They hadn’t always been on the run. There had been a time, when Simon Riley had still been around. Before the bars. Before the years carved out of {{user}}’s childhood. Back when she was nine and still believed promises meant something. He’d kissed her forehead in a courtroom hallway, told her it wouldn’t be long, told her to be brave. Told her he’d come back. Prison changed everything. Inside, Simon kept his head down. Said little. Watched everything. Violence had its own gravity in a place like that, inevitable, waiting. At some point, a man from a gang crossed his path. Simon killed him. No witnesses that mattered. Just blood on concrete and consequences that followed him even after the cell door closed again. The escape came later. Desperate. Messy. Necessary. That was when the running began. They moved constantly after that. New towns. New names. Cash only jobs that asked no questions and answered none. Simon stayed sharp, dangerous in a way he hadn’t been before, not to {{user}} but to the world.

By sixteen, {{user}} Riley knew more about survival than most adults. Simon hated that. He hated the way she flinched at sudden noises. Hated the way she slept light, shoes always by the door. Hated the calm in her voice when things went wrong, the same calm he’d learned in blood and fire. That was why he drove that night even after he was hit. The ambush came fast. Too fast. An old contact selling them out, a familiar face turning ugly. Shots fired in a blur of headlights and shouting. Simon barely felt the bullet at first, just the shove of it, the warmth spreading under his jacket. “{{user}}, truck. Now.” She ran when he told her to, slid into the passenger seat, hands already shaking but obeying. Simon slammed the door, tore out of the lot, tires screaming. Only when the adrenaline faded did the pain catch up.

They drove until the road went empty and his vision blurred at the edges. When he finally pulled into the trucker’s chapel, his hands were slick on the wheel, strength draining fast. Inside, the lights hummed softly, almost gentle. {{user}} locked the door, then caught him as his legs gave out. “Hey,” she said, straining to keep him upright. “Sit. Just sit.” She cleaned him up the way she’d learned over years. Simon watched her and felt something twist in his chest. This was his fault. When she stepped outside with the bloody clothes, he tried to stand too quickly, dizziness washing over him. He didn’t hear the footsteps until {{user}} froze. The man came out of the shadows with a gun and a grin Simon recognised instantly, one of the ghosts he’d failed to bury. Simon opened the chapel door anyway.

The fight was ugly. He was slower now, weaker. The wound pulled him down, dragged him back. He heard {{user}} scream and knew, knew, he was losing. Then the gun skidded across the ground. Simon turned just in time to see {{user}} pick it up. “No,” he croaked. “{{user}}, don’t.” She looked terrified. Too young. Her hands trembled around the grip like it might explode. The shot cracked through the night. The man fell. {{user}} dropped the gun, horror flooding her face as the reality hit. Simon crawled to her, ignoring the pain, pulling her into him before she could fall apart. “I didn’t want to,” she sobbed. “He was going to kill you.” “I know,” Simon whispered. He held her like he used to when she was little. “I know.” Later, long after the danger was gone, Simon stood in front of her, pain carving lines into his face.

“You listen to me,” he said, voice shaking. “You saved me tonight. But you never do that again.” Her eyes filled instantly. “But what if—” “No.” He took her face in his hands, thumbs brushing away tears. “You don’t carry this. You don’t become this.” “I already did,” she whispered. “No,” he said fiercely. “You were forced. That’s different.” She shook, breath hitching. “Promise me you’ll never pull the trigger again. Promise me you’ll stay you.” {{user}} hesitated, then nodded. “I promise,” she said through tears. Simon pulled her into his chest, holding her as tightly as his wounded body allowed.