Chapter 8: Trust Issues and Trigger Fingers
572 Words
I didn’t sleep that night. At all.
Zoe’s words were playing on loop in my head like a cursed playlist:
> “Damien’s not the hero you think he is.”
Excuse me, what?
First, she’s a backstabbing bestie with a spy folder, and now she’s telling me Damien—my semi-kidnapper-s***h-maybe-crush—is the real villain?
This is why I have trust issues. And now probably trauma. Cute.
So I did the only thing I shouldn’t have done: I texted him.
me: we need to talk.
me (again): like now
me (x3): don’t make me find u. i have pepper spray and zero patience.
He replied two minutes later.
Damien: rooftop. 2am. come alone.
Of course.
Because normal people text “Hey, let’s talk at Starbucks,” but Damien wants secret rooftop meetups like he’s Batman or something.
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2:00 a.m. – School Rooftop
I climbed the rusty ladder and popped up like a chaotic raccoon. Damien was already there, leaning against the ledge, hoodie up, moonlight doing scandalous things to his jawline.
Ugh. Why are the dangerous ones always hot?
“You’re late,” he said, not even looking at me.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re lucky I came at all. Zoe knows.”
He finally looked at me. “What’d she tell you?”
“That you’re not the hero. And that they’re coming for me, with or without her.”
He sighed like I’d just confirmed his worst fear. “Then we don’t have time.”
“Time for what?” I asked, stepping closer.
“To get you out of here.”
He reached into his jacket, pulled out a folded envelope, and handed it to me.
Inside: a plane ticket. Fake ID. Passport. My name… but not my name.
“You want me to run?”
“I want you to live,” he said, eyes dead serious. “Because if they catch you, they’ll wipe everything—your mind, your memories, your entire life. You’ll forget who you are.”
My stomach twisted.
“Why me?” I whispered. “Why am I even involved?”
Damien hesitated.
“Because you’re not who you think you are.”
BOOM. Another bomb.
“I swear,” I muttered, “if one more person says that to me, I’m throwing myself off this rooftop.”
He smirked, just a little. “Don’t. You’d miss all the plot twists.”
Then he pulled out something else—a gun.
I flinched. “Whoa! Is this one of those moments where you protect me, or shoot me?”
“Neither,” he said. “It’s for you.”
He handed it to me. A sleek, black pistol. Cold, heavy, real.
“Nope. Nope. I’m not built for this,” I said, trying to give it back. “I’m more ‘emotional breakdown and cry in the bathroom’ than ‘bang bang shoot shoot’ type.”
“You’ll need it,” he said, pushing it into my hands. “Because next time, they won’t send Zoe.”
“What does that mean?”
Before he could answer, we heard it—click—a sound no one wants to hear on a dark rooftop.
We both spun around.
And there she was.
Zoe.
Holding a gun of her own.
Eyes wild. Hair wind-blown. Smile sharp enough to kill.
“Hi bestie,” she said sweetly. “Miss me?”
- Writer
