Tina woke to the sound of rain drumming against the motel window like impatient fingers. The new room smelled of mildew and cheap pine cleaner, but the bed was softer than the last one and the lock on the door felt sturdier. Small victories. She stretched, joints popping, and reached for her backpack out of habit. The eight hundred dollars from Victor still sat untouched inside the front pocket, wrapped in the same white envelope like it carried a curse she wasn't ready to invoke.
She showered quickly, dressed in the last clean black tee, and headed out. The rain had turned the sidewalks into shallow rivers, reflecting the gray sky in oily puddles. She walked to the warehouse with her hood up, boots splashing through water that soaked her socks within two blocks. Rico was already yelling at a late delivery truck when she arrived. He tossed her gloves without a word. She caught them mid-air and got to work.
The day passed in a haze of cardboard and forklift beeps. She lifted heavier boxes than necessary, stacked higher than safe, anything to keep her mind from circling back to last night's alley, to the way Victor had dismantled two men without breaking a sweat, to the warmth of his arm around her waist as he guided her to the SUV. She'd let him drive her three blocks from the motel, then insisted on walking the rest. He hadn't argued. Just watched her disappear into the rain with that same patient smile.
When her shift ended she collected her eighty dollars, folded them into her pocket, and started the trek back. The rain had eased to a drizzle that clung to her lashes and made the city lights smear like wet watercolor. She stopped at the corner bodega for bread, peanut butter, and a cheap umbrella that looked like it would survive one storm before surrendering.
At the motel desk the clerk—a different guy this time, older, with a faded tattoo of a ship on his forearm—looked up from his phone. "Package for you."
Tina froze. "I didn't order anything."
He shrugged and slid a slim black box across the counter. No label. No return address. Just her fake name scrawled in elegant black ink: **Tina**.
She stared at it like it might bite. The clerk went back to his phone. She took the box and climbed the stairs slowly, heart thudding against her ribs.
Inside the room she locked the door, chained it, wedged the chair, then sat on the bed and opened the lid.
A single white rose lay on black tissue paper, petals perfect and velvety, still damp from the rain. Beside it: a thin silver chain with a tiny pendant shaped like a running fox, delicate enough to be overlooked, strong enough to last. Underneath, another cream card.
**"For the girl who runs beautifully. Wear it if you want. Burn it if you don't. Either way, it's yours. —V"**
Tina's fingers trembled as she lifted the necklace. The fox pendant caught the lamplight and flashed silver, sly and swift. She thought of the alley, of his hand on her cheek wiping away dirt, of the way he'd said "you're safe now" like it was a fact instead of a promise.
She wanted to hurl the whole thing out the window.
Instead she clasped it around her neck. The chain was cool against her skin, the fox pendant settling just above her collarbone like it belonged there. She touched it once, twice, then let her hand fall.
The rose she placed on the nightstand. It looked ridiculous next to the cracked lamp and the half-eaten peanut butter sandwich, but she didn't throw it away.
She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling stains that looked like continents she'd never visit. The necklace felt heavier than silver should. Not because of metal. Because of what it represented.
A gift. Not a demand. Not a threat.
Just a gift.
And that made it the most dangerous thing Victor had sent yet.
Because gifts came with expectations. Favors came with debts. And kindness from a man like him was currency she couldn't afford to spend.
She closed her eyes, fingers drifting to the pendant again. The fox stared back at her in her mind—cunning, quick, always one step ahead.
She almost smiled.
Almost.
Because if Victor thought a necklace would slow her down, he was wrong.
She'd wear it.
She'd run faster.
And when he caught up again—and he would—she'd make sure he remembered exactly who he was chasing.
The rain picked up outside, tapping the window like applause.
Tina rolled onto her side, necklace warm against her skin now, and let the sound lull her toward sleep.
Tomorrow she'd move again.
Tomorrow she'd keep pretending the gifts didn't matter.
Tomorrow she'd lie to herself a little harder.
Because tonight, with the fox resting over her heart, the lie felt thinner than ever.