The clock on Tina's nightstand glowed 2:17 a.m., casting a sickly blue light across the backpack she'd stuffed under her bed like contraband. She sat cross-legged on the floor in the dark, listening to the apartment breathe: her father's ragged snores from the next room, the refrigerator's death-rattle hum, the distant siren that never quite faded in this city. Every sound felt like a warning. Every second felt borrowed.
She moved on silent feet to the dresser, pulling out the last things she needed: the faded hoodie she'd worn when she got her first real tip at the coffee shop, the sneakers with the soles worn thin from too many double shifts, the tiny roll of twenties she'd taped to the underside of her drawer months ago for emergencies she never thought would arrive. She counted them again—three hundred forty-seven dollars plus the crumpled fifty from tonight's tips. Not enough to disappear forever, but enough to disappear tonight.
Her passport went into the front pocket, birth certificate folded small beside it. She hesitated over the photo of her and her brother, then tucked it in too. A small act of rebellion against the idea of cutting every tie. She wasn't running from them. She was running from the cage they'd helped build around her.
The apartment hallway smelled of old carpet and yesterday's takeout. She eased the front door open an inch at a time, wincing when the hinges gave a tiny creak. Her mother's bedroom door stayed closed. Her father's snores didn't falter. She slipped out, pulled the door shut behind her with the softest click, and didn't look back.
The stairwell was colder than the apartment, the fluorescent lights flickering like they were tired of living too. She took the steps two at a time, heart hammering so loud she swore it echoed off the concrete. At the lobby she paused, peering through the glass door at the street outside. Empty sidewalks, parked cars sleeping under streetlamps, the occasional taxi cruising past like it had somewhere better to be. No black SUVs. No men in suits pretending to check their phones. Not yet.
She stepped out into the night. The air hit her face like a slap—sharp, January-cold, smelling of exhaust and wet asphalt. Freedom tasted metallic and alive. She walked fast, head down, hood up, blending into the shadows between streetlights. First stop: the all-night bodega three blocks away. She bought the cheapest prepaid phone they had, paid cash, and activated it on the spot with trembling fingers.
Next: the subway. She took the downtown train, rode it three stops past where she needed to go just to be safe, then doubled back on the local. Every time the doors opened she scanned the platform, half-expecting Victor's face in the crowd. Every time she saw only tired night-shift workers and drunks who didn't care who she was.
At the 34th Street station she emerged into the sleeping city, the Port Authority bus terminal looming ahead like a grimy beacon. She bought a ticket to Philadelphia with cash—no ID required for the short-haul routes. The bus smelled of old coffee and desperation. She took a seat in the very back, pressed against the window, backpack hugged to her chest like armor.
The engine rumbled to life. The driver announced the route in a bored monotone. Tina watched the city lights smear past as the bus pulled away from the curb. Manhattan's glittering towers shrank in the rearview mirror until they were just pinpricks against the black.
She exhaled for what felt like the first time in days.
Her phone—the real one—sat powered off in her pocket. She'd left it on the kitchen counter with a single text drafted but never sent: I'm sorry. I love you. Don't look for me. She couldn't bring herself to hit send. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The bus lurched onto the highway. Tina leaned her forehead against the cold glass and let the vibration rattle through her bones. Three weeks until the wedding they'd planned without her. Three weeks until Victor expected her to walk down an aisle in white lace and surrender. She almost laughed at the image—her in a wedding dress, playing the blushing bride while the man who bought her watched with that predatory smile.
No. She wouldn't be anyone's trophy. She wouldn't be anyone's debt payment. She was twenty-four years old, broke, scared, and finally awake.
The bus rolled south into the dark. Somewhere behind her, in a penthouse twenty-eight floors above the city, Victor Kane probably slept like a king, dreaming of a bride who would come to him willingly or otherwise.
Tina closed her eyes, the hum of tires beneath her like a lullaby for fugitives.
Let him dream.
She was already gone.