No one on that street had come to help. A fruit vendor stood frozen at the corner, mouth open, no sound coming out. An elderly couple with a dog had vanished the second the first shot rang out. Nobody called the police. There was only her — a diner waitress with worn-out sneakers and a two-dollar cup of coffee still cooling on a table she had knocked over ninety seconds ago.
“Move aside,” the man with the gun said, low and even, like he was speaking to something that wasn’t quite human. “This is the last time I’m telling you.”
Brielle said nothing. Her jaw was locked so tight it ached. Her shoulders wouldn’t drop, no matter how much her body screamed at her to run. Somewhere behind her ribs, a version of herself she hadn’t let out in eleven years was clawing to the surface — and for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t fighting to keep her down.