THE SOUTH BRONX NIGHT SWALLOWED the Honda Civic as Chiji parked it behind Obi's auto shop, a squat brick building tagged with graffiti and lit by a flickering neon sign: Obi's Fixes.

Rain drizzled against the roof, a soft patter after the storm of gunfire and screeching tires. Svetlana tucked the ledger into her jacket, her gun holstered but close, her arctic eyes scanning the shadows through the cracked windshield.

"This Obi," she said, voice low, "he's your friend?" Her Russian accent curled around the words like smoke, making even the simplest question sound like a threat.

"Best I've got," Chiji replied, cutting the engine. His jaw ached from her kick, his palm stung from the glass cut, but his pulse still thrummed—a wild, reckless beat he hadn't felt since Lagos. The pain was almost sweet, a reminder that he was still alive despite the bullets that had chased them through Manhattan's concrete veins. "Mechanic. Smart. Keeps his mouth shut."

"Good." She stepped out, rain streaking her leather jacket, platinum hair plastered to her skull. She nodded toward the shop's back door. "We need a car—clean, fast. And no questions."

Her movements were liquid grace even now—a predator who didn't shed her skin just because the hunt had paused. Chiji watched her, transfixed, before following. The woman who'd kicked him in the face hours ago now held his future in her bloodstained hands. Life had a twisted sense of humor.

"You're staring," she said without turning around.

Chiji's lips quirked. "Just making sure you don't pull another gun on me."

She glanced over her shoulder, one perfect eyebrow arched. "If I wanted you dead, kotyonok, you wouldn't see it coming."

The alley smelled of oil and garbage, a gritty comfort compared to Manhattan's polished chaos. He rapped on the door—three quick knocks, their old signal from back home. A muffled curse came from inside, then the lock clicked.

Obi opened the door, all six-foot-three of him filling the frame—broad shoulders, oil-stained hands, a scowl etched deep from years of fixing other people's messes. His eyes widened at Chiji, then narrowed at Svetlana, taking in her wet hair, blood-flecked blouse, and the hard edge in her stare.

"Chiji, what the fuck?" Obi's voice boomed, thick with their shared Lagos accent. "You look like you crawled out of a war zone. And who's this?"

"Obi, meet Svetlana," Chiji said, stepping inside. The shop was a maze of car parts—engines on blocks, tires stacked high, tools glinting under fluorescent lights. The familiar smell of motor oil and metal wrapped around him like a childhood blanket. "Svetlana, Obi. We need a favor."

Obi crossed his arms, sizing her up. "Favor? You roll in here with a shot-up vibe and a Russian queen, I'm guessing this ain't about a flat tire."

Svetlana smirked, leaning against a workbench, casual but coiled. Her fingers drummed against the metal surface, nails clicking like a countdown. "Smart man. We need a car—untraceable. Tonight."

"Tonight?" Obi gave a humorless laugh. "Sure. And while I'm at it, why don't I just hand over my kidneys too?" He turned to Chiji, lowering his voice though it hardly mattered in the small space. "What's this about? You in deep with her?"

"Deeper than I'd like," Chiji muttered, running a hand through his damp hair. Blood flecked his fingertips—his or someone else's, he couldn't remember.

His mind flashed to Lagos—sixteen, dodging axe-wielding gangs in Oshodi market, heart pounding as he outran death with a stolen wallet. Back then, adrenaline was survival, a thrill he'd chased to prove he could outsmart the streets. Tonight, ducking bullets with Svetlana, that same rush had roared back—sharper, wilder, like he'd woken up from a long sleep. "Long story, bro. Just trust me."

"Trust you?" Obi barked a laugh, gesturing at Svetlana. "She's poison, man. Look at her—trouble's her shadow. You smell like gunpowder, and I bet that blood ain't yours."

Chiji opened his mouth to argue, but Svetlana pushed off the workbench, closing the distance between herself and Obi with feline grace. The shop seemed to shrink around her, air thickening with tension.

"Poison?" she echoed, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow filled the room. She tilted her head, wet hair sliding across her cheek, her smirk widening into something playful—dangerous. She stepped closer to Obi, hips swaying, her voice dropping to a purr. "You're quick to judge. Maybe I'm just... misunderstood." Her fingers brushed his arm, light as a feather, testing him.

Obi's jaw tightened, but Chiji didn't miss the way his friend's pupils dilated. Svetlana had that effect—drawing men in like moths to a flame, even as they sensed the burn coming.

"Cut it," Chiji snapped, louder than he meant. "Obi's not your toy."

She turned, eyes glinting with amusement. "Jealous, Chijioke? Interesting." She stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender, but the spark in her gaze said she'd won that round. "Don't worry, I prefer my men a little... damaged." Her eyes raked over him, lingering on the bruise forming on his jaw.

Heat crawled up Chiji's neck, and for a moment he forgot about the men hunting them, the blood on their hands, the ticking clock of their survival. She had reduced him to pure instinct with just a look.

Obi glared between them, shaking his head. "You're both crazy. Chiji, this chick's gonna get you killed. Walk away."

"Can't," Chiji said, voice steady despite the ache in his chest. "Not yet. We've got forty-eight hours to finish this—her mess, my ticket out. I need your help, bro. One car, clean plates. Then I'm gone."

Obi sighed, rubbing his neck, the fight draining out of him. "You're a damn fool. But you're my fool." He jerked a thumb toward a tarp-covered shape in the corner. "Got a '98 Mustang—fixed it for a guy who never paid. New plates, off the books. Fast as hell. Take it."

Svetlana's smirk softened into something like approval. "Perfect."

"Thanks, Obi," Chiji said, clasping his friend's shoulder. The familiar solidity of Obi grounded him, a reminder of who he was before tonight's chaos. "I owe you."

"You owe me a damn explanation," Obi shot back, but his tone softened. "And a beer when this blows over—if you live." He glanced at Svetlana, wary. "She's trouble, Chiji. Big trouble. Don't let her drag you down."

"She already has," Chiji said, half a grin tugging his lips despite everything. "But I'm still breathing."

Obi stepped closer, his voice dropping. "You sure she's worth it? Whatever this is?"

Chiji looked over at Svetlana, who was examining the Mustang with critical eyes. The ledger—filled with names, numbers, and enough dirt to bury Dmitry and his entire operation—made a slight bulge in her jacket. That book was worth millions to the right people. And a bullet to the head from the wrong ones.

"I'm not sure of anything anymore," Chiji admitted. "But I'm in now. Can't walk away."

"You always did like playing with fire," Obi muttered, shaking his head. "Remember that girl in Lagos? The one whose brother was in the Wolf Gang?"

Chiji laughed, the sound rusty in his throat. "Temi. Yeah. Almost got my throat cut for a smile."

"And now?" Obi nodded toward Svetlana.

"Now it's bullets instead of knives."

"Progress," Obi said dryly. He pulled the tarp off the Mustang. It gleamed black under the lights—sleek, low, a beast ready to run. He tossed Chiji the keys. "Get out of here before whoever's chasing you finds my shop."

Svetlana slid into the passenger seat, the ledger still tucked close, her gun resting on her lap. The leather interior creaked as she settled in, crossing her legs with calculated casualness. But Chiji saw the tightness in her shoulders, the way her fingers stayed close to the trigger.

"Your friend doesn't trust me," she said as Chiji slid in beside her.

"Smart man," Chiji replied, inserting the key into the ignition.

"And you?"

"I trust you to save your own skin. Right now, that means keeping me alive too." He fired up the engine—a deep, throaty roar that vibrated through him, chasing away the night's chill.

Svetlana's lips curved, not quite a smile. "Pragmatic. I like that."

He glanced at Obi, who stood in the doorway, arms crossed, worry etched into his face. For a moment, Chiji saw the boy he'd been—fourteen, back in Lagos, Obi the only friend who understood what they'd left behind. Now here he was, dragging danger to Obi's door.

"Stay safe, bro," Obi called as Chiji backed out.

"Always," Chiji lied, peeling into the alley. The Mustang growled, rain streaking the windshield, the South Bronx a blur of concrete and shadows.

Svetlana's silence filled the car, heavier than the engine's rumble. Her pale fingers tapped against the leather-bound ledger in her lap, a nervous tell he hadn't noticed before.

"Your friend's right," she said finally, voice low. "I'm trouble."

"No kidding," Chiji replied, eyes on the road. A police car crawled by at the intersection, lights off, and he held his breath until it passed. "But I'm not walking away. Not yet."

"Why?" Her question was sharp, cutting through the hum. "Money? Pride?" She turned in her seat, studying him with those glacier eyes. "Most men would have run the moment I kicked them in the face."

He gripped the wheel, the Lagos flashback flickering—running through Oshodi's chaos, heart alive with every step, proving he could beat the odds. "Maybe I like the rush," he admitted, voice rough. "Back home, I outran gangs, dodged knives, made it to America. Tonight—bullets, your kick, that chase—it's the same. I'm awake now. Can't go back to sleep."

Her lips parted, surprise flickering before her mask snapped back. "Careful, Chijioke. That rush can kill you."

"Everything can kill me lately," he shot back, a grin tugging free. "Might as well enjoy it."

She laughed—soft, real, a sound that warmed the car's cold leather. "You're insane. I like that."

"I'm Nigerian." He grinned. "What's your excuse?" he asked, making a sharp turn down a side street. "That ledger worth dying for?"

Her amusement vanished, eyes going hard. "Yes." She touched the book through her jacket, fingers almost reverent. "You don't understand what Dmitry has done. To me. To others. This book isn't just names and numbers—it's justice."

"Justice costs extra," Chiji said, checking the rearview mirror. The streets were empty for now, but he couldn't shake the feeling of being hunted. "Especially in this city."

"Then consider your payment an investment in karma," she said, her tone final.

Rain drummed harder on the roof as they drove in silence. Lightning split the sky, illuminating her profile—sharp cheekbones, the curve of her neck, the tension in her jaw. In that flash of light, she looked almost vulnerable. Almost.

"Alexei will have men at every checkpoint," she said suddenly. "They'll be looking for your Honda, but they'll soon figure out we've switched vehicles."

"Alexei," Chiji repeated. The name tasted bitter on his tongue.

She nodded. "He doesn't handle rejection well."

"No kidding. Most guys send angry texts. He sent bullets."

"Russian men," she said with a shrug, as if that explained everything. "He's not just angry about me. That ledger has his name all over it. If the feds get it—"

"Then he's finished," Chiji finished for her. "Along with your father and the whole operation."

"And me," she added quietly. "Unless we make the handoff. My new identity, your money—it all happens at that exchange."

"Svetlana, I have a lot of questions," Chijioke exhaled, his voice tight with frustration.

She let out a sharp breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Please, just save it. I can't take any more right now."

The Mustang roared north, weaving through empty streets, the rain a steady drumbeat. A faint siren wailed in the distance, a ghost of the hunt still closing in. Obi's shop faded behind them, but his warning lingered—Svetlana was poison, a storm he couldn't outrun. Dmitry's cleaners were still out there, Alexei too, hunting the ledger she clutched like a lifeline. Forty-eight hours stretched ahead, a countdown to freedom or a grave.

"We'll need supplies," Chiji said, thinking aloud. "Food, first aid kit. We can't use credit cards—they'll trace them."

"I have cash," Svetlana replied. She reached into her boot, pulling out a thick roll of hundreds. "Enough to get us through the next two days."

"Always prepared," he murmured, impressed despite himself.

"I've been planning this for months, Chijioke. Nothing was left to chance." She paused, her next words softer. "Except you. You were... unexpected."

Their eyes met briefly, something electric passing between them before he looked back at the road. It was dangerous, this pull toward her. She had a plan, and he was a means to an end—a driver who knew the city, who could navigate the shadows. Nothing more.

Chiji glanced at her—wet hair framing her face, eyes glinting with that wild spark—and felt that Lagos thrill surge again. Poison or not, she'd woken something in him. And he wasn't ready to let it die.

"Where now?" he asked, voice steady.

"An old garage," she said, checking her phone. "Few blocks up. We lay low till dawn, then hit the forger."

"And if they find us again?"

Her smile was all teeth, dangerous and alive. "We fight. Or we run. Your choice, Chijioke."

He nodded, the Mustang's growl matching his pulse. "Guess we'll see."

The garage loomed ahead, abandoned and dark, its rusted door a perfect hiding place for their stolen beast. Chiji pulled inside, killed the engine, and let the silence wash over them. Outside, the rain continued its steady rhythm, nature's own countdown.

Svetlana checked her gun, the metal gleaming in the dim light that filtered through broken windows. "Get some rest," she said. "I'll take first watch."

"And if I don't trust you not to leave me here?" Chiji challenged, even as exhaustion tugged at his bones.

She leaned across the center console, close enough that he could smell her perfume and sweat beneath the gunpowder and rain. Her hand found his jaw, fingers tracing the bruise she'd left hours ago.

"Smart man," she whispered, echoing his earlier words. "But I need you alive, Chijioke. For now."

Her touch lingered a moment too long, heat blooming where her fingers met his skin. Then she was gone, moving to the corner of the garage with her back to the wall, gun ready, ledger close.

Chiji settled back in the driver's seat, one hand on the keys, the other on a crowbar he found in the Mustang's trunk. Trust was a luxury neither of them could afford. A shadow shifted outside the garage, faint but deliberate, and his grip tightened. As sleep clawed at him, he watched her—this dangerous, beautiful woman who'd crashed into his life with bullets and promises.

Forty-eight hours. Then they'd either be free or dead.

Either way, he was finally awake again.

***
Please vote and drop a commentッ