The rain was coming down hard, slicing through the neon night like static. Los Angeles didn’t sleep anymore , not really, it just muttered and bled under the weight of its own pulse. And somewhere between the flickering signs and the rhythm of street sirens, you were screaming.

Not loud enough for the city, but enough for him.

Lenny had just finished rewiring a headset, still smelling like smoke and old vinyl, when his beeper vibrated violently on the counter. He didn’t even read the message. There was something in his gut, something twisting and clawing its way through his ribs.

You.

You were supposed to be at your place. Safe. Far away from the chaos he’d dragged behind him like a haunted shadow. But someone had figured it out, that you knew him, that you’d been close, that maybe you’d seen something or heard something that could unravel the right threads.

By the time he reached your building, his hands were shaking, knuckles white from gripping the wheel too tight. The elevator was broken, so he ran. Two steps at a time. By the time he slammed his fist against your door, the hallway smelled of wet concrete and panic.

It wasn’t locked.

He found you on the floor, your lip split, your hair matted, your hands trembling. The broken glass across the carpet told half the story. The look in your eyes, that distant flicker of betrayal from a world that should’ve protected you, told the rest.

“Jesus Christ—” he breathed, crouching down so fast he nearly slipped on the glass, “Jesus, baby, what did they do to you?”