"Why."

  "Why me."

  "I trusted you."

  I'd cried until there was nothing left to give. No tears, no sobs—just that hollow ache behind my eyes and deep in my chest, like something had been scooped out and left raw.

  Every muscle in my body hurt, not from effort, but from holding everything in for too long. I felt filthy in a way that had nothing to do with sweat or dirt, the kind of wrong that clings to your skin no matter how still you stay.

  All I could think about was water. Hot water. Standing under it until my skin burned, until my thoughts went quiet, until that sticky, crawling feeling of hands finally washed away. I wanted to disappear into the shower and let the world keep going without me for a while.

  "I... I think I hate you, Julianna," I whispered.

  The words barely made a sound, swallowed by the soft morning noises creeping in through the window.

  Birds chirped, cheerful and oblivious. Somewhere outside, life was starting like it always did. For everyone else, it was just another morning. For me, it felt like I'd woken up trapped in the same nightmare from before.

  Julie didn't answer. Her breathing stayed slow and steady behind me, deep in sleep. Her arm was still draped over me, heavy and warm, like a weight I couldn't breathe under.

  "Let go of me..." My voice cracked.

  "I hate you... let go... please."

  Nothing.

  Minutes stretched. My heart thudded louder in my ears the longer I stayed there, pinned in pce. Panic crept in, sharp and hot. I didn't want to be touched. Not now. Not ever again. I needed space. Air.

  Julie shifted with a quiet groan, rolling slightly, but her grip didn't loosen. That was it. Something inside me snapped—not loud, not dramatic, just final.

  "Let go," I said again, firmer this time.

  I twisted, wiggled, shoved my shoulder forward, my movements clumsy and desperate. My body protested, sore and exhausted, but I forced myself to keep going.

  Finally, after what felt like forever, I slipped free. Her arm fell back against the mattress, lifeless, and she didn't wake.

  I sat there for a moment, frozen, listening. No movement. No voices. Just the birds and my own uneven breathing.

  Good. She was still asleep.

  I hoped—desperately—that Victoria was too.

  I reached for my phone with shaky fingers, the screen lighting up the dim room. 7:00 a.m. Too early for the world to be awake—perfect for disappearing for a bit.

  My chest felt tight just lying there, the walls of the house pressing in on me. Staying here any longer felt dangerous, like if I lingered too long something awful would happen again.

  I needed air. I needed distance.

  I moved slowly, carefully, pulling a pair of pants from my suitcase and slipping them on. Then a clean long sleeve shirt.

  The fabric felt cool against my skin, unfamiliar in a good way. It didn't fix anything—not really—but it helped. Just a little. Like putting on armor made of cotton and denial. At least I didn't feel as contaminated as before.

  I slid my feet into my shoes, tying them quietly, every small sound making my nerves jump. My body screamed that I needed the bathroom, but the thought of lingering inside this house any longer made my stomach twist.

  It wasn't worth the risk. I could hold it.

  I cracked the bedroom door open and peeked into the hallway. Empty. Silent. The house felt wrong in the morning light—too calm, too normal, like nothing bad had ever happened here.

  A soft breeze drifted in through an open window, stirring the curtains gently. It almost felt peaceful, which somehow made it worse.

  I moved through the house like I didn't belong there, each step careful, controlled, my breath shallow. I didn't look toward the living room. I didn't want to see anyone. I just wanted out.

  When I reached the front door, I hesitated for a second, hand hovering over the handle, heart pounding like it was afraid of being caught. Then I eased it open and slipped outside, closing it behind me as quietly as I could.

  The morning air hit me immediately—cooler than inside, fresher. I sucked it in like I'd been underwater too long.

  I stood there for a moment, unsure where to go. I couldn't just wander forever.

  Then it clicked.

  The bench from before.

  The thought of it brought a strange sense of relief. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I could sit, breathe, and exist without being touched or watched.

  I started walking, my steps quickening, the house shrinking behind me as I headed toward the only pce that felt even remotely safe.

  "Who can I even trust in this godforsaken world..." I whispered to no one, my voice barely louder than the wind brushing past me.

  "Everyone just... hurts me. Over and over. Why?"

  My arms wrapped tightly around my own body as I walked, hugging myself like that alone might be enough to keep me safe. Like if I held on hard enough, nothing else could touch me.

  My shoulders curled inward, my posture small, defensive—instinctive. I felt fragile, like gss already cracked in too many pces.

  "I don't deserve this..." My voice trembled. "I never asked for this. I never wanted to be hurt."

  Each step toward the wooden bench felt heavier than the st, my legs moving on muscle memory alone. When I finally reached it and sat down, the wood felt rough beneath me, solid and real—at least something was.

  I leaned forward slightly, elbows on my knees, staring out at the city of Culiacán spread out below me.

  It should've been beautiful. The soft morning light, the quiet hum of life waking up, rooftops glowing faintly in the sun. Any other day, maybe it would've calmed me.

  But today it didn't.

  "Was my life meant to be like this?" I whispered hoarsely. "Just pain after pain... like that's all I'm good for." My throat tightened painfully, the words scraping their way out. "Is this what I was born for? To suffer?"

  My chest began to feel tight, like an invisible hand was squeezing my lungs. My breathing turned shallow without me noticing at first.

  Then my stomach twisted hard, a sudden violent churn that made me bend forward.

  My heart started racing, pounding so fast it felt like it might burst out of my chest. Cold sweat prickled along my back. I barely had time to register what was happening before my body betrayed me.

  I lurched forward, gagging, and vomited onto the dirt in front of the bench—nothing but water and bile spshing out, my body convulsing with each dry heave. My hands trembled as I braced myself against the bench, dizziness washing over me.

  When it finally stopped, I stayed there hunched over, gasping for air, saliva hanging from my lips, my eyes burning with unshed tears.

  Empty. Shaking. Broken.

  I wiped my mouth weakly with the back of my sleeve, staring at the ground like it held answers I didn't have the strength to look for anymore.

  "I hate rapists too..."

  The words cut through the fog in my head, calm and steady, spoken by a woman's voice beside me. I didn't flinch. I didn't even look up. For a split second, I honestly hoped this was it—that whoever she was would end things quickly. No more running. No more fear.

  But nothing happened.

  Instead, the bench dipped slightly as she sat down next to me. Close, but not crowding. I felt a hand move toward my shoulder and my body tensed on instinct, every muscle screaming danger—

  —yet the touch never turned into a grip.

  It was gentle. Warm. Heavy in a grounding way, like an anchor instead of a hook. She didn't squeeze. Didn't pull me closer. Her palm simply rested there, solid and real, as if reminding me I was still here. Still alive.

  "I'm so sorry that happened to you, Miguel," she said quietly.

  My breath caught. My name coming from her mouth felt unreal, almost intrusive. My fingers curled against my knees, knuckles whitening.

  "I know you're probably wondering how I know," she continued, her tone even, almost tired. "I had some of my punteros (informants) keep an eye on you. And that bitch Julianna..." She exhaled sharply through her nose. "She wasn't exactly being quiet."

  I finally forced myself to turn my head.

  It was Car.

  She wasn't looking at me. Her gaze was fixed on the city below, eyes sharp and distant, like she was watching ten things at once.

  Her vest was strapped on tight, dark and rigid against her frame, even here—on a bench, in the open air. Even while sitting still, she looked prepared for violence, like stillness itself was just another stance.

  The morning light caught the edges of her profile, the hard lines softened just enough to remind me she was human. Dangerous, yes—but human.

  I swallowed hard, my throat raw. My stomach still churned faintly, my body exhausted from crying, from vomiting, from existing.

  She didn't press me for words. Didn't ask questions. Her hand stayed where it was, steady, patient—nothing like the hands that had hurt me before.

  And for the first time since everything happened, I realized something terrifying and confusing all at once:

  I didn't feel hunted.

  I felt... seen and... comforted.

  ———

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