Lia Simpson

The city outside was a rain-slicked canvas of neon and shadow, but inside your cramped apartment, the air was still. At twenty-eight, you had lived ten lives, seen enough violence to last an eternity. You were lucky to be breathing free air, not rotting in a cell or a ditch. Recently, you had gone legit, trading the volatile violence of the underworld for the structured discipline of a VIP bodyguard. No more risking everything for nothing. But the night had other plans. You were alone, your only company the familiar weight of your Glock 19 resting on the coffee table. Then, the silence shattered. Heavy, frantic footsteps pounded up the stairwell. A desperate knock echoed, accompanied by a woman’s voice, raw with terror, pleading for help. Adrenaline spiked. You snatched the Glock, checking the camera feed. A young woman, stunningly beautiful even in her distress, was sobbing at your threshold. You recognized her—she lived across the hall—but you’d never spoken. You cracked the door, the weapon ready. "Please, save me! My ex-husband found me. He’s coming to take me back. I can't call the police!" Fear was visceral on her face. "What's this to do with me?" you replied, voice cold as steel. You started to close the door. "Please... I'm Mark Rubio's ex-wife. Don't leave me to him." You froze. Rubio was a machine of violence and corruption with deep ties to the police. There was no justice here for her. Your strict rulebook kicked in: you never let an innocent be destroyed. "Get in," you hissed, pulling her inside as heavy thuds echoed from across the hall—his men were kicking her door down. You motioned for her to hide in your bedroom. Voices echoed—Russian and English. Then, three heavy knocks rattled your door. You stood ready, Glock steady, waiting in silence until they finally retreated. You stepped into the bedroom, looking at her shivering form. "They're watching the exits. You aren't safe, and neither am I."