Contracted Obsession

I slammed my back against the cold, wet alley wall, the brick scraping through my thin jacket like it wanted a piece of me too. Rain poured down in sheets, stinging the cut on my lip. Blood mixed with water and trickled down my chin. I tasted copper and fear. The collector stepped closer, his boots splashing through puddles. His knuckles were raw and bleeding from where he’d already hit me once. “Two-point-four million,” he growled, breath fogging in the cold air. “Cash. Tonight. Or I pay your little sister a visit after school.” I forced a laugh even though my ribs ached. “Touch her and every dirty secret your boss has buried will be on every front page by morning.” His eyes narrowed into slits. He cracked his neck once, slow, like he was deciding how much fun he wanted to have. Then his hand shot out for my throat. I drove my knee straight up between his legs with everything I had. He doubled over with a choked grunt, hands cupping himself. I ran. My sneakers slapped hard against the flooded pavement. Shouts erupted behind me—more voices, heavier footsteps joining the chase. I didn’t look back. Couldn’t. One glance and I’d freeze. I cut through the night market three blocks later, dodging between steaming food stalls and clusters of umbrellas. Someone yelled as I bumped their shoulder. A vendor cursed. I kept moving, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the rain. Five minutes later I burst into my tiny apartment, slammed the door, threw the deadbolt and chain, then slid down the wood until my ass hit the dirty floor. My chest heaved. I pressed a hand over my racing heart like that could slow it down. My phone buzzed on the floor beside me. Unknown number. I ignored it. It buzzed again. Then the text came through. Unknown: Your sister’s school lets out at 3:15 tomorrow. Cute pink backpack. My stomach twisted so hard I thought I’d be sick. I crawled across the room on my hands and knees, grabbed my laptop, and opened it with shaking fingers. Only one shake. Then they steadied. I typed fast. To: contact@valeholdings.com Subject: Stop. I’m done running. Meet me. Tonight. No collectors. No guns. Just you and me. —Ava Sinclair I hit send before I could talk myself out of it. The reply popped up in forty-three seconds. Nash Vale: My office. 10 PM. Top floor. Don’t be late, Miss Sinclair. I don’t offer second chances. I stared at the glowing screen until the words swam. I had just walked straight into the devil’s lair. And the devil had opened the door and smiled.