Bound By Fate

EPISODE 003

When you find something—or someone—where they don’t belong, there’s a strange stillness. It’s the kind of quiet that sharpens everything else: the wind rustling through the trees, the soft creak of the car door, the ragged sound of her breathing.

I stood there, hand on the open door, staring at the girl slumped in my passenger seat. She didn’t flinch, didn’t move, just held a knife in one trembling hand and glared at me like a cornered animal.

She was a mess. Her arm was blood streaked, her clothes torn, and dirt smeared. The blood had soaked through the scarf she’d wrapped around the wound, and it was dark. Her hair was out of place, its sweat uncombed, clinging damply to her forehead. What really got me though were her eyes, sharp and wild, darting between me and the open night, as if she were working out an escape route.

I said, my voice calm but with steel in it, “Get out of my car.”

She tightened her fingers around the knife. It wasn’t much of a weapon, not against me, but her desperation made up for it.

She said, her voice hoarse, as if she’d been screaming for hours, ‘I’ll leave.’ “Just… not yet.”

I crossed my arms, blocking her way out. “Not yet?”

She didn’t answer, just tightened her grip on the knife. I looked at her shaking hands and her uneven breaths. She radiated fear, but not the kind I was used to. She wasn’t afraid of me. Not really. She was afraid of something else, something bigger.

“Put the knife down,” I said. “It’s not like you’re in any shape to use it.”

She twisted her lips into an all too defiant, all too shabby smirk. “You’d be surprised.”

I stood in the doorframe, studying her. She was young, no more than mid-twenties, but there was a hardness to her, a hardness etched deep in the lines around her eyes. She had seen things; she had endured things.

“Who are you running from?” I asked.

Her gaze darted to the road behind me; she hesitated. “Does it matter?”

“If they’re coming here, it does.”

The knife lowered an inch, and her shoulders sagged slightly. It was enough of an answer.

“Name,” I said.

She didn’t reply.

I repeated, slower this time, “Your name.”

Her mouth tightened, as if she were deciding if it was worth the risk to tell me. Finally, she relented. “Alyssa.”

“And the blood?” I gestured toward her arm. “Yours or someone else’s?”

“Mine,” she said flatly.

Her tone was off. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth. I didn’t press. Not yet.

I stepped closer and opened the door wider. Her fingers curled back around the knife; she stiffened.

“Relax,” I said. “I would have hurt you by now if I wanted to.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Supposed to make you think.”

She didn’t respond, her eyes narrowing. I crouched a little closer to get a better look at the wound on her arm. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it was jagged—the kind of cut that came from a struggle. I caught a flash of silver, a patch sewn into the inside of her jacket, barely visible through the torn fabric.

“What’s this?” I asked, reaching for it.

Her voice was sharp, and she jerked back. “Don’t.”

I pulled the edge of the patch into view, ignoring her. The material was thicker than it looked, and it was crude, hand stitched. I pulled gently, and a folded piece of paper fell out between the seams.

She snapped, her voice cracking, “Give that back.”

I unfolded the paper and held it up to the faint light from the car’s interior. It was a map, with strange symbols and markings I didn’t recognize.

Her breaths came quick, and she was desperate. “That’s not yours.”

I studied the map and said, “No.” “But it’s important. To you. To whoever you’re running from.”

She didn’t deny it, and that was answer enough.

“What is it?” I asked.

She looked at the paper, then back at me. “I don’t know.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why are you carrying a coded map in your jacket and you don’t know what it is?”

“It’s not mine,” she said, quieter now.

“Whose is it?”

Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her scarf; she hesitated. “Someone I trusted.”

That, I believed. Her voice had altered, bitterness now altered to colder tones, almost mournful.

I put the map away in my pocket. She didn’t protest, but her face twisted with anger.

I straightened up and said, “Look.” “You’re bleeding all over my car.” You either let me help you or you leave. Now.”

Defiance flickered back to life in her jaw tautening. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” I said simply. 'You're clearly in trouble, and that map of yours just made you interesting.' So, what’s it going to be?”

Her expression was somewhere between suspicion and resignation as she stared at me. She nodded finally, her shoulders slumping.

“Fine,” she said. "Don't think for a second I trust you."

I stepped back to let her out of the car, saying, “Good.” “Trust is a waste of time.”

She lingered in the doorway at my place, as if she were afraid to cross the threshold and set off some kind of trap. I didn’t blame her. It wasn’t exactly inviting—bare walls, dim lighting, the faint smell of stale whiskey in the air. It wasn’t a home. It was a headquarters.

I pointed to the worn leather couch and said, “Sit.”

She paused, then winced and sank into the seat. Her eyes moved over her surroundings, tensed, alert in her body posture.

“You always this paranoid?” Grabbing the first aid kit from the cabinet, I asked.

She shot back, “Only when I’m surrounded by strangers who steal my things.”

I smirked despite myself. I’d give her guts.

I kneeled beside her and said, “Hold still.”

I unwound the bloodsoaked scarf from her arm, and she flinched. It was worse than I’d thought, deep enough to need stitches, but she’d slowed the bleeding.

I dabbed the wound with antiseptic; this’ll hurt was my only warning.

She didn’t pull away but hissed through clenched teeth.

She asked, her voice tight, “Where’d you learn to do this?”

I said vaguely, “Here and there.” “Surviving in my world without picking up a few skills doesn’t last long.”

Skeptically, she repeated, “Your world.” “What world is that, exactly?”

“Of the kind where people like you don’t usually show up uninvited.”

She didn’t say anything, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Who’s after you?” I asked after a moment.

Her eyes flicked to the floor; she hesitated. “Does it matter?”

“If they’re going to come looking for you here, it does.”

The sound of her sigh was heavy with exhaustion. “My father. My fiancé. They’re… not good people.”

I wrapped a clean bandage around her arm, muttering, “Understatement of the year.”

Fire flickered in her eyes, and her gaze snapped back to mine. “I don’t know anything about you.”

“Not yet,” I said. “I know enough to know when someone’s in over their head.”

She glared at me but didn’t say anything.

I tied off the bandage and said, “There.” “That’ll hold for now.”

Her expression unreadable, she looked down at her arm. “Thanks,” she said quietly.

I stood up and said, “Don’t thank me yet.” “You’re not off the hook.”

“For what?”

I pulled the map from my pocket and said, “For making a mess of my night.” “And for dragging me into this whatever.”

She didn’t argue, but her eyes darkened. Finally, her exhaustion caught up with her, and she just leaned back against the couch.

I looked at her for a moment, the way her shoulders slumped and the way her eyes closed despite her efforts to stay awake.

Alyssa Marlowe wasn’t just a runaway, whoever she was. And that map of hers? It was a problem.

It was a problem I wasn’t sure I wanted to solve.