The first thing I learnedI learned about NEW YORK is that it doesn't care who you are.
It doesn't care if you've left everything behind.
It doesn't care if you're running from something — or someone.
It swallows you whole, chews you up, and spits you out, and if you're lucky, you get to crawl away still breathing.
I wasn't lucky. Not yet.
The subway ride to my new apartment was noisy, stifling, and long. I clutched my single duffel bag like it was armor, ignoring the curious stares of strangers. Every bump of the train sent my heart racing. I hated that. I hated feeling small. I hated feeling afraid.
But fear had kept me alive.
The apartment was worse than I imagined. A fifth-floor walk-up that smelled of mildew and fried onions. The locks on the door looked like they'd been changed five times, each one mismatched and rusting. The paint peeled like dead skin, and the radiator hissed like it resented me for existing.
It was perfect.
No one would look for me here.
I dumped my bag on the creaky mattress and stood in the middle of the room, listening to the hum of the city through the window. My past felt like a phantom pressing on my back, but I pushed it down.
New city. New life. New me.
And if I kept telling myself that, maybe I'd start to believe it.
The next morning, I started my new job at Café Allegra, a cramped little place that smelled of burnt espresso and desperation.
It was nothing special — mismatched furniture, cracked tiles, and a register that only worked if you hit it twice. But it was mine. A paycheck. A reason to keep moving forward.
I tied my apron, brushed a stray strand of hair out of my face, and plastered on a smile I didn't feel.
"First day?" Marcy, the manager, asked. She was in her forties, chain-smoking optimism and caffeine.
"Yeah," I said.
"Don't let the regulars scare you. Or the ones in suits. They don't bite. Much."
The ones in suits?
I didn't have time to ask. The morning rush hit, and suddenly I was juggling lattes and muffins, dodging elbows, and trying not to spill hot coffee on anyone important.
And then the room went quiet.
I didn't notice at first. I was too busy steaming milk. But when I turned, I saw him.
He walked in like he owned the place.
Tall. Sharp. Dark hair slicked back with careless precision. A tailored black suit that probably cost more than my entire life. Every step he took was deliberate, predatory.
Conversations died as he passed. People turned away, like looking at him too long was dangerous.
And God help me, I couldn't stop staring.
His eyes — impossibly dark, almost black — found mine. For a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't kind. It wasn't warm. It was the kind of smile that promised trouble.
He walked straight to the counter.
"You're new," he said. His voice was low, smooth, the kind that could cut through chaos without raising a single decibel.
"Yes," I managed, suddenly aware of how cheap my uniform felt.
"Name?"
"Ava," I said before I could think better of it.
"Ava." He said it slowly, tasting the syllables like he owned them now.
"And you are?" I asked, because fear made me reckless.
His smile deepened. "Someone you shouldn't want to know."
My pulse skipped. I couldn't tell if it was warning or invitation.