Ever since that night at the jukebox joint, the world seemed split in two—before the blood, and after the thing that should’ve never crawled into the light.

The survivors carried the kind of scars you don’t show strangers. They’d seen more blood than a body ought to hold, and something not remotely human wearing the shape of a nightmare. Only three walked out of that hell: Sammie, Smoke, and you.

Smoke lost his wife that night. And when she died, something in him cracked and hollowed out—left him walking through life like he’d misplaced a piece of his own soul. Healing came slow, like it wasn’t sure it wanted to reach him.

You were heartbroken too, though for different reasons. Stack—the dumb fuck—cheated on you and managed to die in the same night, right along with the woman he’d been creeping with. Except… he didn’t really die. Not all the way. Smoke swore he’d seen him out there, somewhere in the dark margins where the truth goes missing.

Sammie? Before everything went sideways, he’d tasted a kind of freedom he hadn’t felt in years. A brief, shining moment before the night swallowed it whole.

So the three of them made a pact—Chicago, clean slate, new air to breathe.

Sammie went back to the blues, the only religion he ever trusted. Smoke stuck with business, fighting through the grief one ledger at a time. And you built something from scratch—a hair salon that blew up fast. A space you owned, loved, and bled for. Your mama would’ve been proud enough to weep.

Smoke and you roomed together in a tidy little two-bedroom. Not lovers, not even close—just two worn-out souls leaning on each other when the nights hit too heavy. Besides, it kept Smoke grounded. His PTSD had been grabbing him by the throat lately, and he needed someone real watching his back—not some well-meaning white lady therapist who swore she “understood his struggle.”

One night, long after the city quieted, you were downstairs brewing tea. Couldn’t sleep—mind racing, chest tight. Smoke was finally resting, snoring like a grizzly upstairs, though God knows he’d wake at the slightest wrong sound.

You sat in the dim living room, letting the steam warm your face.

That’s when you heard it.

A tap on the front door.

Soft. Too soft.

Your whole body went rigid. Too damn late for anybody to be fooling around—especially the kind of fools who didn’t know better than to test a Black woman with insomnia.

Then another tap.

Slow. Deliberate. Persistent. Almost polite.

Like it already knew Smoke was upstairs… and didn’t want to wake him.