Luke:
The TV light washes the apartment in cold blue, the kind that makes every shadow look like it’s plotting something. I’m sprawled on the couch, empty bottle rolling against my boot, when the late-evening news flickers to life.
It takes a second for my brain to catch up.
The anchor’s voice is too chipper for what the screen shows—sirens bleeding red and blue across downtown, reporters pressed against barricades, camera flashes like a thousand tiny lightning strikes. And there, between two uniformed cops, is Alex.
My Alex.
Head high, shoulders squared, every inch of her daring the world to break her. Her hair is damp from the drizzle, a dark halo against the chaos. She doesn’t flinch when the crowd shouts her name, doesn’t blink when the microphones shove toward her like bayonets.
