Chapter 21 #4
When they finally pulled apart, he led her to the living room. The silence stretched between them like a wire pulled too tight.
“I saw the photos…” she finally said, her voice low.
In the far corners of his mind, the voice of ten-year-old Hassan cut in with venom. “Hear the fear in her voice, nigga. She scared of you.”
Hassan’s jaw clenched, his breath slowed. “You scared of me now?” he asked sharply, cutting her off before she could say more.
Sevyn blinked, confused by the sudden edge in his voice. “What? No. They were horrific… but I’m not scared of you. If anything, I understand you more now.”
She stood, moving closer, her eyes soft—full of concern, not fear.
But to Hassan, that wasn’t what he saw.
“She lying. She judging yo ass. And you weak behind that bitch.” Ten-year-old Hassan spat from somewhere behind his eyes.
Sevyn reached out, trying to take his hand in hers, but he jerked away like her touch burned. Her brows furrowed in confusion.
“You think I’m a monster,” he muttered, standing abruptly and turning away from her.
“Hassan…” she said, stunned. Her chest tightened as she followed after him. “Where is this coming from?”
She wasn’t afraid. Not of him. She was terrified for him. She’d rushed straight over because the thought of him spiraling alone haunted her more than anything Braxton had said or shown her.
But standing in front of him now, she realized—Hassan wasn’t just fighting her concern. He was fighting ghosts she couldn’t see. Demons that didn’t want to let him believe someone could care about him and not run.
And that broke her heart most of all.
When she reached out to touch his hand, he jerked away like her skin burned.
“You think I’m a fucking monster,” he muttered again, stepping back like she was the one who’d wounded him.
“No—Hassan, I—” She rushed out, but he turned away again, his chest rising and falling like a man drowning in his own thoughts.
“Hassan, Braxton has photos of you—”
“I know!” he snapped, his voice rising like thunder. “Your bitch- ass ex tryna pin me for murder!”
The rage in his tone made her flinch—not because she was afraid, but because she’d never heard him yell like that before. It cracked through the air like a whip, and it made the voice in his head louder .
“See that? She jumped. She know what you are. Broken. Just like everybody else said.”
He tried to breathe, to think, but it was too much. Everything was spinning. The case. The photos. Braxton. His past. Sevyn. Her eyes… Her eyes weren’t soft anymore. They couldn’t be. He felt it in his bones— she was slipping from him.
But then she moved in front of him, close enough that he could feel her breath against his skin.
“I know who you are,” she said gently, her hand finding his chest, feeling his heartbeat slamming against his ribs. “I know what Braxton’s trying to do, and I know it’s not who you are. You’re not what he’s painting you to be. You’re not your past. You’re the man I love.”
Hassan’s body trembled as he dropped his head, letting her touch center him. Her fingers moved in slow, grounding circles against his chest, and for a second, he felt like he could breathe again.
Then a cold, guttural voice shattered it all. “What I tell you about that crybaby shit, nigga!” Hassan’s head snapped up. Sevyn was gone.
Standing in front of him now was his father—his ghost—his monster.
Bullet holes still fresh in his chest, that same white, wrinkled button- down soaked with blood, and that familiar sneer twisting his face.
The way he looked that night. Drunk. Grimy.
Laughing about another man’s money lost at the poker table.
Ready to shower. Ready to forget he had a family.
Until the door burst open. Until death silenced his voice.
Now he stood again. Still laughing. Still tormenting him.
And Hassan stood frozen, staring at the ghost of a man who never loved him—while the woman who did was right there, trying to pull him back.
Hassan and Hassan Sr. locked eyes, both silent, both simmering.
Hassan's jaw clenched so tight it felt like it might snap.
“You bein’ a weak ass nigga right now,” his father said, his voice cold, taunting.
Hassan’s eyes darkened, the rage bubbling in his chest. “You the only weak nigga in this bitch. You got your wife killed—and you offered her up like she wasn’t worth a damn thing.”
He stepped forward, fists clenched, eyes locked on the ghost of the man he hated most.
“Hassan… it’s me!” Sevyn’s voice cut through the air, desperate, trembling—but Hassan didn’t hear her.
He didn’t see her. His bipolar disorder was consuming him, blurring the lines of reality.
His stare burned through her, not at her.
Every step he took, she took one back, but she refused to leave.
Even now, scared and unsure, she stood her ground, trying to bring him back.
His father’s laugh echoed like a loaded gun. “Didn’t need no therapy, though , nigga. I took all my demons on the chin. You over here actin’ like a bitch—fuckin’ this therapist and catchin’ feelings.”
Hassan’s eyes turned to steel at the mention of Sevyn.
“She bad,” his father smirked. “Remind me of your mama. Sweet, soft. Looked at me like I was God once—until she didn’t.
Until she saw the truth. Your mother loved me, sure.
But I saw it in her eyes— resentment. Regret.
She knew I was fucked up. And so does that girl.
You think you healed ‘cause she lets you in her bed? Nah. She see you for what you really are. Broken. Dangerous. Just like me.”
The mention of his mother cut deeper than a blade, and Hassan’s muscles tensed. Ten-year-old Hassan appeared beside his father, chuckling, feeding the fire. “She think it too. She just scared to say it.”
His father’s words sliced through him. “And just like your mother, she’s gonna love you while lookin’ over her shoulder. You’ll ruin her too, son. Just like I did your mama.”
That was it. Hassan snapped. He lunged, grabbing his father by the neck—only, it wasn’t his father.
It was Sevyn.
Her breath caught. “Hassan,” she gasped, barely a whisper. “It’s me…”
But his grip didn’t loosen. And for the first time… her fear wasn’t imagined. It was real.
His father’s voice. The younger versions of himself. They weren’t real. They were his fears—his trauma given form, speaking back at him, clawing at the darkest corners of his mind.
But Sevyn… Sevyn was real.
She was the only person who ever truly saw him.
Loved him—not in spite of his demons, but through them.
Before she even knew him as a client, her eyes held the same look his mother once did—understanding, softness, peace.
The kind of love his father never deserved…
but maybe he did. The thought of hurting her—of becoming his father—made him tremble.
But he couldn’t stop.
The voices screamed louder, drowning out reason. His grip around Sevyn’s neck tightened, and she clawed at his wrists, panic in her eyes.
“You’re… hurting me… San,” she gasped, barely able to breathe.
But he couldn’t hear her. His demons were too loud. All he saw was his father laughing, that cruel smirk mocking him, taunting him.
“It hurts, don’t it? Knowing no one will ever see you. They’ll only see the killer in you,” his father sneered.
That did it.
Hassan squeezed harder, trying to strangle the demon in front of him. But in reality, he was seconds away from killing the one person who had ever truly loved him .
Then he heard her voice. Not Sevyn’s. His mother’s. “You’re hurting me, Hassan…”
His eyes shot open. And there she was—Kristi.
Not the broken image from that night. No bullet wound. No blood. Just her. Glowing, radiant. Beautiful. The woman she was before death ever touched her. Her eyes were teary, but soft, filled with nothing but love.
Hassan’s hands dropped instantly as tears poured from his eyes. “I’m—I'm sorry,” he choked out, breathless with guilt.
“I can’t stay long, baby,” she whispered, her voice wrapping around him like a warm hug. “But listen to me—you do deserve love. You deserve to be seen for who you are. For the gentle, good man you’ve always been underneath it all. You deserve her.”
“I’m sorry,” Hassan said, his voice barely above a whisper. For the first time, a single tear slid down his cheek—silent, heavy, and soaked in guilt he couldn’t hide.
His mother smiled gently. “Make it right.” And then she was gone. The room fell silent.
Hassan’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he slowly blinked like snap back to reality.
Sevyn stood pressed against the wall, tears streaking down her face, red handprints blooming on her throat like bruised petals.
Her eyes—those soft, beautiful eyes—looked back at him, not just with fear… but heartbreak.
And in that moment, Hassan realized what he had done.
He hadn’t been killing a ghost. He had almost destroyed the one thing that made him feel human.
“Sevyn…” Hassan’s voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, thick with regret.
The sound of her coughing, her gasps as she tried to breathe again, sliced through him like a blade. Her body trembled, and even as she stood upright, her strength was shaken. He stepped toward her, the words tumbling from his lips. “I’m sorry… Sevyn, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Stop.” Her hand rose, trembling but firm, halting him in place. “I know that wasn’t you, Hassan,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper—shaky, raw, but sure. Her throat burned, but her eyes stayed on his, seeing the torment behind them… and the regret that was already tearing him apart.
Even with her calm tone, he saw it—clearly now. The fear in her eyes. And it shattered him.
“I’m going to give you space,” she added, reaching for her purse on the side table.