Chapter Five - Hannah
The music pounds relentlessly, a deep bassline that rattles through my chest and leaves my ears ringing. Even as I weave through the crowded floor of the club, I can’t escape it. It clings to me like the stench of spilled liquor and cheap cologne—a constant reminder of where I am and how much I hate it.
This job wasn’t supposed to be permanent. When I started, I told myself it was just a means to an end, a way to save up and eventually get back to art school. I’d dropped out in my first year, not because I wasn’t good enough but because life had a way of cutting your legs out from under you when you were just starting to run.
Rent, groceries, utilities—they all added up faster than I expected when I first moved to the city. Dreams of sketching under sunlight and exploring galleries gave way to twelve-hour shifts under the glare of strobe lights, dodging grabby hands and leering eyes.
“Hey, sweetheart,” a man slurs, reaching out as I pass by with a tray of empty glasses.
I step out of his reach, my smile frozen in place. “Enjoy your evening, sir.”
It’s the same every night. Drunken customers who think the uniform gives them permission to paw at me like I’m part of the entertainment.
As I pass the bar, one of the bartenders, Carla, gives me a sympathetic look. “Almost done?” she asks, her voice barely audible over the music.
I nod, balancing the tray on my hip. “Ten more minutes,” I reply, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Not that I’m counting or anything.”
Carla snorts, wiping down the counter. “You and me both. Hang in there.”
I force a smile, but my grip on the tray tightens as I head toward the back. The farther I get from the noise of the main floor, the more my frustration simmers to the surface. It’s not just the rude customers or the deafening music. It’s everything.
The job, the people, the sheer grind of it all—it’s suffocating. Kris is the worst of them, though. The smug way he smiles when he talks to me, like he’s doing me a favor by keeping me employed.
Earlier tonight, he’d called me to his office, his tone dripping with faux concern as he said, “If you’re into that sort of thing, I could help you out. Some VIPs would pay good money for a pretty little thing like you.”
The words replay in my mind, each syllable scraping against my skin like sandpaper.
I don’t know what infuriates me more—the casual way he suggested I sell myself, or the way he clearly thought I’d consider it.
I push open the door to the staff room, depositing the tray on the counter before grabbing my bag. My shift is officially over, and most of the other waitresses have already left for the night. The muffled music filters in through the walls, quieter here but still a constant presence.
As I sling my bag over my shoulder, my eyes catch on the crumpled paycheck stub sticking out of the top. It’s a pitiful amount, barely enough to scrape by after I pay rent and buy groceries. Saving up for art school feels like trying to fill a swimming pool with an eyedropper.
Still, I can’t let it go. The thought of finally getting back to that world—to sketchbooks and canvases and endless possibilities—keeps me going. Even if it means enduring nights like this one.
I swipe through the photos, my chest tightening as I scroll past pieces of my old work. There’s the charcoal sketch of a mother cradling her child, the soft smudges giving it an ethereal quality. A vibrant watercolor of a mountain range at sunset comes next, followed by a minimalist ink drawing of a city skyline.
I pause on one in particular—a detailed oil painting of a girl standing at the edge of a forest, her face half-lit by golden light filtering through the trees. It had taken me weeks to finish, every brushstroke a labor of love.
I sold it for rent money during my second month in the city. It didn’t fetch much—not even close to what it was worth—but at the time, I didn’t have a choice.
My fingers hover over the screen, the memory of handing it over to the buyer still vivid. The way they smiled, excited to take it home, while I felt like I’d lost a part of myself.
I miss it. All of it.
Creating something with my own hands, watching a blank canvas transform into a reflection of my thoughts and emotions. It feels like a lifetime ago, like a dream I had no business chasing.
The sharp ding of the clock on the wall snaps me out of my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. I lock my phone and slide it into my pocket, straightening up with a sigh.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the anger bubbling in my chest refuses to fade. The audacity of Kris’s words gnaws at me, the memory of his smug grin igniting a fire I can’t extinguish.
I know it’s stupid. I know calling him out could cost me this job—the one thread of stability I have left. Leaving without saying something feels like letting him win, and I can’t stomach the thought.
The hallway leading to Kris’s office is quieter than the rest of the club, the fluorescent lights overhead casting a harsh, unflattering glow. The buzz of the bulbs fills the silence, and my footsteps echo faintly as I approach the door.
Each step feels heavier than the last, my anger warring with the nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me to walk away. My fists are clenched, my nails digging into my palms, and my pride won’t let me back down.
A muffled sound seeps through the thick door. Crying. Begging. Kris’s voice, though strained and almost unrecognizable.
“Please… please, Boss… I’ll fix it… I swear!”
My breath catches, my fingers hovering over the knob. For a moment, I consider walking away, but something about his tone—a mix of terror and desperation—roots me in place. Slowly, I press my ear to the door.
Another voice cuts through, low and calm but laced with something sharp. “You’ve already had your chance, Kris. You wasted it.”
That voice.
My chest tightens as a memory floods back—whispered words against my skin, a deep timbre that sent shivers down my spine.
I push the door open just a crack, enough to see inside without drawing attention to myself.
Kris is on the floor, his face streaked with tears, blood trickling from his nose. His arms are bound behind him, and he’s shaking so hard I can almost feel it from here.
Then there’s him.
Makar.
He stands over Kris like a predator looming over its prey, his posture relaxed but radiating a quiet, lethal authority. He’s dressed impeccably, his dark suit tailored to perfection, but it’s his face that holds me captive. The sharp lines of his jaw, the piercing blue of his eyes—they’re the same, yet different.
That night in the hotel, his gaze had been intense but full of fire, drawing me in, making me feel alive. Now, those same eyes are cold, unyielding. He’s like a different person entirely.
A chill runs down my spine, my pulse quickening as I watch him crouch in front of Kris, his movements deliberate.
“Do you know the difference between power and weakness?,” he asks, his voice so quiet it makes the hairs on my arms stand up
Kris doesn’t reply, shivering and shaking like a wet dog.
Makar tilts his head, studying Kris like he’s some kind of pathetic insect. “Power,” he says coolly, “is earned. It’s built on respect, on loyalty. Weakness? Weakness is what you’ve shown tonight. It’s greed. Cowardice. Exploiting those who can’t fight back.”
I press my hand against the doorframe, the weight of his words pressing down on me. This is a side of him I didn’t see that night, a side I couldn’t have imagined.
“Boss, please,” Kris cries, his voice breaking.
Makar straightens, slipping a hand into his jacket pocket. When he pulls out a sleek black pistol, my stomach drops.
I barely hold back a gasp, my heart racing as he checks the weapon with casual precision.
“Do you want to know what disgusts me most about you?” Makar asks, his voice soft, almost contemplative. “It’s not that you betrayed me. It’s that you did it so… sloppily. No honor. No thought. Just mindless greed.”
I can’t look away, frozen in place as Kris sobs harder, his pleas turning into incoherent babbling.
“You’re not just a failure, Kris. You’re a liability. I don’t keep liabilities.”
Makar doesn’t flinch. His expression remains unreadable, detached. Slowly, he raises the gun, pointing it directly at Kris’s head.
The weight of the moment suffocates me, and I grip the doorframe tightly, my knuckles white.
And then—
BANG!
The sound is deafening, even through the partially open door. Kris’s body collapses, lifeless, blood pooling around him.
I slap a hand over my mouth, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst. My legs tremble, and for a moment, I think I might fall, but I force myself to stay still.
Makar lowers the gun, his movements calm and deliberate as he slides it back into his holster. His gaze sweeps over Kris’s body, then shifts to Andrei, who stands by the wall, arms crossed.
“Clean this up,” Makar says, his tone devoid of emotion.
Andrei nods, stepping forward to motion for the other men to begin their work.
Makar turns toward the door, and for a terrifying second, I think he’s going to catch me. My breath catches, and I shrink back, my body pressed flat against the wall.
Then it happens.
A small, involuntary cry escapes my lips. It’s barely a sound, but in the oppressive quiet that follows the gunshot, it feels deafening.
The footsteps stop.
A shiver of fear ripples down my spine as I hear Andrei’s voice, sharp and alert. “Did you hear that?”
“Check the hallway,” Makar orders, his tone calm but commanding.
Panic seizes me. I turn and run, my shoes thudding against the floor as I race toward the nearest door. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out everything else.
“Someone’s here,” Andrei growls from behind me.
I don’t look back. My hands fumble with the doorknob of a storage room, and I slip inside, closing the door as quietly as I can. The space is cramped, filled with shelves of cleaning supplies and crates of liquor. The air smells of bleach and damp cardboard.
I crouch behind a stack of boxes, pulling my phone from my pocket with trembling hands. My fingers fumble as I swipe to unlock it, the screen seeming impossibly bright in the dim room.
I press the emergency service and bring the phone to my ear, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
The operator picks up after a single ring. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“I—” My voice cracks, and I force myself to speak louder. “There’s a man. At the Ember House. He just—”
Before I can finish, something cold and hard presses against the back of my neck.
My body freezes, every nerve screaming in alarm. The phone slips from my hand, clattering to the floor.
“Big mistake,” a low voice murmurs behind me, right before everything goes black.
***
My head feels like it’s full of cotton, muffling everything around me. A dull ache pulses at the back of my skull, and the sharp jostling of my body against something hard snaps me into a hazy awareness.
The smell of leather and gasoline hits my nose first. Then, the faint murmur of voices filters through the fog clouding my senses.
“She’s out cold,” a deep voice says, gruff and low.
“Good,” another voice responds, sharper. “Keep her that way until we’re back.”
My heart lurches, the words cutting through my disorientation like a blade. Where am I? What’s happening?
The jostling continues, and I become vaguely aware that I’m being carried. My limbs feel heavy, sluggish, and uncooperative as I try to move. Panic claws at my throat as I force my eyes open. The world around me is dim, the only light coming from a distant streetlamp.
A man’s face looms above me—dark hair, sharp features, and cold eyes. His expression is unreadable, but the sight of him sends a fresh wave of fear surging through me.
“Got the girl,” he says into a phone pressed to his ear, his tone calm and detached.
The girl. Me.
I try to move, my hands twitching weakly at my sides. A faint groan escapes my lips, and the man’s eyes snap down to mine.
“She’s stirring,” he mutters, annoyance flashing across his face.
“Keep her under control,” the other voice snaps, now close enough to feel like it’s inside my pounding head.
Before I can fully comprehend the situation, I’m shoved unceremoniously into the back of a car. My body hits the seat hard, and the force sends another jolt of pain through my head.
“Stop fighting,” the man growls, grabbing my arm to keep me still as I weakly thrash against him.
“Let me go,” I manage to croak, my voice barely above a whisper. My throat feels raw, like I haven’t spoken in hours.
He doesn’t respond, his grip tightening. The sharp edge of his gaze slices through me as he mutters something under his breath.
I try to fight again, my limbs trembling with effort. The leather beneath me feels suffocating, the small space of the car pressing in on all sides. My vision swims, but I catch a glimpse of the man’s face again, his lips moving as he speaks into the phone.
“She’s more trouble than I expected,” he says, his tone clipped.
My breaths come in shallow gasps, my mind spinning as I try to piece together what’s happening. Why is this happening? Who is this man?
The questions slip away as darkness closes in once more, pulling me under before I can find the answers.