Chapter 2

　　~ANYA POV~

　　My shift ended at two in the morning. By two-thirty, I was outside, hoodie up, sneakers on, cursing at my useless ride app.

　　No signal. No cab. Just me. Alone.

　　I was supposed to leave with Athena, but….classic Athena….she bailed. Last I saw, she was vanishing into the night with her latest conquest, some tall redhead I'd never seen before.

　　Not the first time she ditched me, definitely not the last.

　　The walk to the bus stop wasn't long, but long enough to remind you that heels were invented by Satan. Luckily, tonight I'd picked sneakers. Black joggers. Black hoodie.

　　Face tucked low. Invisible mode.

　　The street wasn't empty. A couple night-shift stragglers, a guy smoking on the corner, a girl arguing with her phone. Enough people to keep it from being horror-movie quiet. Still, my guard stayed up.

　　I wasn't about to be 'that' girl.

　　You know the one—headphones blasting, wandering down a dark alley like common sense doesn't exist. And then, boom. Van door slides open.

　　Bye-bye, dumb girl.

　　No thanks. I adjusted my bag strap across my chest. Inside: $2,300 in tips. My lifeline. No one was touching that.

　　Then I heard it. A noise.

　　Not traffic. Not voices. Something heavier.

　　I slowed. Up ahead, a cluster of figures. A group. Their shadows shifted, circling something—someone. Kicks. The dull thud of fists.

　　My stomach dropped.

　　Please don't be drunk men. Please don't be drunk men. I wasn't a hero. I was a 'run first, ask later' kind of girl. My legs were already begging me to turn back.

　　Then came the scream. High-pitched. Raw. Real.

　　My spine turned to ice.

　　No way I was walking past that. I whipped out my phone. At last, the app loaded. Ten minutes until a cab. Ten minutes felt like a death sentence, but I booked it anyway.

　　At least someone would know where to find my body. I even texted Athena: "If I die, I'm haunting you. xo."

　　When I looked up again, it was too late. I was too close.

　　The kicking stopped. The group turned toward me, shadows stretching tall under the streetlights. Six feet, six-five maybe. Mountains.

　　And then—"Stop her."

　　The voice cut through the night. Low. Commanding. The kind of voice people obey without thinking.

　　One of them stepped into my path. "Boss wants to see you."

　　Shit.

　　I threw my hands up. "No hablo inglés! Por favor déjame ir, bufón!" (I don't speak English, please let me go, clown!)

　　His brows pulled together. Not amused. He shifted, blocking me but leaving just enough space like he 'knew' I'd try to run. Which, duh, I would.

　　Then I felt him.

　　Before I even saw him, I felt him. The air shifted. The weight of presence. Footsteps measured and steady. Expensive cologne, sharp and intoxicating.

　　And then he stepped forward.

　　Tall. Broad shoulders filling a tailored suit that had no business existing at two a.m. Muscles straining against fabric. Dark hair slicked back. Shoes polished like mirrors.

　　And those eyes. Blue. Electric. The kind of blue that made you forget how to breathe.

　　If this was death coming for me, he was annoyingly hot about it.

　　"You don't speak English?" His voice was velvet, smooth, and dangerous.

　　I shook my head quickly.

　　"What language then?"

　　"Español, obviamente." His lips twitched. Amusement. Barely there, but I saw it.

　　I clasped my hands together dramatically. "Como no hablas español, puedo insultarte como quiera, pero déjame ir." (Since you don't speak Spanish, I can insult you all I want, but please let me go.)

　　He tilted his head like he understood every word. Before he could reply, headlights sliced through the dark. A cab slowed, horn blaring.

　　My cab. Salvation.

　　His men shifted. One of them was still down on the ground, groaning. My pulse roared in my ears. The stranger's gaze locked back on me.

　　"Your ride is here."

　　Goosebumps prickled my skin. The way he said it wasn't relief. It was a warning.

　　He leaned closer, voice dropping to silk. "Corre, amor. Te veré pronto. Adiós." (Run along, love. I'll see you soon. Goodbye.)

　　My stomach dropped.

　　They'd understood me. The whole time. Rage flared. And before I could stop myself, I did the dumbest thing imaginable.

　　I kneed him. Hard. His breath whooshed out. He doubled over, shock flashing across his perfect face.

　　I bolted, throwing myself into the cab.

　　"Drive!"

　　The driver blinked. "Miss, are you.. ."

　　"DUDE, DRIVE BEFORE WE DIE!" The car jerked forward, tires squealing. My chest heaved as the street blurred past.

　　I leaned out the window, heart still racing, and screamed back at him: "¿Adiós? ¡Hijo de puta! ¡Espero no volver a verte, perra!" (Goodbye? Motherfucker! I hope I never see you again, bitch!)

　　My voice cracked the night. His figure shrank in the rearview, but I swear he was still watching. Still smiling.

　　Thirty minutes later, the cab pulled up to my building. I tipped the driver double. His parting words: "Hope I never see you again."

　　Attitude.

　　Inside, the doorman barely looked up as I shuffled past. In the elevator, my phone buzzed—Athena. I ignored it. Let her sweat.

　　By four a.m., I was home. Exhausted. Wired.

　　I poured cornflakes, but halfway through, I noticed my hands were still shaking. The spoon clattered against the bowl.

　　His words replayed in my head. 'Te veré pronto.' :(I'll see you soon.)

　　It didn't sound like a threat. It sounded like a promise. And for the first time in years, my abuela's warning rang loud in my ears again:

　　'Cuando el alma se inquieta, algo viene detrás.': 'When the soul feels restless, something is on its way.'

　　Something was coming. And it had blue eyes.