Aria
I ran until my lungs burned and my legs threatened to give out. The gun felt heavy in my hand, a constant reminder of what I'd done. I couldn't shake the image of blood seeping through the man's fingers as he clutched his shoulder, his scream echoing in my ears.
The initial surge of adrenaline had carried me through the first several blocks, darting through alleys and side streets, putting as much distance as possible between me and that basement. But now, as the sun began to set, reality crashed down on me.
I had no money. No phone. No ID. Nothing but the clothes on my back and a stolen gun.
And I had shot someone.
My stomach turned at the thought. I wasn't a violent person. Before all this, I'd never even been in a fistfight. But something had shifted in me during those days of
