CHAPTER 6: SCARLETT
753 Words
You don’t survive prison without learning to feel when someone’s watching you.
The first time I felt it again—outside—was three days after I left Shelley’s bar. I was walking the cracked sidewalk two blocks away from the apartment she gave me. My hood was up. Hands in pockets. Blade tucked in the sleeve. Just another ghost blending into the night.
Then the itch hit my spine.
Not paranoia.
Pattern.
Footsteps. Soft, but steady. Same rhythm. Same distance. Two blocks back, maybe three. Holding. Not overtaking. Just there.
Following.
I took a hard turn down an alley. The kind most people avoid. Dim light. Piss-stained walls. Bottles crunching underfoot. My pace didn’t change.
But my breathing did.
Not fear.
Focus.
---
By the time I ducked behind a trash bin and pulled my blade free, I was already smiling. Just a little.
Let’s see how close you really want to get.
The footsteps slowed at the alley’s mouth.
I held my breath. Five seconds. Ten.
Then he appeared.
Tall. Hoodie up. Shoulders tight, but not clumsy. He didn’t look like a junkie or a creep. He looked... intentional.
I stepped out from behind the bin with the knife pointed straight at his gut.
“Lose something, shadow boy?” I said coldly.
He froze—hands up, palms open. Not stupid.
But then I saw the face.
Not just the shape of it—familiar somehow—but the eyes. Steady. Pale gray. Like they’d watched people their whole life without saying a word.
“Scarlett,” he said.
And that was the moment I knew.
He wasn’t just a tail.
He knew my name.
My fingers twitched on the handle. Just enough pressure to remind him I wasn't bluffing.
“You’ve got five seconds to explain who the hell you are,” I hissed, “before I leave you leaking all over this alley.”
He didn’t move.
Just said two words:
“I’m Damien.”
The name hit me like a match tossed into gasoline.
My grip tightened.
Of course. The golden boy. Harold’s clean-slate stepson. The one who got to live a life I never had. Private schools. Dinners with the devil. A future.
“You’ve got some nerve, following me,” I spat.
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Good,” I said, stepping closer. “Because if you were—this conversation would already be over.”
He didn’t flinch. Just looked at me like he was waiting.
Not for forgiveness.
For something else.
Maybe permission.
Maybe a fight.
I lowered the blade. Just a little.
Not because I trusted him.
Because I wanted to know why the hell he was here—and what he thought he could possibly offer me.
I kept the blade down, but my guard didn’t drop.
Just because a snake doesn’t bite right away doesn’t mean it isn’t coiling.
Damien Jones.
I’d heard his name whispered in prison—once, maybe twice. People who talked about Harold’s new life, the family he’d rebuilt while I rotted in concrete. Damien, the stepson. The golden one. The one who didn’t question anything.
And now he was here.
In front of me.
“I’m listening,” I said flatly. “You’ve got one shot to make this worth my time.”
He nodded once.
“I’ve been watching Harold,” he said. “For years.”
“I grew up in that house,” He continued. “My mother married him when I was thirteen. I’ve seen who he really is. The man behind the charm. The control. The lies.”
“You didn’t see anything,” I cut in. “You lived. I burned.”
“I didn’t live,” He said, voice low. “I survived. In silence. I was just smart enough not to bleed where he could see.”
I hated how much that sentence sat right.
Because yeah—Harold didn’t like blood unless he spilled it.
I watched Damien for another beat. His hands were still up. Still calm. He wasn’t afraid of me. He should’ve been.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“To help.”
I laughed, short and sharp.
“No, really,” I said. “You want to ease your conscience? Apologize on behalf of daddy dearest? Show the poor little jailbird that not everyone in that house turned out bad?”
“No.”
He finally lowered his hands.
“I want to bring him down"
- Writer
