FALLING FOR MY FATHER'S DANGEROUS FRIEND

Solyn Fairchild locked the door of her studio with fingers that ached from hours of gripping charcoal and brushes. The clock above the exit blinked past midnight, its soft ticking suddenly loud in the empty corridor. She tucked her coat tighter around herself and glanced at her phone, Four percent battery. No signal and the last metro would leave in less than five minutes. The night swallowed her footsteps as she cut through the alley behind the art block, the city unusually quiet for a weekday. Her bag thudded against her hip with every stride. She hated working late, hated the way the city changed after midnight, how even familiar streets felt sharpened and watchful. When she reached the metro entrance, her lungs burned and her pulse hammered, but the turnstile lights were still on. She slipped through just as the warning chime echoed down the platform. The platform was nearly empty. Solyn slowed, forcing herself to breathe evenly as she walked closer to the edge. The train lights appeared in the tunnel, distant and trembling. She rubbed her arms, suddenly aware of the chill creeping through her coat. That was when the sensation hit her, subtle but unmistakable. She was being watched. Her head snapped up. She scanned the platform. Every pillar, every bench and every flickering screen announcing delays that no longer mattered. No one stood close enough to explain the prickle running up her spine. She exhaled sharply and shook her head. Lack of sleep. Too much coffee. Too many nights alone with her thoughts. The metro slid into the station with a metallic scream. The doors opened wide. Solyn stepped inside and froze. The carriage was empty. There were no commuters. No tired workers dozing up in seats. Just rows of plastic benches and the low hum of the engine. Her instinct told her to step back out, but the doors slid shut behind her before she could decide. The train lurched forward, pulling her into motion. She chose a seat near the door and kept her bag clutched in her lap, eyes trained on the dark window. Her reflection stared back, pale and drawn, eyes too alert. The train rattled on, each stop announced in a flat automated voice, yet no one boarded. At the next station, the doors opened again. An old man stepped inside. He moved slowly, leaning on a cane, his coat buttoned up to his throat. His hair was thin and grey, his eyes sharp and bright. He did not look at Solyn as he entered. Instead, he shuffled to the seat beside her and sat down heavily. Too close, Solyn shifted toward the window, her pulse quickening. The doors closed and the train moved. The old man turned his head then and smiled. It was not warm. It was knowing. Before she could move, his hand slid onto her thigh. Her breath caught violently. “Don’t,” she said, her voice barely steady. His fingers pressed harder, grip tightening. “Lucky night,” he muttered. Fear snapped into something sharp and electric. Solyn’s hand plunged into her bag, fingers closing around the pepper spray she carried out of habit more than hoped. She twisted, raised it, and sprayed blindly. The man screamed. He recoiled, clutching his face, howling as the train jolted. Solyn was on her feet instantly, heart slamming as she bolted toward the door. The train slowed. She stumbled as it rocked, nearly losing her balance. A hand caught her arm. She gasped and turned, panic surging. The figure behind her wore a dark hoodie, face hidden beneath the shadow of the hood. His grip was strong, practiced. She opened her mouth to scream. “Careful,” he said lightly. “It’s my lucky day today.” The old man laughed through his pain, a broken, wheezing sound. “Told you,” he spat. Solyn’s blood ran cold. The train screeched as it pulled into the next station. The doors slammed open and chaos erupted. Shouts. Heavy boots. Flashing lights. Police flooded the carriage. The hooded man released her instantly and melted backward, slipping past bodies in a blur of movement. By the time Solyn turned, he was gone. The old man was dragged to the floor, shouting obscenities as officers cuffed him. Solyn stood shaking, breath coming too fast, too shallow. Someone wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. Another officer asked her name, her age, whether she was hurt. She answered automatically, eyes fixed on the door where the hooded man had vanished. Minutes later, a familiar voice cut through the noise. “Solyn.” Her knees nearly buckled as Nelson Fairchild pushed through the crowd. Her father looked nothing like the composed judge the state admired. His tie was loose, his hair disheveled, his face stripped bare with fear. He pulled her into his arms with crushing force, one hand cradling the back of her head as if afraid she might disappear if he let go. “You’re safe,” he said hoarsely. “You’re safe.” She clung to him, the weight of the night crashing down all at once. “How did you find me?” Nelson pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands still firm on her shoulders. “Your phone went off. You didn’t answer. I made a call.” Just one. “The entire department was alerted,” he continued grimly. “Every station. Every route. I was not taking chances.” She stared at him, stunned. He said it plainly, without pride, without apology. This was simply what he did when the world threatened his daughter. The officers finished their statements quickly. The old man was taken away. The hooded accomplice remained unidentified. That bothered Solyn more than anything. Nelson did not ask if she wanted to go home. He guided her out of the station, his arm firm around her back, and drove her straight to his house. Only once the doors were locked and the lights were on did the tightness in her chest ease slightly. She sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in a mug she never drank from, while her father paced. “You are not staying alone again,” Nelson said finally. “Dad,” she started. “I won’t argue about this.” His voice softened, but his resolve did not. “You will stay somewhere secure.” “Here,” she said. “With you.” He shook his head. “No!! Somewhere safer.” Her stomach tightened. “Where? There is no place safer than being here with you.” Nelson met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “There is one, with an old friend of mine. Calian Winslow.” The name landed heavily in the quiet room. “He has resources I don’t,” Nelson continued. “And experience with situations like this.” Solyn swallowed. Tonight had already stripped her of choice, of comfort, of certainty. The idea of being sent away again made her chest ache. “I don’t want to be moved around like evidence,” she said quietly. Nelson stepped closer, resting his hands on the back of her chair. “I know. But until we know who that second man was, I won’t risk you.” She looked down at her hands, still faintly trembling. The last train had not taken her home. It had delivered her somewhere else entirely.