The city never slept. Not even when its people did.
Under flickering streetlights and a sky smeared with the dull haze of midnight, Mila pressed her back against a crumbling brick wall, her breath shallow, her heartbeat a desperate drumbeat in her ears.
She clutched her torn backpack tight to her chest like it was a shield, though everything she had left in the world fit inside—an extra shirt, a cracked phone with no service, and a packet of half-eaten crackers.
Her legs trembled, not just from exhaustion, but fear.
She could still hear him—her stepfather—shouting her name into the night, his voice slurred with alcohol and rage.
She had finally run. After years of biting her tongue, swallowing bruises, and pretending everything was okay... tonight, she had fled.
And now, she was alone.
Mila crouched lower behind a dumpster as footsteps echoed in the alley. But these weren't heavy or clumsy like her stepfather's. These were sharp. Rhythmic. Almost too calm.
A man emerged from the shadows, tall and dressed in black. His coat flowed behind him like smoke, his face half-lit under the streetlamp's glow. He wasn't looking at her.
He was looking at someone else.
Another man—older, bulkier—stood across from him, clearly angry. "You think just because you're an Ashbourne, you can do whatever the hell you want?"
Ashbourne? Mila's stomach twisted. Even she knew that name.
They were practically royalty in this city—untouchable, ruthless, wrapped in rumors and wealth.
"I don't think it," the man in black replied coldly. "I know it."
The older man reached into his coat—too fast.
Gun.
The thought hit Mila a split second before the gunshot did.
Pop.
The noise cracked the silence like lightning. Mila yelped, instinctively ducking behind the dumpster, hands over her ears. Her heart threatened to explode. She dared to peek.
The older man lay on the ground, bleeding, unmoving.
The younger one—Ashbourne—stood still, arm extended, gun smoking in his gloved hand. His face didn't twitch. No fear. No shock.
Like he'd done it before.
And then... his head turned.
Right. Toward. Mila.
She froze. Their eyes met.
Cold. Gray. Unblinking.
His face was beautiful in a cruel, statuesque way—sharp cheekbones, chiseled jaw, lips drawn tight. But his eyes...
They were as lifeless as the man on the ground.
"Come out," he said.
Mila didn't move.
"I saw you," he added, voice softer but more dangerous. "Run, and I won't chase you. But I'll find you."
Her knees buckled as she slowly stood. What choice did she have?
She stepped into the light, dirt on her cheeks, hair tangled from the wind, her hoodie torn from scraping a fence.
She looked like a stray.
He blinked once, expression unreadable. "What's your name?"
"M-Mila," she stammered.
"And what exactly did you see?"
She hesitated. "Nothing. I didn't see anything."
He tilted his head. "Lying doesn't suit you."
The alley seemed to shrink. The walls pressed in. The city, the stars—everything faded except for him.
He took a step closer. "Come with me."
"No."
"You saw me kill a man," he said simply. "Do you really think I'm going to let you walk away?"
"I didn't mean to see anything!" she burst out, her voice shaking. "I just... I was hiding, I wasn't—please, I won't tell anyone. I swear."
He studied her face. Then, to her surprise, he sighed. Not with frustration, but weariness.
"You look like you haven't eaten in days."
She flinched. "What does that have to do with anything?"
He put the gun away, calm as ever. "You're coming with me. You'll be fed. Kept safe."
"Safe?" She laughed bitterly. "You just murdered someone."
He didn't answer.
Instead, he pulled out a phone, murmured something she couldn't hear, and within minutes, a black car rolled into the alley. The man opened the door without even looking at her.
"You can walk into that night and hope no one worse finds you," he said. "Or you can get in."
Her legs ached. Her soul hurt worse.
But more than anything, Mila was tired of running.
She got in.
---
The mansion was nothing like she expected.
It wasn't all gold and glass. It was colder than that. Massive iron gates. Gray stone walls. A driveway long enough to lose a memory on.
Inside, the place felt like a museum. Everything polished, untouched, dead.
The man guided her inside like she was a pet—not cruel, just distant. Like she wasn't real.
"You'll stay in this wing," he said, leading her to a room bigger than her entire apartment. "Don't try to leave."
"I'm not a prisoner," she muttered.
"No," he said. "You're a liability."
And then he turned to go.
"Wait!" she called. "You didn't tell me your name."
He paused at the doorway. "Elias. Elias Ashbourne."
The door shut behind him with a final click.
Mila sank onto the edge of the bed, numb. The sheets were too clean, the silence too loud.
A murderer just gave her a place to sleep.
Was she insane for feeling... relieved?
No. Just desperate.
Still, as she curled under the covers, eyes heavy, she made herself a promise.
No matter how many walls this mansion had...
No matter how rich, how cold, how dangerous Elias Ashbourne was...
She would find a way out.
But even she couldn't deny the truth that scared her more than any gun:
Part of her didn't want to leave.