Chapter 4 – Sylvara
I drag the dead man’s body across the uneven pavement. His boots scrape against the ground, loud in the quiet before sunrise. The alley reeks of metal, sweat, and blood.
My side burns where his knife sliced me, but I keep moving. The trash bin sits ahead, stuffed with bags and broken glass. I haul him up, arms straining, and dump him inside.
His legs jut out, so I grab some black bags from the pile. I throw them over him. It will do for now.
Sunrise is close, about an hour away. This dive bar stays empty until noon. I drop to a crouch, breathing hard.
The bleach bottle comes out of my pack. I soak a rag with it. My boots get scrubbed first, the leather stained dark.
Then my hands, still tacky with his blood. I move fast, keeping my eyes off the mess. He said my name before he came at me.
“Sylvara,” he spat, knife flashing. Not a random attack. Rizzi sent him.
I broke his wrist, smashed his head into the wall. Trash doesn’t scream for long if you hit hard enough. The bleach bites at my nose as I clean the last smears off my skin.
My side keeps bleeding, staining my shirt. I have handled worse. I lean against the bin, steadying my breath.
A shadow moves at the alley’s edge. Kieran steps into the faint light from the streetlamp. His boots crunch on loose gravel.
I stop, rag in hand. He looks at me, then at the bin, taking it all in. “That was a message,” he says, voice even. “You answered it like a soldier.”
I toss the rag into the bin and stand. My ribs ache, but I push it down. “I don’t do fear. Not anymore.”
He stays where he is, arms folded. His leather jacket creaks. His face gives nothing away, but his eyes stay on me. He saw everything. The kill. The cleanup.
Not the version of me I show out front, slinging drinks and dodging hands. This is the real one, the one I thought I left behind. It stirs something in me, sharp and unwanted.
“You’re hurt,” he says, pointing at my side with a nod. I look down. Blood soaks through my shirt, dark and spreading.
“It’s not deep. I’ll live.”
He keeps watching me. “Doesn’t mean it’s nothing.”
I turn back to the bin, checking the bags again. The desert chill brushes my skin, mixing with the heat baked into the concrete. My shirt sticks to the wound, and I bite down on the pain.
“Get out of here, Kieran. You don’t need to see this.”
“Already did,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m not leaving.”
I face him, hands balling into fists. “This isn’t a game. That guy wasn’t some barfly. He was sent. For me.”
“You took him out,” he says. His tone stays level, like it’s just a fact. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”
I laugh, and it comes out rough. “Alone is how I stay alive.”
He doesn’t argue. Just stands there.
That spark in me grows, and I hate it. Hate how he fits here, in this filth, like he belongs.
My pack sits on the ground. I grab it, slinging it over my shoulder. The wound pulls, but I ignore it. I need to get inside, patch myself up.
Kieran’s still here, though, and it messes with my head.
“Come here,” he says, quieter now.
I stay put. My side throbs, and my hands itch to move. Then I give in and step closer.
He doesn’t reach for me. Just looks at the blood, then my face. “You look rough,” he says.
No pity, just truth. “You’re not exactly clean yourself,” I say. I nod at his jacket, scuffed and torn at the elbow. “Why are you here?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Was thinking about you.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal.
I don’t believe him, but I let it go. My head feels fuzzy, the rush from the fight draining out. I’m left hollow, exposed.
Too exposed. His eyes flick to my side again. He takes a step, hand lifting.
“Don’t,” I say, sharp, stepping back.
He stops, hand dropping. “Let me help.”
“I don’t need it.” My voice breaks, and I curse inside. He doesn’t react.
“Maybe I need to do it.”
That hits me. I stare at him, chest tight.
The alley feels smaller, the graffiti-covered walls pressing in. He’s too close, and I smell the leather on him, the faint trace of smoke. My pulse jumps, but not from the fight.
“Fine,” I say, keeping it low. “Not here.”
He nods.
I head for the bar’s back door, boots scuffing the ground. He follows. Inside, the place is a wreck.
Stools lie tipped over. Bottles roll across the floor from last night. I lock the door, then move to the storage room.
A first-aid kit waits there, along with a sink. Kieran stays behind me, steps quiet. I drop my pack on the counter.
I pull off my shirt. The fabric sticks to the gash, and I wince. The mirror shows it, red and messy, but not fatal.
Kieran moves closer. I stiffen, catching his eyes in the reflection.
“You sure about this?” I ask.
“Quiet and stay still,” he says, reaching for the kit.
I swallow a reply as he opens a gauze pack. His fingers touch my skin, steady and sure. A jolt runs through me, hot and sudden.
I stare at the sink, its chipped edges, forcing my focus there. Not on him. “You’ve done this before,” I say, keeping it flat.
“Plenty of times.” He presses the gauze down. I suck in a breath at the sting. “Hold it.”
I press my hand over it. He grabs tape, moving quick.
His fingers brush me again as he secures it. I watch him in the mirror. The way he focuses, the lines of his face.
Too close. Too real.
“Stop looking,” he says, eyes still on the wound.
“Stop making it easy,” I snap back. He pauses for a beat, then finishes the tape.
He steps back, and the air shifts, thick with something I can’t name. I turn to face him, gauze taped tight.
“Thanks,” I say, meeting his gaze.
“Don’t worry about it.” His eyes hold mine, steady and piercing.
My chest tightens again. I want to move, to do something, but I don’t. The fight replays in my head.
That guy’s voice, saying my name. Rizzi’s shadow growing longer. I’m tired, bone-deep, but every hit makes me feel sharper, more alive.
It’s pulling me back to the old me, the one I swore I’d bury.
Kieran shifts, breaking the moment. “You good?”
“For now,” I say, voice steadying. “But this isn’t over.”
He nods, like he gets it.
Maybe he does. The wound stings under the gauze, a reminder. I don’t just want to fight back anymore.
I want to tear it all down. Rizzi, his cartel, the whole damn machine. It’s a thought that’s been growing.
Tonight, it takes root. I grab my pack, slinging it over my shoulder again. “Let’s get out of here.”
He follows me to the door. I don’t look back at the sink, the blood, the mess.
There’s more coming. I feel it.