The fight isn't over—and I learn that the hard way.
The first shot cracked through the air before I could even register movement. It was sharp, violent, splitting the night open, and suddenly everything erupted into chaos. Shouts echoed from every direction, boots pounding against concrete, muzzle flashes lighting up the darkness like brief, blinding stars. I barely had time to gasp before I was shoved hard against the car, metal biting into my spine.
I was caught between a crossfire.
The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. This was happening because of me.
Men were dying tonight—real men with lives and families—and they were dying because two men decided to save me after kidnapping me. Two men who should have walked away, who should have let this end without me in the middle.
My stomach twisted violently.
Gunfire roared in my ears as Mitch fired back with ruthless precision, his body moving instinctively between me and the threat. James was a few feet away, equally lethal, his shots clean and merciless. They moved like professionals, but I was frozen, the terror and guilt immobilizing me.
Every bullet felt personal. Every body that fell felt like blood on my hands. I pressed my palms to my ears, wishing I could shut it all out. I wanted to scream at them to stop, to tell them I wasn't worth this, that I never asked to be saved with death trailing behind me.
Through the chaos, I heard them arguing—yelling over gunfire about what had happened inside the building, about me, about the moment Mitch and I shared when fear blurred into something dangerously intimate.
"Focus!" James snapped, firing again.
"I am focused!" Mitch fired back, jaw clenched, fury laced with fear.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
All I wanted was to start over. To forget the screams, the locked rooms, the constant fear crawling under my skin. I wanted a clean slate. A life where I wasn't someone people hunted, protected, fought over. I wanted peace.
Instead, I was part of the torture—watching it unfold, knowing I was the reason it existed.
"Move!" Mitch barked suddenly, grabbing my arm and pulling me up.
My legs barely cooperated as he dragged me behind a concrete barrier. My knees slammed into the ground, pain shooting through me, but I barely registered it. Adrenaline and fear tangled together until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
"This is my fault," I whispered, the words tearing out of me. "All of this—it's because of me."
Mitch whirled on me, eyes blazing. "Don't."
"I didn't want this," I choked. "I didn't want anyone to die."
"Alexis," he said sharply, gripping my face so I had no choice but to meet his eyes. His hands were warm, steady, grounding. "You don't get to carry everyone else's choices on your back."
Another explosion rattled the ground beneath us, cutting him off. Dust rained down, and James swore loudly from somewhere to our left.
"We need to move—now!" James shouted.
Mitch didn't hesitate. He pulled me up again, and this time I forced my legs to move, even though they felt like they might give out beneath me. We ran, gunfire chasing us, shadows darting between buildings as enemies closed in from every direction.
I tripped—panic stealing my coordination—and before I could hit the ground, Mitch scooped me up again, throwing me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing.
"Put me down!" I protested weakly.
"Not happening," he growled, firing with one hand while holding me with the other.
James covered us from behind, his shots clean and deadly. I buried my face against Mitch's back, the smell of smoke and blood filling my lungs as the world became pure noise and motion and fear.
We reached another wall, ducking behind it just as bullets tore through the space we'd occupied seconds earlier. Mitch lowered me carefully this time, hands lingering just long enough to make my chest ache.
I pressed my forehead against the cold concrete, breathing hard.
I wanted a new beginning.
Instead, I became the reason everything was burning.
And deep down, I knew the fight wasn't over , not yet.
The fact that I was getting too close with these guys was crazy. Every second felt like walking a tightrope between fear, survival, and something… else I wasn't ready to name.
"Take this," James said abruptly, holding a small bottle out toward me. I squinted at it, confusion written all over my face.
"What is it?" I asked cautiously.
"Pepper spray," he said, clipped and serious.
I blinked. "Pepper spray?"
Mitch, in the passenger seat, chuckled, shaking his head and tapping James on the shoulder. "You're so whipped," he teased.
I flushed. "Whipped? Excuse me?"
"You're staring at him like he's your savior," Mitch said, grinning. "Pepper spray, huh? You're ready to fight your way out, but only if he hands you the tools first."
James rolled his eyes at Mitch, clearly irritated by the jab, but his lips twitched like he was fighting back a smile. "She's not whipped," he muttered, though his tone lacked conviction.
I snatched the bottle from him, holding it like a lifeline. "I'm just… being practical," I muttered.
Mitch snorted. "Yeah, sure. Totally practical. I bet next you'll hand him a first aid kit, a flashlight, and your heart."
I groaned, burying my face in my hands for a second. "One day, you're going to regret being alive around me."
He just laughed.
James focused on the road, eyes scanning for the car carrying Cara. "Save the commentary for later," he muttered. "We're not out of this yet."
The car carrying Cara swerved ahead, tires screeching against the asphalt. My stomach dropped as I clutched the pepper spray. Every second counted.
"Hang on," James growled, hands tight on the wheel. Mitch leaned forward, scanning every shadow. "They're trying to lose us. Don't let them."
We cornered the car in a narrow alley. The kidnappers jumped out, guns raised, shouting curses as they tried to hold Cara hostage. My heart lurched at the sight of her, terrified but resisting.
"Alexis, stay close!" Mitch barked.
I stepped forward instinctively, pressing the spray into the face of a man lunging at us. He screamed, stumbling back, giving Mitch the opening to grab Cara and pull her toward us.
Bullets rang out. Sparks flew. My knees nearly buckled as I ducked behind a dumpster, heart hammering. Another kidnapper fell back, blinded by the spray. Cara twisted free, and I grabbed her arm, pulling her along as we sprinted toward the car.
Mitch hoisted her over the chain-link fence, then helped me climb after her. A shot rang out, hitting the ground inches from my foot. Instinct took over—I sprayed another attacker, sending him stumbling.
"Now run!" Mitch yelled.
We sprinted toward James' car, diving in as he hit the gas. The city blurred past. I held Cara's hand tight.
"She's safe," Mitch muttered, glancing at us briefly. Relief, pride… maybe even something more passing between us.
For the first time that night, I let myself breathe.
But deep down, I knew the danger wasn't over. Not yet. Because in our world, it never is.