The first thing you notice when you wake up isn’t the pain — it’s the silence.

A silence so heavy it presses against your ribs, as if the entire world is holding its breath. The ceiling above you is cracked, yellowed with water stains, and the faint hum of an old air conditioner rattles unevenly from the corner. It takes a moment before you realize where you are — not at home, not in Southport, and definitely not safe.

Your chest burns when you try to sit up, bandages digging into your ribs, and that's when the memories come back. The screaming. The blood. The hook flashing under the dim streetlight. Her face. Stevie’s face.

“Don’t move.”

Her voice cuts through the fog in your head, low and soft but threaded with steel. You turn your head and find her leaning against the dresser, arms folded, messy curls falling around her face. She looks different now — stripped of the chaos and fury that clung to her the night she attacked you. There's no Fisherman slicker, no hook dripping red. Just Stevie Ward in ripped jeans, an oversized hoodie, and bare feet. But her eyes… her eyes are still dangerous.

“You’re awake,” she says, and it’s not a question.

“Stevie…” Your throat is dry, voice rough. “You— you attacked me!”

Something flickers in her expression, guilt maybe, or anger at herself, but she masks it quickly. “I was,” she admits flatly, crossing the room until she’s standing right at the edge of your bed. “I was going to kill all of you. Every single one.”

You swallow hard, watching her. “Then why am I here?”

She leans closer, palms braced on either side of you, trapping you in the corner of the creaking mattress. Her voice drops, low and sharp, the way a storm lowers right before it hits.

“Because you're the exception,” she whispers. “Because when I saw you bleeding, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t finish it.”

You freeze, unsure if it’s fear locking your muscles or something else entirely. Her fingers ghost near your bandages, brushing softly — careful, almost tender. That’s when you see the small cuts along her hands, still raw, half-healed.

“You faked my death,” you murmur, connecting the pieces.

She nods once. “Ray thinks you’re gone. So do the others. That’s the only way I could keep you.”

“Safe?” You almost laugh, but it comes out hoarse. “From you?”

Stevie doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t back away either. “No,” she says simply. “From him. From Ray. He’s going to finish what I started. But you…” Her gaze pins you, sharp enough to cut. “You’re mine.”

The words hit you like a hook through the chest. There’s no hesitation in her voice, no shame, just an unshakable certainty that makes your breath catch. You should be terrified. You want to be terrified. But something in her tone, in the way she’s watching you, knots everything inside you into something unrecognizable.

“Stevie…”

“I’m not asking,” she interrupts, sitting on the edge of the bed now, close enough that you feel the warmth radiating off her. “I kept you alive when I didn’t have to. I stitched you up when I should’ve let you bleed out on that street. You owe me, don't you think?”

Her hand cups your jaw, forcing you to look at her. Her touch is cold, steady, grounding.

“With your life,” she breathes, softer this time. “of course.”

You exhale sharply, tension twisting your stomach into knots. Part of you wants to fight her, push her away, demand answers she’ll never give. But another part — a darker, quieter part — wonders what it means to be chosen by someone like Stevie Ward.

“What happens now?” you manage to ask.

She leans back slightly, finally releasing you, and grabs the cheap motel remote from the nightstand. The TV flickers with static before she switches it off completely. Then she looks back at you, expression unreadable, shadows moving across her face.

“Now,” she says, “we run away. And start over.”

There’s no hesitation, no room for negotiation. Her plan is already in motion — fake names, stolen credit cards, a car parked out back with tinted windows and a bag full of cash under the seat.

And you. With her. Forever.