Chapter 3 Salem
THREE
SALEM
If you’d told me three weeks ago that my grand escape from a high-rise human trafficking nightmare would star a guy with a literal mohawk, a sketchy service corridor that smelled like regret and old mop water, and me bickering about door etiquette like we’re auditioning for HGTV’s “Kidnap why not add pyrotechnics?
Ozzy’s hand wraps around mine, warm and steady, not the possessive death-grip I braced for.
It’s firm enough to say “I’ve got you,” but loose enough that I could yank free if I wanted.
Which is... annoyingly considerate. Also stupidly hot.
Like, can we pause the life-or-death sprint for a second so I can appreciate how his fingers feel like they were custom-molded for mine? No? Fine. Priorities.
My brain, however, is on a completely different channel—one where survival takes a backseat to cataloging irrelevant details.
Exhibit A: the way his black tactical shirt clings to his shoulders like it lost a bet with gravity.
Sweat-damp fabric outlining every ridge of muscle, because of course he’s built like he bench-presses small cars for fun.
Exhibit B: the way he moves—quick, precise, predatory in that “I will cheerfully end anyone who touches you” way, not the creepy “I collect eyeballs as souvenirs” way.
Big difference. Important distinction when you’re running for your life.
And then there’s the mohawk. The actual mohawk.
It’s not even ironic; it’s proudly vertical, and pitch black like it’s auditioning for a cyberpunk reboot.
Who looks at a black-ops rescue mission and thinks, “You know what this needs? Peak 2005 Hot Topic energy”?
Ozzy, apparently. And somehow it works. I hate that it works.
We hit the service corridor at a dead sprint—well, I’m more like a frantic shuffle in borrowed sneakers two sizes too big; he’s gliding like he was born to dodge imaginary bullets.
The door ahead is one of those industrial steel monstrosities with a push-bar that screams “employees only, or you’ll be fired.
.. or worse.” He slams his shoulder into it.
Nothing. Locked. Of course it’s locked. Because why would the universe make this easy?
“We need to bust the door down,” the other guy, Arrow, says.
“Won’t budge,” Ozzy says, studying the door once more.
“Kick it,” Arrow says.
I plant both hands on the bar and shove. It doesn’t budge. Because physics hates me. “It’s not locked. It’s stuck, genius.”
“Let’s push together.” He crowds in behind me—close enough that I feel the heat rolling off him, smell clean sweat and something faintly like gun oil and pine—and reaches around to add his strength.
Our bodies align for one ridiculous heartbeat: my back to his chest, his arms bracketing mine, breath hot against my ear as he mutters, “On three. One—”
We both shove. The door gives with a metallic screech that probably wakes half the building. We stumble through into blessed darkness.
“Move,” Arrow orders.
Ozzy doesn’t let go of my hand. Just tugs me forward, down the stairs two at a time, his grip now a lifeline instead of a polite invitation.
My heart’s doing cartwheels. Sure, there’s fear, yes, but also this dumb, giddy spark every time his thumb brushes my knuckles like an apology for dragging me into this madness.
We hit a landing. He pauses, ear cocked toward the stairwell above. Far away there's a voice echoing. It’s getting closer.
“Time to improvise,” he whispers, eyes glinting with the same manic glee I imagine serial killers have right before they drop the punchline.
I snort despite myself. “Improvise? Your plan was ‘mohawk and good manners.’ We’re already improvising.”
“Exactly. I’m a natural.” He flashes that grin again, then yanks me toward a side door marked ‘Utility—Authorized Personnel Only.’ “After you.”
“Again with the door thing?”
“Habit. Sue me.”
I shove through first this time, because if we’re dying, I’m not doing it on ceremony. The corridor beyond is narrow, pipes dripping, fluorescent buzz overhead like dying bees. Perfect murder-scene aesthetic.
Behind us, footsteps pound closer.
Ozzy’s hand tightens on mine. “Ready to run like hell?”
I meet his eyes. They’re wild and alive. It’s stupidly reassuring. “Born ready. But if we survive this, you owe me an explanation for the hair.”
“Deal. And coffee. My treat.”
“Make it a latte and we have a deal.”
We keep running. We keep sprinting like our lives depend on it. Well, because they do. They so fucking do.
Ozzy glances at me. “You okay?”
My lungs burn and my heart is trying to punch through my ribs like it wants out too. I’m basically running on zero calories. My throat screams for water. At this point, I’d take anything wet. “I’m having a great time,” I whisper. “Five stars. Would not recommend.”
His mouth twitches. It’s not a full smile—more like he’s fighting it, like he’s trying to be the kind of rescuer who doesn’t joke. Which is adorable. Wrong vibe for him. “Stay close,” he murmurs.
“I am literally attached to you,” I whisper back, lifting our joined hands. “I’m basically your emotional support hostage.”
That earns me a real laugh—silent, quick, and bright in his eyes.
Okay. Good. He’s human. He’s also insane, because we’re approaching a door with a keypad and he’s pulling me toward it like he owns the place.
And then he does something even more insane.
He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a small device. He sticks it onto the keypad.
I stare. “Oh,” I whisper. “You’re one of those.”
“One of what?” he asks, focused.
“One of those men who think the answer to everything is ‘crime.’”
He glances at me, deadpan. “It’s working, isn’t it?”
“It’s going to beep,” I hiss. “Keypads always beep. It’s literally their job.”
“It’s a silent—”
The keypad beeps. A loud, cheerful beep, like it’s thrilled to announce to the entire floor that someone is doing something unauthorized.
All three of us freeze.
“Fuck,” Arrow whispers.
My heart pounds loudly behind my eardrums. Somewhere down the hall, a voice rises.
“What was that?” I ask.
Ozzy’s eyes cut to mine. “You said it would beep,” he whispers, sounding offended. Like I manifested the beep through pure negativity.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper back. “I didn’t realize you wanted me to lie.”
He swears under his breath and grabs the handle, pulling. It’s locked. He shifts his weight like he’s about to do something dramatic—like he’s about to kick the door down, shoulder-first, action-movie style.
I tighten my grip on his hand and yank him back. “Absolutely not.”
His head snaps toward me. “We don’t have time—”
“You do not get to concuss yourself in a hallway like a handsome idiot,” I whisper furiously.
He blinks. “Did you just call me handsome?”
Of course that’s the thing he focuses on. “We’re not addressing that,” I hiss. “Move.”
He looks like he’s about to argue, but I step in closer to the door, lowering my voice even more. “Listen,” I say, “I’ve been in this building for weeks. They don’t use brute force. They use codes. They use patterns. They use lazy people who don’t want to remember twelve different passwords.”
Ozzy watches me like he’s trying to decide if I’m about to save us or get us killed. That’s fair. My track record is… unclear.
I focus on the keypad. It’s a standard four-digit access, but the sticker residue around the bottom corner tells me something used to be there.
People love writing codes on tiny labels like the universe won’t punish them for it.
I search the metal frame. There—faint marker smudges.
They clean it often. But not often enough.
I squint. “Nine… two…”
Ozzy leans in. “Are you guessing?”
“I’m reading,” I whisper. “There’s a difference.”
Footsteps approach. Fast. My heart hammers louder and I wonder if Ozzy and Arrow can hear it.
Or maybe they’re own hearts are pounding just as loudly.
Ozzy shifts, body angling in front of me instinctively, shielding.
It hits me, this visceral little jolt of safety and annoyance.
Like, sir, I appreciate your protective instincts. But also, move your biceps, I’m busy.
“Eight… one,” I finish. I punch in 9281, and the lock clicks.
Ozzy’s eyebrows lift.
I shove the door open with a look that says who’s concussing themselves now?
He exhales something like a laugh. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Respect.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I accept cash and compliments.”
We slip through the door into a service stairwell that smells like bleach and metal. Not pleasant, but deeply comforting in a “this feels like the real world” way.
Ozzy pulls me down the stairs, fast but careful. We hit the next landing. There’s a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Ozzy reaches for it, but there’s a crash above us.
“They’re moving! Stairwell!”
Ozzy’s entire body shifts, posture going lethal. He squeezes my hand. “Time to go.”
“We’re already going,” I snap. “I’m literally sprinting.”
He glances down at me, eyes amused and sharp. “Good,” he murmurs. “Keep sassing. It means you’re alive.” That is not a sentence I ever wanted as a motivator. But it works.
We burst through the service door into a loading dock corridor lit by flickering fluorescents.
The sound of the building changes here—less polished, more industrial.
Pipes overhead. Utility carts. A security camera that’s been conveniently covered with something that looks like a strip of black tape.
Ozzy moves with purpose, scanning.
“Where’s your team?” I whisper.
“We’re it, sweetheart.” Ozzy keeps moving, and my shoulders slump slightly.