Son Of A Bitch: The Woman Who Raised Wolves by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Anti-Romance

Son Of A Bitch: The Woman Who Raised Wolves

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,912

No one in Tallahatchie, Mississippi, dared say the word bitch out loud when referring to Ms. Geneva Bly—not out of respect, but fear. Not fear of her exactly, but of what she might’ve passed on.

Her son, Langston Bly, was a man carved from silence. Thirty-five, skin the color of wet earth, eyes dark and still as pond water. He walked with the quiet tension of someone trained not to spill anything—grief, truth, or love. Amani Bell married him at twenty-four, convinced that love could smooth down the jagged edges his mother left behind.

But Geneva was no ghost. She was a living presence—a thick, cigarette-scented shadow living in the trailer behind their house. She didn’t knock. She didn’t call. She just showed up. Geneva simply was.

From the very beginning, she made Amani feel like a trespasser in her own marriage.

“She too quiet,” Geneva would mutter after Sunday dinner, flicking her ash into a chipped saucer. “A quiet woman is a sneaky woman.”

Langston always replied, “She don’t speak unless she got something worth saying,” but his voice lacked weight, like he was reciting scripture from his mother’s gospel. Some part of him still sat cross-legged on Geneva’s linoleum floor, soaking in her venom like it was wisdom.

When Amani brought up starting a family, Langston hesitated. “Now’s not the right time,” he’d say. Every time she pressed, he pulled further away. Even their bed became a quiet warzone—miles between them, cold with what went unsaid.

Geneva didn’t help. She fed that growing silence like dry wood to fire.

“She just want a baby to trap you,” she whispered one night while Langston fixed her leaky sink. “Same thing her mama did to her daddy.”

Langston didn’t believe it—at least not fully—but Geneva had a way of curling her words around the doubts he never voiced aloud.

“If a woman too soft,” she said once, swirling boxed wine with peppermint schnapps, “she either hiding something or waiting for the right moment to leave.”

Amani endured it all for ten years. She picked Geneva up from clinics, cooked for her, tolerated the condescension. But every kindness she offered was twisted, mistrusted, mocked.

And Langston? He never stood up for her. Not really. He loved Amani, sure—but his silence always seemed to fall on his mother’s side of the line.

Then came the October night that broke everything.

It was a Thursday. The air hung damp and cold. Amani made oxtail stew—Geneva’s favorite. Langston came home tired, tie loosened, collar open. The table was quiet, the kind of quiet that begs not to be broken.

Geneva let herself in, reeking of boxed wine and bitterness.

“Oh, y’all didn’t wait for me?” she said, grinning as she slid into the empty chair like she’d been invited.

Langston tensed. Amani stood to fetch another bowl.

“You know,” Geneva slurred, waving her spoon, “Langston had a girl before you. Tamia. Lawd, that girl had curves for days. She’d’ve given me grandbabies by now.”

“Geneva,” Langston warned.

“I’m just sayin’. That girl loved you like a real woman would. Didn’t play all these mind games.”

Amani didn’t flinch. Not this time. She placed the bowl in front of Geneva, wiped her hands, and sat.

“I’m not Tamia,” Amani said calmly. “And this isn’t a game.”

Geneva chuckled. “Well, it sure ain’t a marriage.”

Silence fell heavy. Langston opened his mouth, but no words came.

“I’m done,” Amani said, rising. “Not just with this conversation. With all of it.”

Langston stood. “Amani—wait—”

“No,” she said, voice trembling. “I’ve waited long enough. Waited for you to see me. To hear me. But I was never just fighting for our marriage, was I? I was fighting her. Every damn day.”

Geneva smirked. “You didn’t fight hard enough, baby.”

Amani turned to Langston, eyes wet but sharp. “I loved you even when you didn’t know how to love back. I held space for your wounds. But you let her move into our bed, and now I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”

Langston’s fists clenched. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is,” Amani said. “You either cling to your wife or to your mother’s ghosts.”

Geneva slammed her spoon down. “Don’t you dare talk about me like I’m dead.”

“You been dead to love a long time, Geneva,” Amani said. “And you made sure your son inherited your cold, dead heart.”

Langston staggered like she’d hit him.

Amani didn’t slam the door. She closed it gently—like a final breath, like goodbye.

She left the house on a Tuesday. No yelling, no drama. Just folded her apron, laid it on the counter, and whispered, “I’m not fighting for a man who still lives in his mama’s mouth.”

Langston sat at the table for hours after. Geneva didn’t say much either. Just stood in the kitchen, muttering, her spoon scraping the pot like she was digging a grave.

That night, Geneva called out from the kitchen. “She still gone?”

Langston didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

“Told you,” she said, voice cracked with pride. “A real woman don’t leave her man. She running from herself.”

Langston didn’t answer. He just stared at the empty chair where Amani used to sit.

Geneva tried to laugh it off. Said things like “She’ll be back once the world eats her up.” 

The scent of her lingered in the air like a ghost that refused to leave.

Then the memory came—sharp as a thorn.

He was nine years old, crouched under the trailer, arms wrapped around his knees. His puppy, Max, had gotten loose and was hit by a car. Langston cried so hard he couldn’t breathe. Geneva stood on the porch, cigarette dangling from her lips, watching.

She didn’t kneel beside him. She didn’t say sorry.

“That’s what happens when you love something too much,” she said, flicking ash. “World don’t care how soft your heart is. The minute it sees a crack, it climbs in and tears it open.”

“But he was just a dog…” Langston whimpered.

“He was yours,” she said. “And anything that belongs to you is just one step away from being taken.”

She finally crouched—just enough to lift his chin with her cold fingers.

“You cry now,” she said. “But you don’t let no woman, no job, no friend ever see you cry again. That’s how you survive, baby. You love just enough to keep ‘em close. Never so much they can gut you.”

She kissed his forehead and walked away like her lesson was scripture.

Langston had never forgotten that.

Maybe he’d built his whole life on it.

Weeks passed. Then months. The seasons turned without fuss—leaves browned, rain slicked the rusted steps, and the sun seemed to rise and fall with less conviction over the house.

The divorce papers came in a thick manila envelope, creased at the corners, smudged with the fingerprints of strangers who handled what used to be love like paperwork. Langston didn’t open it. He just placed it on his nightstand, beside the ashtray and the photograph of a fishing trip he'd taken with Amani—back when they still smiled without effort. The envelope gathered dust. Just like everything else.

The house got quieter. Not peaceful—hollow. A sort of silence that made even the walls ache. Geneva, once sharp-tongued and full of contempt, began shrinking inward. Her arms, once crossed in defiance, now hung limp by her sides. Her cheeks grew hollow, and her voice, once full of vinegar and bite, softened into something ghostly.

One rainy morning, while Langston nursed lukewarm coffee and stared at the pale blue of the kitchen linoleum like it held secrets, Geneva spoke from the couch, wrapped in a tattered blanket she used to complain was “too scratchy for company.”

“Whatever happened to Amani?” she asked, as if her voice had forgotten how to be cruel. “She was a nice one.”

Langston didn’t respond. He blew on his coffee, though it didn’t need it. The silence between them was louder than anything she could say.

Geneva turned toward him, searching his face. “You remember how she used to fold the laundry without even being asked? And bring in groceries, even the heavy ones?”

“You ran her off,” Langston said quietly, not out of spite, but as if stating a natural law—like gravity, or fire being hot.

Geneva’s mouth opened, then closed. She looked wounded, not angry. “I would never do that,” she said, almost to herself. “I was like a mother to that girl.”

Langston finally looked at her. His eyes were tired. “Exactly.”

She flinched, as if his words had weight. Heavy ones. The kind that stayed lodged in the chest long after they were spoken.

“I cooked for her. I gave her a roof. Clothes. When her own people threw her out, I—” Geneva stopped herself. She was trembling, just slightly. “You think that wasn’t love?”

“It was control,” Langston said, his voice almost tender. “You loved her the way a spider loves a fly. All wrapped up and paralyzed, thinking it’s safe.”

Geneva stood up, pacing now. “You think I was supposed to let her disrespect me? In my house?”

“She didn’t disrespect you, and this was her house.” Langston said, sipping his coffee. “She just stopped saying yes all the time.”

Geneva’s jaw clenched. She looked out the window, watching a neighbor rake leaves into a dying pile. “That girl needed structure. Someone to show her the right path.”

“She needed kindness,” Langston said. “Gentleness. She needed to be believed when she said she was tired. You called her ungrateful.”

Silence again, thick and mean.

Geneva sat back down, suddenly older than her years. “I thought I was helping her,” she said. “I really did.”

Langston didn’t reply right away. He watched her face as it crumpled, just a little, under the weight of memory.

“You tried to shape her,” he finally said. “But Amani wasn’t clay. She was already whole when she got here. You just didn’t like her shape.”

Geneva turned her face away, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. “She never even said goodbye.”

“She didn’t think you’d hear it,” he said. “You only heard yourself.”

Geneva let out a long, slow breath, like someone trying to push back tears and failing. “Do you think she’s okay?”

Langston didn’t answer. But the way he stared into his coffee, like it held some kind of truth, said enough.

That shut her up for a long while. She looked down at her hands, frail things now. As if time had gnawed at them while she wasn’t paying attention. Somewhere in the distance, a train wailed through the gray morning. It sounded like mourning.

A year later, Geneva was gone. Langston found her slumped in her recliner, TV buzzing static, peppermint schnapps bottle on the floor. Her voice, once sharp and loud, had faded weeks before.

He buried her in the local cemetery, the same town she never left and never let go of.

Now, Langston lives alone. He tends the garden Amani planted. He walks softly, says little, like a man haunted by a song he can’t unhear.

Every Sunday, he visits Geneva’s grave.

Sometimes he brings flowers.

Sometimes, just silence.

One afternoon, a teenager passing the cemetery saw Langston there, sitting by the headstone, lips moving, tears in his eyes.

They say he was whispering something over and over:

“Why couldn’t you let me love her?”

“Why couldn’t you let me love her?”

“Why couldn’t you let me love her?”

And if the wind’s blowing just right, some swear they still hear Geneva’s laugh—low, bitter, and fading.

A Year Later

"You made me just like you."

Langston's voice cracked as the words left his mouth, soft and bitter like spoiled honey. He didn’t know if he was talking to the dirt or the sky. The gravestone didn’t answer. Neither did the wind. Still, he came every Sunday. Still, he talked.

The townsfolk whispered, like townsfolk always do.

“That boy's lost his mind.”

“He was always Geneva’s child. Cold-blooded, like her.”

But some—like Miss Odessa from the corner store—shook their heads slower.

“Some men don’t realize what they had ‘til they’re left with the echo.”

Langston didn’t argue with echoes anymore. They lived in his walls, his pillows, his shirts still carrying the faint scent of the lavender oil Amani used to rub into her collarbones. Sometimes, he’d open her old dresser drawer just to feel the air shift, like memory had a smell.

But grief doesn’t plant roots. Regret does.

And regret was blooming like weeds.

 

Atlanta

Amani was not the same woman who walked away. She had cut her hair off first. Not a breakup cut—no soft curls framing her cheek. She shaved it to the skin. Watched each strand fall like years. Watched the mirror offer her someone new.

She moved into a tiny apartment near East Point. Worked mornings at a wellness center and taught yoga at night. Her students loved her voice—low, steady, commanding. Like someone who’d been quiet for too long and finally knew the power of their own breath.

There was a man who asked about her every week. Devin. He had eyes that smiled before his mouth did, and calloused hands that offered more help than compliments. He never asked what broke her. Just let her be unbroken.

Still, sometimes, when the sun hit the right way, she’d feel it: a tug in her chest like a loose thread. Not for Langston. Not for love lost. But for the version of herself she’d buried to survive it.

 

Back in Tallahatchie

Langston started therapy two towns over. He didn’t want anyone local seeing him walk into a place with soft couches and hard truths. The therapist’s name was Dr. Rayne—a Black woman in her forties who didn’t flinch when he talked about Geneva.

“She ruled everything,” he said once. “Even my thoughts.”

“She taught you how to love through control,” Dr. Rayne said. “And now you think love and control are the same thing.”

Langston stared at the carpet. “Amani was the only soft thing I had.”

“Then why did you choose sharpness?”

He didn’t answer that day.

But weeks passed, and his shoulders uncurled. His voice got lower. Less defensive. More haunted.

“She used to hum when she cooked,” he said. “Didn’t matter if the day was good or bad. She’d hum like she was praying.”

“And how did you respond?” Dr. Rayne asked.

Langston pressed a fist to his chest. “I muted her.”

 

Spring

The trees bloomed too early. The air carried that thick Mississippi warmth—the kind that made your skin slick before noon. Langston stood at the edge of the garden, hands dirty, boots caked. He dug out the last of the withered roots. The rose bushes were gone. In their place, he planted sage and basil, Amani’s favorite.

That afternoon, he picked up a pen.

The letter took him three hours to write.

Amani,

You don’t owe me anything, especially not your peace.

But I needed to tell you that I see it now. The silence you wore like armor. The way you made yourself smaller in every room with her, just so I wouldn’t have to choose.

I chose wrong.

You deserved a man who clung to you, not to the ghost of his mother’s wounds. I let her raise me into a wolf—snarling at tenderness, biting the hand that soothed me.

You tried to love the beast and still got devoured.

There’s no version of this letter that fixes what I broke. I don’t expect forgiveness. I only hope you know: you were never too much. You were the entire garden in bloom, and I—God help me—I watered weeds.

I’m learning now.

I hope joy finds you, in a quiet room, on a soft day.

-Langston

He didn’t send it. He folded it, slid it between pages of her favorite poetry book—the one she left behind. It sat on the shelf, unread, glowing with words he never said when it counted.

 

Two Years Later

The wellness center was packed on Saturdays. Amani’s classes filled up fast, especially her sunrise session on the roof.

She stood in Warrior II, facing the skyline. A light breeze kissed her cheek. She closed her eyes, steadying her breath.

And then—she felt it.

That tug.

She opened her eyes slowly. Looked out over the city. Saw nothing but light and steel.

Still, her breath caught.

After class, she found Devin waiting by her mat, holding a smoothie and a smile.

“You good?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Just… ghost breeze.”

He handed her the drink. “Maybe it’s just your past waving goodbye.”

She laughed. “Maybe.”

They walked toward the elevator. Amani paused at the door. Turned one last time toward the sky.

And whispered, “Thank you for the lesson.”

 

Mississippi 

The garden flourished—herbs, lavender, even a few tomato vines.

Langston cooked now.

For himself.

Sometimes for the neighbor’s kid who helped him fix the fence.

On Sundays, he still walked to the grave. But he didn’t argue anymore. He read aloud—usually from that poetry book. Sometimes from his own journal.

And when he went home, he’d light sage from the garden.

Not to erase her memory.

But to honor what grew in the ashes of it.

Holy Water and Hellfire by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Romance

  

Holy Water and Hellfire

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,828

The neon lights of Revel, Atlanta’s hottest underground bar, pulsed like a heartbeat in the dark. Inside, the bass throbbed, and the air smelled of whiskey, sweat, and desire. Ava Sinclair leaned against the bar, her leather jacket draped over her shoulders like armor. She was a walking contradiction—sharp as a switchblade but soft enough to melt if you were worthy.

Tonight, she wasn’t looking for love. Love had chewed her up and spit her out too many times before. She was here to celebrate survival.

"Whiskey. Neat," she told the bartender, who slid her the drink with a knowing smirk. She didn’t do sugarcoated nonsense, and neither did he.

As she lifted the glass to her lips, she felt eyes on her. Men stared, some intrigued, some intimidated. Ava was used to it. They didn’t understand her—a woman who had talked to angels and beat the devil, who had been shattered and reforged in fire.

"You’re different," a voice said.

She turned, meeting the gaze of a man with storm-gray eyes and a presence that felt like thunder waiting to strike. He was dressed in dark denim and an easy confidence, but she wasn’t fooled. Confidence could be a mask, and she wasn’t in the mood for another liar.

"That supposed to be a compliment or an observation?" she asked.

He chuckled. "Both. But mostly an apology in advance."

"For what?"

He leaned in, voice low. "For how much you’re gonna hate me when I tell you the truth."

Ava’s pulse skipped. "Try me."

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I know who you are, Ava Sinclair. I know what you’ve been through. And I know you don’t trust anyone—especially men like me."

Her grip tightened on the glass. "And what kind of man are you?"

"The kind that doesn’t waste time with fake love," he said. "The kind that either walks away now… or stays for real."

Ava studied him. Most men ran their mouths, promised stars, and delivered shadows. This one? He wasn’t promising anything.

That was new.

That was rare.

She smirked, tilting her glass in a mock toast. "Well, aren’t you just a live wire?"

He grinned. "And you’re holy water and hellfire."

Ava’s heart thrummed, but she didn’t let it show. Not yet.

Instead, she downed her drink and set the glass down with a slow, deliberate clink.

"Buy me another, and maybe I’ll let you stay."

The bartender slid another whiskey toward Ava, and she lifted it with a smirk, eyes locked on the storm-gray gaze across from her. The man—Damian Carter—hadn’t flinched under her scrutiny. That alone made him different. Most men either tried too hard to impress her or shrank back when they realized she wasn’t the kind of woman who played nice.

She took a slow sip, letting the silence between them stretch, testing him. Would he fill it with bullshit or let it breathe?

To her surprise, he just leaned back against the bar, watching her with something like curiosity.

"You’re waiting for me to slip up," he said finally.

Ava arched a brow. "No. I’m waiting to see if you’re worth the time."

Damian chuckled. "Fair enough."

She could read men in an instant. Confidence didn’t impress her. Honesty did.

"You said you know who I am." She tilted her head. "That supposed to scare me?"

He shook his head. "Not at all. It’s supposed to save me time."

"How so?"

"Because I know you don’t do games," he said. "And I don’t have time to play them."

A flicker of something warm stirred in her chest, but she buried it. Words were easy. Actions mattered.

"So what’s your angle?" she asked.

Damian sighed, swirling the ice in his glass. "I came here to clear my head, not chase anyone. But then I saw you. And now…" He shrugged. "Now I’m just trying not to screw this up."

Ava smirked. "You assume there’s something to screw up."

"There will be," he said smoothly. "If I do this right."

She exhaled a soft laugh. Ballsy.

"So what’s your story, Damian Carter?"

He took a sip of his drink before answering. "Grew up in South Atlanta. Older brother got into some bad shit, so I learned early what not to do. Spent my twenties trying to outrun my own mistakes. Now I keep things simple."

Ava studied him. Men like him usually had ghosts.

"And what’s ‘simple’ for you?"

He met her eyes. "Honest people. Straight talk. No fake love."

That last part landed deep. No fake love.

She tilted her head, tapping her fingers against the side of her glass. "So what happens now?"

"That depends," he said. "On whether you let me take you to dinner or send me packing."

Ava smirked, watching him for any sign of arrogance. There was none. Just patience. Confidence, but not entitlement.

She leaned in slightly. "One dinner."

Damian grinned. "You won’t regret it."

She arched a brow. "I never regret leaving when I need to."

His smirk widened. "That’s why I’m gonna make sure you don’t want to."

Damn.

Ava downed the rest of her whiskey and stood, grabbing her leather jacket. She wasn’t sure what she had just walked into, but one thing was certain.

She’d find out.

Ava stepped outside Revel, the night air thick with the scent of rain and city life. The pavement was slick, neon reflections shimmering like oil spills. Damian followed her out, hands in his pockets, his easy confidence intact.

"Where to?" he asked.

Ava shrugged. "You’re the one who insisted on dinner. Let’s see if you actually have good taste."

Damian smirked. "I know a spot."

He led her toward a sleek black Challenger, its engine humming like a caged animal. Ava smirked, running her fingers along the hood. Muscle cars. Predictable.

"You drive fast?" she asked.

Damian chuckled. "Only when necessary."

Ava slid into the passenger seat, testing the way the leather felt beneath her fingers. She didn’t trust easily, but something about this moment felt… right.

As he pulled onto the road, the low growl of the engine filling the silence, she stole a glance at him. Storm-gray eyes, jawline sharp enough to cut, hands steady on the wheel.

"Tell me something real," she said suddenly. "Something you don’t tell most people."

Damian didn’t hesitate. "I used to street race. Won a lot. Lost worse."

Ava lifted a brow. "Define ‘lost worse.’"

"Last race I ever did, I crashed," he said, voice even. "Almost killed myself. Had to relearn how to walk without a limp. Decided my life was worth more than proving a point."

Ava studied him. No bullshit. No bravado. Just the truth.

"Your turn," he said.

She hesitated. She wasn’t the type to spill her past to strangers, but something about the way he looked at her—**like he wasn’t waiting to judge, just to understand—**made her speak.

"I used to be engaged," she said finally.

Damian didn’t react, just waited for more.

"He was a liar. A manipulator. Made me feel like love was a trap, something that demanded sacrifice but never gave anything back."

"And?"

"And I left," she said simply. "Took my car, my pride, and never looked back."

Damian nodded, eyes still on the road. "Good."

Ava blinked. "That’s it?"

He shrugged. "What else is there? You saved yourself. That’s what matters."

Something in her chest tightened. Most people either pitied her or asked why she didn’t leave sooner. But Damian? He just accepted it.

She let that sit between them as the city lights blurred past.

A few minutes later, they pulled up to a small soul food joint tucked into a corner of downtown Atlanta. The kind of place with vinyl booths, handwritten menus, and food that actually meant something.

Ava smirked. "Points for not taking me somewhere cliché."

Damian cut the engine and turned to her. "I don’t do surface-level. You should know that by now."

She held his gaze for a long moment. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t another waste of her time.

"Alright, Carter," she said, pushing open the door. "Let’s see if you can handle dinner with a woman like me."

Damian chuckled, following her inside.

"Oh, I can handle you," he said. "The real question is—can you handle me?"

The soul food joint had a warmth that contrasted with the night outside—dim lights, the scent of fried chicken and cornbread, and the kind of quiet hum that came from satisfied people eating good food. A few older folks sat in the back, playing dominoes, and the radio played an old-school R&B track that Ava recognized but hadn’t heard in years.

A waitress, a woman in her late fifties with silver braids and a knowing smile, approached them. "You finally brought somebody in here, huh?" she said to Damian.

Ava lifted an eyebrow. Finally?

Damian smirked. "Had to wait for the right company, Auntie Joy."

Auntie Joy turned to Ava, looking her up and down, then gave a small nod of approval. "Well, she ain’t run off yet. That’s a good sign."

Ava chuckled, sliding into the booth across from Damian. "Guess I’m still figuring out if he’s worth the time."

Auntie Joy laughed. "Oh, baby, trust me. If he’s sitting across from you, he already knows you’re worth it."

Ava didn’t let the words sink in too deep. She’d heard sweet talk before. The difference was, Damian wasn’t the one saying it.

They ordered—catfish for Ava, short ribs for Damian, mac and cheese on both plates because that wasn’t even a question.

Once they were alone, Damian leaned forward slightly. "So? What’s the verdict?"

"On what?"

He smirked. "Me."

Ava leaned back, swirling her glass of sweet tea. "Still deciding."

Damian chuckled. "Fair enough."

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the kind that didn’t demand filler conversation. Ava wasn’t used to that. Most men filled empty spaces with empty words. Damian let things breathe.

Then, out of nowhere, he said, "I think people underestimate you."

Ava glanced up, fork halfway to her mouth. "How so?"

He took a sip of his drink, eyes steady on hers. "They see your face, your confidence, and they think they’ve got you figured out. But I don’t think most people know what you’ve survived to become this woman sitting across from me."

Ava’s grip tightened on her fork. It wasn’t often that someone saw her that clearly.

"And you do?" she asked, testing him.

Damian set his glass down. "Not yet. But I’d like to."

For a moment, Ava didn’t know what to say. The usual walls she kept up—the sharp tongue, the I-don’t-need-anyone armor—felt useless against him.

She let the silence stretch again, then finally said, "We’ll see."

Damian grinned like a man who knew he’d already won something. Not her heart. Not yet. But her attention.

And that?

That was rare.

Chasing Yesterday’s Mistake by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Anti-Romance / Supernatural

 

Chasing Yesterday’s Mistake

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 3,129

The first time Jasmine saw her, she was walking home from work—past the towering high-rises of Midtown Atlanta, their sleek glass exteriors catching the last light of day. The sky bled into shades of burnt orange and dusky violet, a striking contrast against the neon signs flickering to life. The warm scent of roasted coffee from a nearby cafe mixed with the metallic tang of the city, grounding her in routine.

Then came the scream.

Not the sharp wail of an ambulance or the distant howl of a siren, but something raw, jagged—a sound that clawed up from the belly of fear itself.

Jasmine stopped mid-step, heart slamming against her ribs. Across the street, just beyond the blur of moving headlights, she saw her.

Herself.

The woman was a mirror image, but distorted. Jasmine’s own high cheekbones, honey-brown skin, and precise locs—except this version of her was wild, frantic. Her hair hung in uneven long locs, she looked like she had been running for miles. A torn blouse sagged off one shoulder, her skin glistening with sweat.

She was sprinting straight for her.

Jasmine’s breath hitched as their eyes locked. The woman’s lips moved, desperate, shaping words Jasmine couldn’t hear over the city’s noise. Her arms stretched out, fingers trembling, pleading.

Then—

A car horn blared.

Jasmine stumbled back, her heel catching on the curb. The world jolted into motion again—tires screeched, a cyclist shouted, a couple laughed as they passed by, oblivious. Jasmine whipped her head around.

The woman was gone.

Nothing but the rush of traffic and the distant hum of Atlanta’s nightlife surrounded her.

She swallowed hard, pressing a hand to her chest.

Stress, she told herself. Wedding stress.

But as she turned toward home, the phantom of that scream curled around her like a whisper, refusing to let go.

Jasmine sat curled on the sleek leather couch, her fingers distractedly tracing the seam of a throw pillow as she recounted what she had seen. The city skyline glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but she kept glancing at her reflection in the glass, half-expecting to see that woman staring back at her.

Grant barely looked up from his whiskey, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler before taking a slow sip. “You probably saw a homeless woman,” he said, his voice even, dismissive. “Midtown’s full of them.”

Jasmine’s stomach twisted. “She looked like me.”

Grant exhaled sharply, the sound edged with impatience. He set his glass down with a soft clink, then leaned back, stretching one arm across the back of the couch. “Baby, you’re overworked. Between your job and planning this wedding, your mind’s bound to be frazzled.” He slid closer, the warmth of his body pressing against her side. His fingers skimmed her hip, soothing, comforting. “Besides, aren’t you the one who always says the subconscious plays tricks?”

Jasmine wanted to argue, wanted to insist that what she saw wasn’t just some stress-induced hallucination. But Grant’s certainty—his unwavering, effortless confidence—settled over her like a weighted blanket, muffling her doubts.

She forced a nod, her voice quieter than she intended. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

But later that night, as she drifted into uneasy sleep, the dream came.

The woman was back.

And this time, she was screaming her name.

The next warning came through her email.

Jasmine was buried in work, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she juggled deadlines, emails, and staff messages. Her inbox was a battlefield—branding proposals stacked on top of campaign updates, meeting requests squeezed between last-minute client edits.

Then one subject line stopped her cold.

DON’T DO IT, JASMINE.

Her breath hitched. A slow, creeping dread slithered up her spine.

With a shaky hand, she clicked.

The email body was empty. No sender. No signature. Just a void staring back at her.

Jasmine’s pulse pounded in her ears. The office around her buzzed—phones ringing, heels clicking against polished floors, the hum of the espresso machine in the break room—but she felt distant, confused, as if the world had taken a step back.

She reached for her phone, fingers fumbling to take a screenshot. But the second her fingertips grazed the screen—

The email vanished.

Gone. No trace. No record. She refreshed. Checked her spam folder. Opened and closed her inbox twice.

Nothing.

Jasmine swallowed hard. A glitch, she told herself. Just a system error. But when she reached for her coffee, her hands were trembling too much to lift the cup.

The video call came that night.

Jasmine and Grant had just finished dinner—one of their usual nights in, where he picked the wine, the music, the conversation. He had chosen a bold red from Napa, something expensive but impersonal, and queued up a jazz playlist that hummed low in the background. She had barely touched her glass.

Now, standing at the sink, she rinsed their plates under the warm stream of water, watching the soap swirl down the drain. Her phone, propped against the marble counter, lit up and started ringing.

Unknown Caller.

A cold prickle crawled up Jasmine’s spine. She hesitated, her fingers damp as she swiped to answer.

The screen flickered—static crackling at the edges—then resolved into an image that made her stomach plummet.

Herself.

Not a reflection. Not a mirror.

Her.

But this version of her looked hollowed out, like something had scraped her soul raw. Her skin was pale, her eyes rimmed red, and tear tracks streaked her cheeks. Shadows pooled beneath her collarbones, like she had been drained of light.

The woman on the screen parted her lips, and a hoarse whisper slipped through.

"Please listen to me."

Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat. She took an involuntary step back, her hip bumping the counter. “Who—who are you?”

The woman flinched like the words physically struck her. But her voice, when it came, was steady. "You know who I am. And you know what’s happening. Don’t marry him. Please."

A slow, creeping numbness spread through Jasmine’s limbs. The faucet was still running, the distant murmur of Grant’s voice carried from the living room, but all she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears.

“This is a joke,” she said, though her voice barely rose above a whisper. “Who is this?”

Future-Jasmine leaned forward, the screen distorting slightly as if reality itself struggled to hold her image. Her expression was raw, stripped bare, her pain so tangible Jasmine could feel it like a weight pressing on her chest.

"You think you’ll be okay. That you can fix him." Future-Jasmine’s voice trembled, her breath ragged. "You can’t. He will take everything from you. He will break you down, piece by piece. And when you finally understand, it will be too late."

Jasmine’s throat was so dry it ached. “Why should I believe you?”

A broken laugh escaped the woman on the screen, a sound so brittle it sent a shiver through Jasmine’s bones.

"Because I didn’t believe myself either."

The screen glitched, warped—her own image stretching and twisting as if something was pulling it away—then the call dropped.

Jasmine stood motionless, her pulse hammering. The water still ran, sending steaming swirls of soap down the drain. From the living room, Grant called her name, his voice smooth, expectant. The sound blurred against the rush of blood in her ears.

She should tell him. Should tell someone.

But deep in the pit of her stomach, a sickening certainty settled.

She already knew exactly how that conversation would go.

The next morning, Jasmine tried to convince herself it was stress. She really did.

She blamed the late nights, the wedding planning, the pressure of making everything perfect. She told herself she was overworked, overstimulated—that her brain was just playing tricks on her.

But at 3:00 AM, her phone vibrated on the nightstand.

The sound yanked her out of a restless sleep, her body rigid beneath the silk sheets. Grant stirred beside her but didn’t wake. Heart pounding, Jasmine reached for her phone.

One new voicemail.

A tight knot coiled in her stomach as she hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. The room was dark except for the faint glow from the city outside, the high-rise windows reflecting back nothing but black.

She pressed play.

At first, nothing. Just breathing. Harsh. Panicked. Uneven, like someone had been running for their life.

Then—her own voice.

Shaking. Desperate.

"You have to listen. You have to leave. You have to leave before—”

Static. A choked sob. Then silence.

Jasmine’s breath strangled in her throat. Her fingers went numb, and the phone slipped from her grasp, landing on the comforter with a muted thud.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The stillness of the room pressed in around her, the silence thick and suffocating.

She wanted to wake Grant, to tell him, to do something—but she already knew what he would say.

It’s stress, baby. You’re overthinking. Go back to sleep.

But her body knew the truth. The tremor in her hands. The cold sweat at the back of her neck.

This wasn’t stress.

It was a warning.

The wedding was in two days.

Jasmine stood in the bedroom, wrapped in a silence so thick it pressed against her ribs. The city outside moved as usual—car horns, distant laughter, the hum of Atlanta just beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows—but in here, time felt frozen.

The wedding dress hung from the closet door, a ghostly silhouette in the dim light. Layers of ivory silk cascaded down like a waterfall, delicate, pristine. It was beautiful. It was suffocating.

Her breath came shallow as she stared at it, fingers curling into her palms.

She hadn’t told Grant about the email. Or the video call. Or the voicemail.

She hadn’t told him because he wouldn’t believe her. Because she barely believed herself.

But as she stood there, the weight of it all pressing down on her, she realized—this wasn’t about the visions anymore.

It was about what she already knew.

The way he dismissed her fears with that easy, condescending smile.
The way his love felt like a performance, something she had to earn rather than something freely given.
The way she had already begun shrinking for him.

This was her last chance to stop it. To stop herself.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

She had to leave.

She made it halfway to the door before she heard it.

His voice.

“Where are you going?”

The words cut through the air, low and measured, sending a jolt down her spine.

Jasmine spun around.

Grant stood in the doorway, blocking her exit. His arms were crossed, his posture casual—but his eyes weren’t. They were locked onto her, unreadable, calculating.

She swallowed. Her heart thundered against her ribs.

“I—” Her throat felt tight. “I need to think. I need space.”

Grant exhaled slowly, stepping closer. “You’re just nervous,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “It’s normal.”

No.

It wasn’t just nerves. It wasn’t cold feet. It wasn’t the wedding.

It was him.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s more than that.”

A flicker of something—something dark—passed behind his eyes. His jaw clenched, so briefly she almost missed it.

“So, that’s it?” His voice was even, controlled, but his fingers twitched at his side. “You’re throwing everything away?”

Jasmine’s pulse pounded in her ears.

“I’m not throwing anything away. I just—”

His hand shot out.

Fingers wrapping around her wrist. Hard.

A sharp breath caught in her throat.

His grip wasn’t tight enough to bruise. Not yet. But it was firm. Unyielding.

A silent warning.

Jasmine’s skin went cold.

Because suddenly, she knew.

This was the beginning.

The moment Future-Jasmine had tried to warn her about.

The moment where it all started—the slow unraveling, the suffocating, the feeling of being trapped in something that wasn’t love but looked too much like it to question.

She should have ripped her arm away.

She should have run.

But just like before, just like always—

She didn’t.

Jasmine stood at the altar, her hands locked in Grant’s grip, her fingers numb, ice-cold.

The church was warm, filled with soft candlelight, the scent of roses thick in the air. A string quartet played something elegant, something meant to sound like forever.

But inside, she was frozen.

Somewhere, in the depths of her mind, she could still hear herself screaming—raw, desperate, clawing at the edges of her consciousness.

But the echoes had faded.

The veil settled over her shoulders. The vows left her lips. The ring slid onto her finger.

And the cycle began again.

Jasmine sat at the long dining table in their sleek Buckhead condo, staring at the untouched filet mignon Grant had ordered. The scent of rosemary and butter filled the air, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift her fork.

The candlelight flickered between them, its glow casting jagged shadows across his chiseled face. The room was quiet, save for the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain.

Grant swirled his wine, watching her over the rim of his glass. “You’ve been quiet all night.” His voice was smooth, measured—too measured. He set the glass down with a deliberate clink, the sound slicing through the silence.

Jasmine forced a smile, her fingers twisting the hem of her dress beneath the table. “Just tired.”

His eyes narrowed. “Again?”

There it was. The shift. Subtle, but unmistakable.

It was always like this now. The wrong answer, the wrong tone, and his patience would thin, unraveling into something sharper. He would remind her, softly at first, how much he had done for her—the apartment, the wedding, the life she was so lucky to have.

And if she didn’t answer right, the warmth in his voice would cool.

She knew where this was going. She had seen it before. Lived it before.

The cycle had started, just as her other self had warned.

This wasn’t love anymore. It was control.

Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat.

And yet, she stayed.

Just like before.

The warnings never stopped.

Emails from addresses that didn’t exist. Muffled voicemails of her own voice crying—begging. Messages vanishing the moment she tried to show them to someone.

At first, she deleted them. Ignored them. Convinced herself they were stress-induced hallucinations, figments of an overworked mind. But no matter how many times she tried to erase them, they always came back—like echoes from a future she didn’t want to believe in.

One night, the glow of her phone screen pulled her from sleep.

Another email.

IT NEVER GETS BETTER. LEAVE.

Jasmine’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the sheets.

Beside her, Grant lay still, his breath deep and steady. The dim light from her phone screen cast long shadows across his face—the face of the man she had promised forever to.

His arm was draped over her waist, heavy and possessive.

The weight of ownership.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She closed the email. Turned off her phone.

Rolled back into the cage of his embrace.

And tried to sleep.

The first slap came a year later.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. No raised voices, no shattered glass—just a swift, casual motion, his palm cutting across her cheek like an afterthought. A flick of the wrist, a correction, as effortless as straightening his tie.

Jasmine barely registered it at first. The sting came second, the shock third. She blinked, frozen in place, fingers drifting to her cheek where the heat of his touch still lingered.

Grant exhaled, already turning away, as if the moment didn’t matter. As if she didn’t matter.

“Don’t overreact,” he muttered, his tone bored.

Jasmine stood there, rooted, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. Something inside her cracked.

In the silence that followed, she could still hear herself screaming in the distance— a voice lost in time, warning, pleading.

She closed her eyes.

And let the silence swallow her whole.

The rain poured in sheets, soaking Jasmine’s nightgown, clinging to her skin like a second layer of cold regret. She didn’t know how long she had been standing there—barefoot in the mud, the city skyline blinking behind her, the storm washing over her like some kind of baptism that refused to take.

She looked down.

Her reflection rippled in the puddle at her feet—distorted, unfamiliar. Her eyes were hollow, her lips pressed thin. She didn’t recognize herself.

Then—a whisper.

“You know what you have to do.”

Her breath hitched. Slowly, she turned.

Her.

Future-Jasmine stood a few feet away, rainwater streaming down her face, her arms wrapped around herself as if holding together something fragile. Her expression was raw—pleading.

“I know you’re scared,” she said, voice barely audible over the storm. “But listen to me this time. RUN.”

Jasmine’s chest tightened, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

“I—I can’t,” she whispered, the words barely making it past her lips.

Future-Jasmine shook her head, stepping forward, her soaked dress dragging against the pavement. “You’ve said that before. And you’ll keep saying it. Over and over, until there’s nothing left of you. Until you wake up one day and realize you’re just—gone.”

Jasmine shuddered. The words felt heavy, sinking into her bones, pressing against the deepest parts of her she had tried to ignore.

“I don’t know how,” she admitted, voice breaking.

Future-Jasmine studied her, something soft and knowing in her gaze.

“Yes, you do.”

Jasmine swallowed hard. The rain dripped from her chin.

And then—she vanished.

Leaving Jasmine alone in the storm, staring at the space where she had stood.

That night, Jasmine moved like a ghost through the dimly lit condo, her breath shallow, her pulse a steady drum in her ears.

She didn’t pause. Didn’t let doubt creep in.

She stuffed clothes into a duffel—just enough. Just what she could carry. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Grant stirred once in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. She froze in the doorway, heart hammering, but he didn’t wake.

The key turned smoothly in the ignition.

As she drove, the city lights blurred past, but for the first time, she wasn’t looking back.

Years later, in a sunlit apartment in Savannah, Jasmine stirred beneath soft linen sheets, a faint breeze whispering through the open window.

A feeling brushed against her skin—a presence.

Her breath hitched, muscles tensing, the old instinct returning. She turned, half-expecting to see her—the version of herself that had once chased, pleaded, warned.

But the room was empty. Only morning light pooled on the floor, golden and warm.

For the first time, the past was truly behind her.

Jasmine inhaled deeply.

And finally, slept without ghosts.

The 50th Gateway by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Science Fiction

 

The 50th Gateway

By Olivia Salter 

Word Count: 3,829

Darius Holt had always been drawn to the unexplained. For years, he had dug through UFO sightings, electromagnetic anomalies, and cryptic reports from long-forgotten locales. With his research partner Simone Harris, he’d come close to the edge of discovery but never fully crossed it. Most of the time, it seemed like the world of the supernatural was a game of smoke and mirrors—pushing you to the brink of understanding, only to leave you empty-handed.

But this time was different.

The Alabama woods stretched out before them, dense and wild, a place where even sunlight seemed hesitant to fall. They had come here searching for something. No one knew exactly where, but both of them felt it—the pull of a story left untold. They had been led by an anonymous source, one that claimed to know of a hidden place, a gateway—one of the 50 rumored dimensional portals scattered across the world.

Darius checked his compass. It pointed north, but he’d stopped trusting it a while ago. The needle fluctuated in a way that felt wrong. They were on the right path, but the air felt heavier now, as if the forest itself were pressing against them.

“Darius, look,” Simone’s voice cut through the growing tension.

She pointed ahead, where the trees parted to reveal a strange clearing bathed in an unnatural light. Darius squinted, trying to make sense of the scene. The air seemed to warp, as though a heatwave were rising from the ground. But it wasn’t the heat that made him uneasy.

It was the hum.

Faint, but there. It echoed through his chest like the sound of a distant engine, vibrating his bones. The closer they got, the more intense the sound became, until it was a full-body sensation. Darius felt his heart race, and for the first time in his life, he wondered if he was standing on the edge of something far beyond human understanding.

Simone stepped forward, EMF reader in hand. Her eyes widened as the needle shot off the scale, a confirmation of their unspoken thoughts.

“This is it,” she said quietly, almost admiringly.

Darius turned on his camera, the lens focusing shakily as the clearing in front of them shifted. The air bent as if space itself was liquefying.

Then, without warning, the ground below their feet rumbled, and the shimmer in the air became something more—something real. A tear in the very fabric of reality opened wide, jagged and alive, stretching and folding into itself as though trying to breathe. A flash of dark, incomprehensible shapes twisted beyond the threshold, and for a fleeting moment, Darius saw them—a collection of eyes, ancient and infinite, staring back at him.

And then a figure stepped through.

It was tall, its form shifting, flickering between shapes as if it had no true shape at all. The air seemed to bend around it, warping the space like a broken mirror. Its presence was a vacuum, pulling everything into itself. Its eyes—black as the void—locked onto Darius, and a coldness gripped his heart.

The figure spoke, though no lips moved.

"You are not meant to see."

The world around them snapped. The portal collapsed inward, and everything went silent. The hum ceased, and the air returned to normal—eerily still.

Simone took a cautious step back. “Darius—what the hell just happened?”

Darius stood frozen, his camera still running, but when he checked the footage, his stomach turned. The screen was blank. The recording was gone. His hands trembled as he lowered the camera. What was that thing? And why had it… disappeared?

“Did you see it?” Simone’s voice broke through his dazed state. “What was that?”

“I… I don’t know,” he muttered, his pulse still racing. “But I think it saw us.”

They returned to Birmingham, the memory of the portal still hanging between them like a thick fog. Darius tried to write it off as a trick of the mind, a shared hallucination induced by the oppressive atmosphere of the woods. But no amount of rationalization could quiet the sense that something had followed them. Something had changed.

For days after their return, strange things began to happen.

At first, it was subtle. Darius would look into the mirror, and for a fraction of a second, his reflection would lag—his movements slightly delayed, his expression twisted in a way that didn’t match his own. He would blink, and it would be gone. He chalked it up to fatigue.

But the glitches didn’t stop. They got worse.

One night, after he switched off the light in his bedroom, the shadows didn’t quite vanish. They lingered, stretching across the walls like dark fingers. His own shadow didn’t move when he did. He turned around, his heart racing, but there was nothing behind him. His reflection, however, seemed to twist, shifting slightly before returning to its original position.

Simone called the next day, her voice tight. “Darius… I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s happening to me.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his pulse quickening.

“The lights. They flicker every time I look at them. And my phone’s acting strange—it won’t let me call anyone who wasn’t there that night. And last night… I saw a shadow at the foot of my bed. I turned the light on, but when I looked again, nothing was there.”

Darius felt his stomach drop. He wanted to reassure her that it was just stress, that they’d both imagined things—but he couldn’t. He had seen it, too.

“I see it too,” he said. “It’s like—something is following us.”

Simone’s voice was barely above a whisper. “We shouldn’t have gone there.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then, Simone broke the silence. “We need to go back. Whatever that thing was, it’s not done with us. And we need answers.”

Darius swallowed. “You’re right. We have to know what we’re dealing with.”

The woods felt wrong when they returned. They had done this journey together before, but now, everything felt… distorted. The path was the same, but it was as though they were walking through a place that had already been altered.

Simone’s hand gripped Darius’s as they neared the clearing, the air thick with anticipation. The EMF reader whined in her hand, a sharp signal that the portal was near.

“There’s something here,” she said. “I can feel it.”

The clearing was exactly as they had left it—the same shimmering, warped air—but now there was a new presence. A chill settled in their chests, deeper than any cold the night could bring.

Then the air parted, and the figure stepped through again.

It wasn’t the same as before. This time, the shape seemed clearer, more defined. It didn’t flicker—it hovered in the space between worlds, its vast, incomprehensible form a constant, gnawing pressure. The black eyes locked onto them again.

"You returned," it said, the words woven into the fabric of the air itself.

Simone gripped Darius’s arm tighter. “What do you want from us?”

The figure tilted its head as if considering her question. "You crossed the threshold. You are now between."

Darius's breath caught in his throat. "Between what?"

"Understanding," it chant. "And forgetting."

The words were a riddle, but they hit him with a profound weight. He had the sense that the thing was offering them an impossible choice—one that could unravel everything they thought they knew.

Simone looked at him, her eyes wide with panic. “Darius, we don’t have to do this. Whatever this is… we don’t need it.”

But it was too late.

The figure reached out with a long, skeletal hand, a silent command that felt more like a certainty. As its fingers brushed against the air, the clearing shifted again, the ground beneath them humming. Everything blurred, bending like a broken frame, as though the world itself had been skewed.

“Leave, or stay,” the figure said, its voice growing distant, as if it were already slipping away into the ether.

Darius’s heart pounded. Simone’s face was pale, but he could see the decision in her eyes.

“We leave,” Darius said, though part of him wasn’t sure they ever truly would.

The figure hesitated, then vanished into the void. The clearing, once again, became still.

Simone let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. "Did we… did we really leave?"

“I don’t know,” Darius whispered.

When they emerged from the woods, the world felt almost too quiet. The sky was a dull gray, the air still. They reached Darius’s car, but the moment he touched the door handle, something inside him twisted—a hollow ache, a sense that something was missing.

Simone climbed into the passenger seat, her gaze unfocused. "What just happened?"

“I don’t know. But it doesn’t feel over. Like we’re still… between.”

Darius started the engine, but the feeling didn’t go away. The trees blurred past them, and he couldn’t shake the sensation that someone—or something—was watching them from the shadows, from just beyond the veil of what they could see. The road stretched out in front of them, but it felt endless, as if the lines between one place and another were dissolving around them. The hum in the air was faint at first, a low vibration under the sound of the engine, but it was growing, building in the pit of his stomach.

Simone looked at him, her expression a mix of exhaustion and fear. "Do you hear it?"

He nodded, the hum now a steady, vibrating pulse beneath everything—beneath the car, beneath the world itself. It wasn’t just in their ears anymore; it was in their bones. The space inside the car seemed to warp as though reality was slipping through their fingers, and for a moment, the familiar landscape outside the window twisted into something foreign, something alien.

"Darius..." Simone’s voice cracked. "I don’t think we can go back."

He glanced at her, a pang of dread rising in his chest. "What do you mean?"

Her hands gripped the armrest, her knuckles white. "I don’t think we can ever leave. That thing… that portal… it’s still with us. I can feel it. I can see it in the reflection. The mirrors, Darius—they’re all wrong."

Darius turned his head sharply, his eyes drawn to the rearview mirror. It took a moment for him to register, but then he saw it. Behind them, in the reflection, the road wasn’t just dark—it was… distorted. The trees bent unnaturally, the headlights of their car flickering like distant stars. The reflection of the car itself seemed to pulse with the strange energy that had followed them from the woods.

Simone gasped, her breath shallow. "It’s like we’re still there. In the woods. Like we never left."

Darius slammed his foot on the gas, urging the car forward, but the road before them didn’t seem to lengthen as it should. The landscape stayed the same—stuck, a mirror of the other side, where time had broken. And behind them, in the rearview mirror, the figure—its eyes black as ink—was slowly emerging, flickering between the reflections of the trees.

"Stop looking at it!" Simone shouted, but it was too late.

Darius felt himself pulled, not physically, but mentally, as if the car had ceased to be a vessel of escape. The edges of his mind frayed, the strange sensation that he was both here and somewhere else took root in his consciousness. His heart beat erratically, not because of fear, but because he was no longer sure if his heart belonged to this world.

In the mirror, the figure stared, its face devoid of expression, its eyes vast pools of darkness.

Simone screamed, and the car swerved violently as Darius reached for the wheel. The world outside the car spun, and for a brief, terrifying moment, the fabric of reality itself seemed to unravel. The trees disappeared into an endless void, and the road twisted upon itself like a serpent devouring its own tail.

The car lurched, the tires screeching against asphalt that was no longer familiar. The air inside the car was thick, pulsing with static as if the very atmosphere was turning into something alien. In an instant, the road disappeared entirely. They were no longer driving through Alabama. The world outside the car was now a vast expanse of dark, swirling shapes—cosmic, distant, and unknowable.

Simone was gasping, her hands pressed against the windows, her face pale with terror. "Darius! We’re not in the world anymore! We’ve crossed over, haven’t we? We left!"

Before he could respond, the hum intensified. The car, the world, and everything in it collapsed into a single point, and the sensation of being outside of time—and perhaps outside of existence—consumed them.

---

XXX Part 5: Between Worlds

Darius awoke to a crushing silence. He opened his eyes, but nothing was familiar. The car was gone. The road was gone. There was nothing but endless dark, an oppressive void stretching in all directions.

His breath caught in his throat as he pushed himself up from the ground, the air heavy with an unsettling chill. He was no longer on Earth—he was in a place outside of time, a place where laws of reality had no power.

"Simone?" His voice echoed into the void, but there was no response. Panic surged in his chest.

Then, a movement caught his eye.

Simone stood a few feet away, her eyes wide, staring into the distance. Her body was rigid, unmoving, as though she were trapped in some unseen force. Slowly, Darius approached her, but the closer he got, the more the air around them seemed to distort, as if it was fighting his presence.

“Simone!” Darius called again, but this time, his voice was muffled, as if the very atmosphere had absorbed it. She turned to him slowly, but her expression was distant—almost… frozen.

Her lips parted, but instead of words, what came out was a distorted echo of the voice they had heard before—the figure from the portal.

"You are between," it said, not from Simone, but from the space between them. "You exist, yet you do not. You have crossed, and you will never return."

Darius’s heart clenched. "No. This isn’t real. We can’t be—"

Before he could finish, the ground beneath them began to tremble. The darkness around them began to crack, fissures appearing like broken glass. Out of those cracks poured more figures—tall, distorted shapes that flickered between dimensions. They moved with unnatural speed, their forms shifting like liquid.

One of them stepped forward, and Darius saw it clearly—a face, a mask of nothing, devoid of any recognizable features except for the endless abyss that filled its gaze.

"You have seen the truth," the figure intoned. "You were never meant to know."

In that instant, Darius felt the truth burn through him—the unsettling realization that they were no longer in the world they knew. They were in a place that existed beyond the human mind’s capacity for understanding—a place of no time, no space. A place where those who crossed the boundaries became lost forever, trapped between worlds that had no meaning.

Simone, her eyes wide with horror, reached for him. "Darius, we have to get out of here. Please, we have to—"

But before she could finish, the ground beneath their feet shattered entirely, and they were plunged into the void.

---

Part 6: The Truth of the Threshold

When Darius opened his eyes again, he was back in his apartment. The familiar hum of the refrigerator, the soft ticking of the clock, and the mundane noises of daily life greeted him. He sat up slowly, his head spinning. He looked around, searching for some sign that this was real.

But there was nothing.

He stumbled toward the mirror hanging on the wall, his breath shallow. He saw himself, but it wasn’t him. Not entirely.

His reflection was... wrong. His face was blurred, shifting, like the remnants of a dream struggling to hold its form.

And behind him, in the dim reflection, a pair of black, unblinking eyes watched.

Darius gasped, his heart sinking.

Somewhere, out there, Simone was still between—lost in the endless expanse where reality broke, where the rules of the world no longer applied.

And he would never be able to reach her.

The mirror flickered once more, and he realized the truth.

They weren’t just caught between dimensions.

They were trapped in one.

The reflection of Darius in the mirror shifted again, the blurry, inhuman face flickering like a malfunctioning image. His breath caught in his throat. He turned away from the mirror, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. His pulse hammered in his ears as he staggered back, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The world around him felt off, like he was no longer truly part of it.

Darius stumbled to the window and looked outside, hoping to see something—anything—that felt like the world he knew. But the view was distorted, like looking through water, the streets below warped and the sky overcast with a strange, otherworldly gray. The faint hum from earlier returned, vibrating in his chest, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was as if the very fabric of existence was unraveling, each thread hanging loose in the air.

His mind raced. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.

The memory of the forest, the portal, and the figures from that night flooded back in an overwhelming rush. He could still feel the pull of the void, the strange energy that had latched onto him and Simone. They had crossed into something far more dangerous than they had imagined. They had gone beyond the reach of Earth—and now, it seemed, they could never return.

There was a soft knock on the door, followed by a voice. "Darius?"

His heart skipped a beat. It was Simone.

He rushed to the door, flinging it open, half-expecting her to be standing there, her expression haunted but real. But no one was there. The hallway outside was empty.

"Darius?" The voice came again, but this time, it wasn’t from the hallway. It was a whisper in his ear, as if someone was standing directly behind him.

He spun around, but no one was there.

The hum in the air grew louder, filling his ears, thrumming with an energy he couldn’t understand. The apartment felt smaller, as though the walls were closing in, suffocating him. He had to escape—he had to get out of this space. But where could he go? Everywhere felt wrong now. He was already somewhere else, somewhere that shouldn’t exist.

The reflection in the mirror grew clearer, and this time, Darius didn’t look away. He stared into it, his own face now twisted and strange, no longer resembling the man he had been only hours ago. The figure that had followed him was there again, its black eyes fixated on him, and in its expressionless mask, he saw something—something more—something he couldn’t comprehend. It was like the figure was trying to communicate something, but the words twisted in his mind, an incomprehensible string of symbols and images, flashing in rapid succession.

It was as if the reflection was showing him the truth.

The truth of the dimensions.

The truth of the portals.

The truth of what they had unleashed.

"Darius," the voice whispered again, this time cold and full of malice. "You are no longer just a part of the world you knew. You are between. And you will never escape."

His hands gripped the sides of the mirror, his nails digging into the glass. The world around him swam, his vision blurring as the reflection warped again. The figure in the mirror twisted into a thousand different faces—human and not-human—its shifting form an endless parade of horrors. Each face screamed at him in silent agony, their mouths open but no sound escaping.

"Simone..." Darius breathed, his voice cracking. He couldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

The hum grew louder, vibrating in his bones now, and suddenly the ground beneath him began to tremble again. The familiar sound of the refrigerator buzzing, the ticking of the clock—all of it vanished, leaving only the deafening silence. His feet lifted from the floor, his body weightless, suspended in an unknown space.

And then, just like that, he was falling.

He landed hard on the ground, his breath knocked from him. When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t in his apartment anymore. He was back in the woods. The same dense, dark forest where the portal had first opened.

Simone was standing in front of him.

Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror. She looked as though she hadn’t aged a day, but her eyes—they were empty, hollow, as if something vital had been taken from her.

"Simone?" Darius choked out, scrambling to his feet. "Simone, we need to leave. We—"

But she didn’t respond. She stood motionless, staring ahead with a vacant gaze, as though she couldn’t see him at all. The same black eyes that had appeared in the reflection in the mirror stared back at him through her own, and in that moment, he understood.

She was gone.

No—she was never truly here, not anymore. The portal had taken her, consumed her in ways he couldn’t fully grasp. And now, the same force was coming for him.

The trees around them began to shift, their bark rippling like liquid. The air grew thick with an energy that made Darius’s skin crawl. Shadows gathered, forming shapes that didn’t belong in this world. Figures from beyond the dimensions circled them, their forms shifting, blurring with the darkness.

Darius backed away, his legs shaking. He wanted to run, to escape, but there was no escape. Not anymore.

The ground beneath him cracked open, revealing a gaping chasm of swirling, pulsating light. The portal—the same portal from before—was opening again, wider this time, drawing them in with an insidious pull.

Simone’s body remained frozen, her eyes still staring into the void, her lips moving as though whispering something Darius couldn’t hear.

A voice echoed in the distance, growing louder, its tone cold and distant. "The truth is not what you think. You are between. You will never be the same."

Darius turned, the world around him starting to collapse, the reality shattering like glass. The portal stretched wider, its edges bleeding into the night. The figures from beyond were closing in, their forms coalescing into something more tangible, more malevolent.

And then, without warning, the world collapsed entirely.

There was only darkness.

And the hum—the never-ending hum—filling every corner of his mind.

The Last Call by Olivia Salter / Shor Story / Mystery

  

The Last Call

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 3,811

Birmingham, Aabama—where steel and history collide, where the past lingers in the bones of the city. It was a chilly October night when Detective Kamari Graves got the call. A body had been found outside The Blue Orchid, a dimly lit jazz lounge on 4th Avenue.

The victim was a man in his early 40s, well-dressed, a Rolex still on his wrist. No wallet, no phone. Shot once in the chest. A single .38 caliber shell casing glinted under the neon glow of the club's sign.

Kamari surveyed the scene, her partner, Detective Malik Carter, flipping through his notepad.

“Witnesses?” Kamari asked.

“The bartender, some musicians, a couple of regulars. But no one saw the actual shooting.”

Kamari glanced at the club’s flickering security camera. “And let me guess—footage is conveniently missing?”

“Bingo,” Malik sighed.

Inside, The Blue Orchid smelled of whiskey and regret. The bartender, a broad-shouldered man named Jermaine, wiped down a glass with practiced indifference.

“You see him before tonight?” Kamari asked, showing the victim’s picture.

Jermaine hesitated. “Yeah. Name’s Darnell Briggs. Came in around nine. Ordered a whiskey, neat. Looked nervous, kept checking his phone.”

“Who was he waiting for?”

“Not sure. But about an hour later, he got up, said something to a woman in a red dress. Then he stepped outside. Next thing, I hear a shot.”

Kamari’s pulse quickened. “Describe her.”

“Tall, dark skin, short curls. Looked expensive—like the kind of woman who makes a man forget his common sense.”

Kamari exchanged a look with Malik. “Got cameras inside?”

Jermaine nodded, leading them to the back office. The grainy footage showed Darnell at the bar, drumming his fingers against the wood. Then, the woman in the red dress entered, sliding into the seat beside him. They exchanged hushed words. A minute later, he followed her outside.

But the woman never came back in.

Back at the precinct, Kamari ran a search. The only recent Darnell Briggs in the system was an accountant for a construction company. No criminal record. But his phone records told a different story—several calls to a burner number. Malik traced it to Serena Tate.

Kamari’s stomach tightened. Serena Tate was no ordinary woman. She was the widow of Marcel Tate, a notorious loan shark who was murdered last year—shot with a .38 caliber. His killer was never found.

Kamari and Malik pulled up to Serena’s condo in Highland Park. She opened the door in silk loungewear, her eyes cool and unreadable.

“You should’ve called first,” she said, sipping red wine.

Kamari held up a photo of Darnell. “You met him tonight.”

Serena smirked. “Is that a crime?”

“He’s dead.”

Her smile didn’t waver, but something flickered behind her eyes. “I had nothing to do with that.”

Malik leaned in. “Funny. He was shot with the same caliber that killed your husband.”

Serena set down her glass. “Darnell was a client of my husband’s. He owed money. After Marcel died, he thought the debt disappeared. But business doesn’t work like that.”

Kamari crossed her arms. “So you lured him out, killed him?”

Serena laughed softly. “Detective, if I wanted Darnell dead, why would I meet him at a public bar?”

Kamari glanced at Malik. She had a point.

“Then who wanted him dead?” Kamari asked.

Serena leaned against the doorway. “You’re looking in the wrong direction. Maybe ask who benefits from tying this to me.”

The door shut in their faces.

---

Back at the precinct, Kamari couldn’t shake the feeling that Serena was telling the truth. Then, Malik’s phone buzzed.

“Ballistics just came in. The bullet that killed Darnell doesn’t match the gun that killed Marcel Tate.”

Kamari frowned. “Then who set this up?”

Malik exhaled. “Someone who wanted us looking at Serena instead of them.”

Kamari’s gut twisted. There was another player in the game. Someone with a deeper grudge. And they were still out there.

Waiting.

Kamari sat at her desk, the weight of the case pressing down on her. Serena Tate might have had motive, but the evidence wasn’t lining up. If she didn’t kill Darnell Briggs, then who did? And why stage it to make her look guilty?

“Alright,” Kamari said, rubbing her temples. “Let’s retrace Darnell’s steps.”

Malik tapped at his keyboard. “We pulled his financials, right? Let’s see if he made any suspicious withdrawals.”

A few keystrokes later, Malik whistled. “Darnell pulled out five grand in cash two days ago. That’s not pocket change.”

Kamari leaned in. “Who was he paying off?”

Malik clicked through the transactions. “Here’s something—Darnell transferred money every month to a company called Tate Holdings, LLC.”

Kamari’s eyes narrowed. “Serena’s company?”

“Not quite. It’s registered under a different name—” Malik’s voice trailed off.

Kamari leaned closer. “Who?”

Malik turned the screen toward her. “Marcel Tate’s little brother. Anthony Tate.”

A slow chill crept up Kamari’s spine.

Anthony Tate had always been a ghost—never in the limelight, never making waves. But if he was still collecting debts under his brother’s name, he had motive to want Darnell dead.

And if he was setting up his sister-in-law, that meant he wanted something more than revenge.

Control.

11:45 PM – Southside, Birmingham

Kamari and Malik parked outside Tate Auto & Storage, a run-down car repair shop that Anthony Tate supposedly owned. The shop was dark, but a light flickered inside the office.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Malik murmured, hand resting on his holster.

Kamari nodded. “He’s either expecting us, or he’s cleaning up.”

They approached quietly. Kamari knocked. No answer.

Malik tried the knob. Unlocked.

Inside, the air smelled like motor oil and stale cigarettes. A desk sat in the middle of the room, stacks of papers scattered across it. And on the wall—security footage.

Footage from The Blue Orchid.

Kamari’s pulse quickened. “Well, well.”

A chair scraped against the floor behind them.

Anthony Tate stood in the doorway, arms crossed. He was in his late 30s, lean, with sharp eyes that carried the weight of too many bad decisions.

“Detectives,” he said, voice smooth. “You should’ve called.”

Kamari gestured to the monitors. “You watching your work?”

Anthony smirked. “Just staying informed.”

Malik stepped forward. “You set up Serena. You wanted us looking at her while you handled Darnell.”

Anthony shrugged. “I didn’t kill Darnell.”

Kamari’s jaw tightened. “Then why erase the security footage?”

Anthony chuckled. “I never erased anything. I just made sure the right people saw what I wanted them to.”

He stepped to the desk, tapping a keyboard. The footage played—this time, a different angle.

It wasn’t Serena leading Darnell outside.

It was Jermaine, the bartender.

Kamari’s mind reeled. “Why would Jermaine—”

Malik cut in. “Unless he owed you.”

Anthony’s smirk widened. “You catch on quick.”

Jermaine had been in debt, probably desperate. And Anthony had used him to get rid of Darnell while pinning it on Serena.

Kamari clenched her fists. “You really think you’ll get away with this?”

Anthony leaned in. “Detective, I already have.”

Then, a sudden screech of tires outside. Headlights flooded the room.

Kamari and Malik ducked just as bullets shattered the office window.

Anthony dove for cover, cursing.

Kamari pulled her weapon, heart hammering.

Someone wanted them all dead.

And whoever it was—wasn’t done yet.

Gunfire erupted outside, bullets ripping through the thin walls of Tate Auto & Storage. Kamari and Malik hit the ground as shards of glass rained over them.

Anthony Tate scrambled behind his desk, cursing under his breath.

"Malik, you good?" Kamari called out.

"I'm breathing," Malik muttered, pressing against a metal cabinet for cover. He peeked outside. "Black SUV. Tinted windows. Looks like they brought backup."

Kamari’s grip on her Glock tightened. "You expecting company, Anthony?"

Anthony scoffed, checking the revolver tucked in his waistband. "Not my people. Which means it’s yours."

Kamari’s stomach dropped. If it wasn’t Anthony’s crew, that meant someone else wanted to tie up loose ends. And considering how neatly they’d been led here, this was a trap from the start.

A pause in the gunfire.

Kamari signaled to Malik. “We need to move—back exit.”

Malik nodded, keeping low as they crept toward the garage bay doors. Anthony stayed put.

"You coming or what?" Kamari hissed.

Anthony shook his head. "I ain't running. If someone wants me dead that bad, I'd rather see their face."

"Suit yourself," Malik muttered.

Kamari didn't have time to argue. She reached for the door handle—

A figure appeared in the alley, aiming a gun straight at her.

She barely ducked in time as the shot rang out, the bullet sparking off the metal frame.

Malik fired back, forcing the shooter to retreat. Kamari pressed herself against the wall, breathing hard.

"Now what?" Malik asked.

Kamari glanced at Anthony. "You got another way out?"

Anthony hesitated, then nodded. "There's an old service tunnel beneath the shop. Leads two blocks south."

"You better not be lying," Malik muttered.

Anthony smirked. "I lie about a lot of things, Detective. My survival ain't one of them."

Anthony led them through a hidden trapdoor behind a stack of old tires. The tunnel was narrow, damp, and smelled like rust and mildew. Kamari’s heart pounded as they hurried through the darkness, Malik covering their backs.

After what felt like forever, they emerged behind an abandoned laundromat on 5th Avenue.

No sign of the SUV.

Malik exhaled. "We need to figure out who set this up before they find us again."

Anthony adjusted his jacket, eyes sharp. "I can tell you one thing—it ain't just about Darnell."

Kamari narrowed her eyes. "Then what is it about?"

Anthony smirked. "Power, Detective. The kind that don't forgive mistakes."

Before Kamari could press him further, her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

She answered.

A distorted voice whispered, "You’re running out of time, Detective. Walk away while you still can."

The line went dead.

Kamari stared at her phone, her pulse racing.

Whoever was pulling the strings wasn’t done yet.

And now, they were watching.

Kamari lowered the phone slowly, her mind racing. The distorted voice wasn’t just a threat—it was a warning.

“Let me guess,” Malik muttered, eyes scanning the street. “More bad news?”

“They know we’re getting close,” Kamari said, shoving the phone into her pocket. “Whoever’s behind this is watching us.”

Anthony chuckled dryly, lighting a cigarette with steady hands. “Told y’all—this ain’t just about Darnell.” He exhaled a stream of smoke, his sharp eyes glinting in the dim streetlights. “This city’s got layers, detectives. And y’all are about to peel back the wrong one.”

Kamari glared at him. “Then start talking. Because right now, we don’t know if we should be protecting you or arresting you.”

Anthony smirked. “Thing is… the people you’re up against? They don’t just kill you. They erase you.”

Kamari’s gut twisted. “Who are they?”

Anthony flicked his cigarette into the street. “The ones who really run Birmingham.”

2:30 AM – Kamari’s Apartment

Kamari triple-locked her door and pulled the blinds closed. It had been a long time since she felt unsafe in her own city.

Malik sat on her couch, scrolling through surveillance databases. “No luck on the SUV’s plates. Either they were fake, or our shooter’s got some pull.”

Kamari sighed, sinking into a chair. “We need to figure out why Darnell was killed now. Not just that he owed money—but who really wanted him dead.”

Malik hesitated, then turned the laptop toward her. “I ran another background check on Darnell.”

Kamari leaned in, reading.

And then her stomach dropped.

Darnell wasn’t just an accountant for a construction company.

He was a whistleblower.

Malik scrolled down. “He was set to testify next week. SEC had an open case against some big-name developers in Birmingham—shady contracts, money laundering, ties to organized crime.”

Kamari sat back, exhaling slowly.

“This wasn’t just about a debt,” she murmured. “Darnell was silenced.”

Malik nodded grimly. “And if we don’t tread carefully, we might be next.”

4:00 AM – The Warehouse

Anthony’s lead took them to a warehouse on the edge of town, near the old steel mills. It was supposed to be abandoned.

But a single black SUV was parked outside.

“Looks familiar,” Malik muttered, checking his gun.

Kamari’s heart pounded as they crept closer. If Darnell’s murder was connected to the corruption case, this was the first real lead.

A low hum of voices carried from inside. Kamari pressed against the cold steel wall, peeking through a dusty window.

Inside, Jermaine—the bartender—was pacing nervously.

Across from him stood a man in a navy suit, his back to them. He was flipping through a thick folder, his posture calm, controlled.

Kamari’s breath caught.

She recognized that man.

Isaiah Colton.

A real estate mogul. One of the biggest developers in the city. The kind of man who had judges, politicians, and police chiefs in his back pocket.

The kind of man who didn’t get his hands dirty—but always had people to do it for him.

Jermaine’s voice wavered. “I did what you asked. I led ‘em outside. But I didn’t pull the trigger.”

Colton sighed, closing the folder. “And yet, Detective Graves and her partner are still alive.”

Jermaine swallowed hard. “I ain’t got nothing else to do with this.”

Colton stepped closer. “That’s the problem, Jermaine.”

Then—

A gunshot.

Jermaine collapsed, a dark stain blooming across his chest.

Kamari barely held back a gasp. Malik tensed beside her.

Colton turned to his shooter—another man in a black suit, face unreadable.

“Clean this up,” Colton said smoothly. “And find the detectives.”

Kamari pulled Malik back. They had seconds before the men inside came looking.

Her mind raced.

Isaiah Colton had just proven what they suspected.

Darnell was killed because he was a threat to powerful men.

And now, so were they.

Kamari and Malik crouched in the shadows, their hearts pounding as the warehouse doors creaked open. The suited man who had executed Jermaine stepped outside, scanning the lot like a wolf catching a scent.

“We need to move. Now,” Malik whispered.

Kamari nodded. They slipped behind rusted shipping containers, keeping low as footsteps crunched on gravel.

Then—

A phone rang.

Not theirs.

The suited man pulled out his cell. “Yeah.” A pause. “No sign of ‘em.” Another pause. Then, “Understood.”

He turned to two other men. “Colton says we’re not waiting. Find them tonight.”

Kamari’s stomach twisted. They weren’t just being hunted.

They were priority targets.

5:30 AM – Safehouse

They drove in silence, Malik gripping the wheel as Kamari checked the gun at her hip. Their safehouse was a low-rent, barely-furnished apartment on the West Side, a place the department kept off the books for deep cases like this.

Malik locked the door behind them. “We’re in deep, Kam.”

Kamari sank onto the couch, rubbing her temples. “Colton’s not just covering up Darnell’s murder—he’s sending a message. Anyone who talks, dies.”

Malik exhaled. “So what’s the play?”

Kamari glanced at her phone. She had one contact who might help—a retired detective named Lionel Stokes. He used to work corruption cases before he got pushed out. If anyone had dirt on Colton, it was him.

She dialed.

It rang once. Twice.

Then a gruff voice answered. “Who’s this?”

“It’s Kamari Graves. I need your help.”

Silence. Then, “If you’re calling me, you’re already in trouble.”

Kamari swallowed. “Darnell Briggs. Colton had him killed.”

Another silence. Then, a slow sigh. “Meet me at Eddie’s Diner in one hour. And come alone.”

6:30 AM – Eddie’s Diner

The diner was nearly empty, the scent of burnt coffee lingering in the air. Kamari spotted Lionel Stokes in a back booth—older, graying, but with sharp eyes that had seen too much.

She slid into the seat across from him.

He didn’t waste time. “Colton’s been untouchable for years. He’s got judges, cops, even feds in his pocket.”

Kamari leaned forward. “But Darnell had something. He was ready to testify.”

Lionel nodded. “Yeah. And now he’s dead.” He slid a folder across the table. “This is what he was working on.”

Kamari opened it—and felt her breath hitch.

Bank statements. Offshore accounts. Wire transfers leading to shell companies.

And at the center of it all?

Isaiah Colton.

Kamari’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t just shady business. It was enough to bury Colton.

Lionel lowered his voice. “Colton’s got a kill order on you, Detective. You don’t walk away from this, you make sure it counts.”

Kamari closed the folder, determination hardening in her chest.

She wasn’t running.

She was taking Colton down.

Kamari gripped the folder tight, her mind racing. This was it—proof. Enough to expose Colton’s empire. But exposing him wouldn’t be easy. He had men on the inside, and she and Malik were already targets.

Lionel stirred his coffee, watching her. “You thinking about taking this straight to Internal Affairs?”

Kamari exhaled sharply. “If I do, Colton’s people inside the department will bury it before it ever sees daylight.”

Lionel nodded. “Then you need insurance.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he leaned forward, “you don’t just turn this in. You make it public. Colton’s got power because he controls the information. You take that control away, and he’s just another man waiting for a prison cell.”

Kamari’s mind clicked into place. The media. A leak big enough that no one could ignore it.

But first, they had to survive the next few hours.

7:30 AM – Safehouse

Kamari shut the door behind her, locking it tight. Malik was waiting, pacing. “Well?”

She tossed the folder onto the table. “We’ve got enough to take him down.”

Malik flipped through the pages, whistling low. “Bank fraud, money laundering, bribery—hell, this man’s been running Birmingham like his own personal kingdom.”

“Which means he won’t go down without a fight.” Kamari sat down, running a hand through her braids. “We need to get this to a journalist. Someone who won’t fold under pressure.”

Malik smirked. “Good thing I still owe a favor to The Birmingham Tribune.”

Kamari raised a brow. “You and Erica Hughes still talk?”

Malik shrugged. “She likes when I give her good stories.”

Kamari rolled her eyes but nodded. “Call her. We do this tonight.”

Malik reached for his phone—

Then the lights in the safehouse flickered.

A second later—

Gunshots.

7:45 AM – Under Fire

The windows shattered as bullets tore through the apartment. Kamari and Malik hit the floor, scrambling for their weapons.

“They found us!” Malik yelled.

“No kidding!” Kamari pressed herself against the couch, gun in hand.

She peeked outside. A black SUV was parked near the curb, masked gunmen moving in.

More shots rang out.

Kamari’s mind raced. They had to get out now.

“Back exit!” she shouted.

Malik covered her as she bolted for the rear door. Kicking it open, they rushed into the alley—

Only to be met with another SUV blocking their path.

The driver’s side window rolled down.

And Isaiah Colton was sitting inside, calm as ever, watching them like a man who had already won.

His voice was smooth, almost amused. “You really should’ve walked away, Detective Graves.”

Kamari clenched her jaw, heart pounding.

Colton smiled. “But now?” He nodded toward his men. “You don’t walk away from this at all.”

Kamari’s grip tightened on her gun.

She wasn’t going down without a fight.

Kamari’s heart pounded as Colton’s gunmen closed in, their weapons gleaming under the streetlights. The alley was boxed in—two SUVs blocking both ends. No way out.

Malik tensed beside her. “We got maybe five seconds before they start shooting again.”

Colton smirked from inside the SUV. “Put the guns down, Detectives. Make this easy.”

Kamari’s mind raced. Giving up wasn’t an option.

Then she spotted it—an old fire escape, half-hidden in the shadows.

She met Malik’s eyes. “Follow my lead.”

Then—

She fired first.

The gunshot cracked through the night, hitting one of Colton’s men square in the shoulder.

Chaos erupted.

Malik took down another gunman, giving Kamari just enough cover to sprint toward the fire escape.

“Move!” she yelled.

Malik was right behind her. They scaled the rusted ladder as bullets ricocheted off metal. Kamari’s hands burned from the rough iron rungs, but she didn’t stop.

Colton’s voice carried below. “Find them! Now!”

Kamari and Malik scrambled onto the rooftop, breathless.

“We can’t keep running,” Malik said. “We need to end this.”

Kamari wiped sweat from her brow. “We’re going to.” She pulled out her phone. “But first, we make sure the whole damn city knows the truth.”

8:30 AM – The Leak

Inside a dimly lit newsroom, journalist Erica Hughes stared at the documents Kamari had just handed over. Her eyes widened as she flipped through them.

“This… this is enough to bring Colton down.”

Kamari nodded. “But only if it goes public. Now.”

Erica didn’t hesitate. She reached for her phone. “I’m calling my editor. This is going live within the hour.”

Malik exhaled, glancing at Kamari. “You think this will stop him?”

Kamari’s jaw tightened. “No. But it’ll take away his power.”

Outside, sirens wailed.

The city was waking up.

And soon, so would the truth.

9:15 AM – The Final Move

Kamari and Malik sat in an unmarked car outside City Hall, listening as the morning news blasted from the radio.

“Breaking news—The Birmingham Tribune has just released shocking documents linking real estate mogul Isaiah Colton to a web of corruption, bribery, and multiple murders. Federal authorities have launched an immediate investigation—”

Malik smirked. “Guess Colton’s having a bad morning.”

Kamari wasn’t smiling. She kept her eyes on the entrance of City Hall, where a line of black SUVs had just pulled up.

Then—

Colton stepped out, flanked by his lawyers. His expression was tight, controlled. But she saw it—the slight tension in his jaw. The realization that, for the first time, he wasn’t the one pulling the strings.

He turned.

Their eyes met.

Kamari gave him a slow nod.

Checkmate.

As federal agents swarmed him, Colton finally lost his smirk.

Kamari exhaled, gripping the steering wheel. “It’s over.”

Malik chuckled. “Damn right it is.”

As Colton was led inside in handcuffs, Kamari leaned back in her seat, exhaustion settling in.

It wasn’t just about Darnell anymore.

It was about all the people who had been silenced.

And finally—finally—justice had caught up.

One Month Later

The city was still buzzing from Colton’s downfall. His empire had crumbled, his allies turning on him. More arrests followed. Birmingham was changing.

Kamari sat on her porch, sipping coffee as the morning sun rose over the city.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Malik.

"Looks like we made the news again. Hope you're ready for your detective-of-the-year speech."

Kamari smirked.

She wasn’t in this for awards.

She was in it for justice.

And Birmingham still had a long way to go.

THE END.