Page 115 of Ghosted

Not hurt in any way I can use.

No obvious mark I can turn into a reason and carry with me into the cage. She’s wearing an oversized black sweater that swallows her hands, her hair is a mess, her eyeliner smudged like she slept in it and woke up somewhere worse.

But it’s her eyes that gut me.

They're too quiet.

Alice is never quiet like that. Even scared, she has teeth. Even pissed off, she watches like she’s already halfway to cutting you open with whatever she noticed first.

This isn’t that.

This is hollow.

My stomach drops so hard it feels physical.

“What happened?”

Her fingers tighten around the edge of the door, and for one second, I think she won’t answer.

Then she says, “Nothing you can fix by hitting someone.”

Every violent thing in me goes silent at once.

Johnny.

It’s not a question.

Doesn’t need to be. He’s all over her without being in sight. In the way she keeps herself behind the door but doesn’t use it like armor. In the way she looks exhausted past anger. In the way her hand disappears into her sleeve instead of gripping the frame like she’s ready to shove me out.

He did something.

Something bad enough to make her look at me like I’m another problem she doesn’t have the energy to survive.

My voice comes out rough. “What did he do?”

“No.”

“Alice.”

“No, Jagger.” Her eyes lift to mine, flat and tired and still somehow sharp enough to hurt. “Do not do that.”

“Do what?”

“Stand there with murder all over your face and ask me for details.”

My hand curls at my side. “I need to fucking know.”

“No, you want to know.” Her mouth tightens. “There’s a difference.”

I stare at her, and the hallway feels too small. Too fucking narrow. Like if I breathe wrong, the whole building might crack open around us.

“If he hurt you⁠—”

“He did.” Her voice breaks on the second word, just barely, but I hear it.

My chest goes cold.

She sees it happen. Sees the shift in my face. The thing in me waking up and reaching for blood.