. It's one of the nicest rooftop restaurants in the city—exposed to the night sky, fancy cocktails, five-star reviews. You need something with more... edge."

I groaned, draping the dress over my arm. "I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard."

"You won't," she promised, pushing me gently toward the closet. "But you're not walking in there looking like you're ready for brunch either."

I rolled my eyes, stepping aside as she rummaged through my clothes. After a few minutes, she turned around, holding up a slate-grey dress I hadn't even considered.

The long sleeves gave it a sense of modesty, but the scowl neckline added just enough intrigue, showing a hint of cleavage. The hem stopped above my knees, highlighting my legs without being overly revealing.

"This," she said, practically shoving it at me.

"With your black stilettos. Perfect balance—classy, sexy, and confident."

I hesitated, running my fingers over the chiffon fabric. It was more daring than what I would normally choose, but it wasn't over the top. I couldn't deny that it had a certain allure.

"Fine," I relented, taking the dress. "But I'm keeping the jewelry simple."

Frida grinned triumphantly, leaning against the doorframe as I changed.

When I turned to the mirror, I barely recognized myself.

The dress hugged my curves in a way that felt both empowering and intimidating. My legs looked longer in the heels, and the up-do framed my face perfectly.

"See?" Frida said, handing me a pair of delicate earrings. "Stunning. Now Time to have some fun."

I couldn't help but laugh softly, shaking my head. "You act like I'm going on some grand romantic date."

"Maybe. Maybe not," she said, her voice teasing but kind. "Either way, it's still worth enjoying. You deserve that much."

I looked at my reflection one more time, letting her words sink in.

It wasn't a grand romantic date, and I didn't want it to be. But for the first time in a long time, it felt like I was stepping into something brighter, something lighter.

I headed downstairs, Frida trailing behind me.

I reached for my car keys in the small ceramic dish by the door.

Frida insisted on calling it the key pot, claiming it was cute but always sounded a little too whimsical to me. The metal of my keys was cool against my fingers, grounding me for a moment.

I hesitated. Was I really ready for this?

"You don't need your car tonight."

Frida's voice, casual yet smug, broke through my thoughts. I glanced over my shoulder at her, perched on the staircase railing like she had all the time in the world. Her grin told me she was up to something.

"What do you mean?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

Frida hopped off the railing with the grace of someone who lived to deliver surprises.

"There's a chauffeur waiting for you outside. Alex sent him." She said the word like it was some exotic delicacy.

I blinked, caught completely off guard.

"A chauffeur?" My voice cracked slightly on the word, betraying my disbelief.

She nodded, her grin widening as she approached. "You've officially entered the realm of romantic clichés."

I stared at her, unsure whether to laugh or feel overwhelmed. "And you're just telling me this now?"

"I wanted to see your reaction," she admitted shamelessly, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Besides, if I'd told you earlier, you would've found a way to back out. This way, you're too far in to turn around."

I opened my mouth to protest, but the words never came.

Somewhere under my initial surprise was the faintest flicker of excitement, a feeling I hadn't experienced in what felt like years. Maybe I wasn't as annoyed by it as I pretended to be.

She motioned toward the door. "Come on, see for yourself."

Reluctantly, I grabbed my clutch and followed her outside, my heels clicking softly against the wood floors. The cool evening air of Brighton greeted me, carrying with it the faint scent of salt from the nearby coast as Frida opened the door.

When I stepped out the door, I froze.

Parked in front of the house was a car so sleek it could've belonged in a movie—a black Maybach with tinted windows and an exterior that gleamed under the glow of the streetlights.

It was breathtaking.

I glanced back at Frida, who had her arms crossed and was watching me like a proud parent.

"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered, though a small smile tugged at the corners of my lips.

The driver, a sharply dressed man with brown hair, stepped out as soon as he spotted me. His movements were precise and professional, the kind of demeanor that demanded respect without being overbearing.

He tipped his cap slightly and addressed me with a formal, measured tone.

"Good evening, Ms. Nielson. Mr. Sterling sent me to escort you to Syrah."

I blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the formal tone.

"Oh, um... thank you. That's—" I glanced back at Frida, who was barely containing her glee. "That's very thoughtful of him."

"Very thoughtful indeed," Frida quipped, sidling up beside me with a knowing grin.

Rolling my eyes, I turned back to the car. I couldn't help the small smile tugging at my lips.

Alex certainly had a flair for the dramatic.

The driver had already opened the door for me, standing to the side with practiced ease. I hesitated for a moment, glancing back at Frida one last time.

"Well," I said, half to myself, "this is happening."

"It is," she agreed, her grin softening into something more genuine. "Have fun tonight, Red. Just... let yourself enjoy it, okay?"

Her words lingered in the air as I nodded, her encouragement settling over me like a warm blanket.

Sliding into the car, I was immediately enveloped by its luxurious interior.

The leather seats were buttery soft, and the faint scent of sandalwood filled the air. I exhaled slowly, letting the atmosphere sink in as the door shut behind me.

Through the tinted window, I could see Frida standing at the gate, arms crossed and smiling as she gave me a small wave. I returned the gesture before the driver started the engine, the car gliding effortlessly onto the quiet Brighton streets.

As the city lights blurred past, I felt a mixture of nervous energy and quiet anticipation building within me.