The knock rattled the door this time—no rhythm, no patience. Just force.
Malik froze mid-step. Tariq’s head snapped up from the table. Nia’s pulse started sprinting before the rest of her body caught up.
“Don’t answer it,” Tariq hissed.
Malik whispered, “They found us.”
He crossed the living room in two long strides and peeked through the curtain. His whole face changed; that calm, calculating mask cracked down the middle.
“Get in the back,” he said. “Now.”
Nia hesitated. “Who is it?”
He didn’t answer. He just shoved her toward the hallway as the knock came again—harder, impatient.
Tariq moved fast, pulling open a drawer and yanking out a revolver wrapped in an old T-shirt. He checked the chamber, eyes grim.
“Malik,” he muttered, “whatever this is, it’s not happening in my house.”
Malik ignored him and opened the door.
A man stepped inside like he owned the air. Gray sweats, leather jacket, eyes so cold they made the room drop a few degrees. Two others flanked him.
“You late,” the leader said. His voice was too calm, too even. “We were expecting you yesterday.”
Malik’s voice came out tight. “Traffic.”
“Funny.” The man’s eyes landed on Nia peeking from the hall. “And you brought company.”
She stiffened.
He smiled without warmth. “Cute.”
Tariq stepped forward, gun still low but visible. “This isn’t the place.”
The man tilted his head. “Then let’s make it quick. You owe sixty.”
Malik swallowed. “I got forty.”
“Forty’s not sixty.”
“Give me a week.”
“You already had two.”
Silence stretched. Nia could hear her heartbeat in her ears.
The man turned slightly, hand slipping into his jacket pocket. “Maybe I take interest another way.”
Tariq raised the gun higher. “Don’t.”
For a second, the air went solid—nobody breathing, nobody blinking. Then the gray-jacket man laughed softly and stepped back.
“Relax. I’m not a savage,” he said. “Bring the rest by Friday. After that, I stop knocking.”
He looked at Nia one more time before leaving, gaze sliding over her like a promise. Then the door shut behind them.
Malik sagged against the wall. “See? Handled.”
Tariq holstered the gun with a muttered curse. “Handled? You just brought death to my doorstep, man.”
Nia stared at Malik. “What’s in that bag, Malik?”
He met her eyes, jaw tight. “Something that can fix this.”
By midnight, they were back in his car, that cursed duffel bag in the trunk. The city rolled by in smears of neon.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To finish it,” he said. “Trade the product for the debt. Then we’re done.”
She folded her arms. “You said that last time.”
“This time’s different.”
She looked out the window. “It always is—right up until it isn’t.”
He glanced at her, eyes softening. “After tonight, I swear we start over. I’ll get straight. You’ll see.”
The words sounded practiced, like a prayer he didn’t believe in anymore.
They pulled into a warehouse district by the docks. Only one light glowed near the end of the pier.
“This is where you make trades now?” she asked.
He cut the engine. “Stay here.”
Nia’s chest tightened. “Like hell.”
He sighed. “Nia—”
“No. Whatever this is, I’m in it now too. You said they’ll come after me, right? Then I’m not hiding while you play hero.”
Malik studied her for a long second. Then he nodded once. “Fine. But stay close.”
They walked toward the light. The smell of oil and salt filled the air.
Two men stood waiting by a black sedan. One popped the trunk, revealing a briefcase.
Malik dropped the duffel bag beside it.
“Count it,” one man said.
The other bent down, unzipped the bag—and froze. “What the hell is this?”
Malik frowned. “What?”
The man reached in and pulled out bricks wrapped tight in black plastic—except instead of powder or cash, they were bundles of fake bills, printed, cut, worthless.
Malik’s confusion flashed genuine. “That’s not—”
A gun cocked.
“You think this is a joke?”
Nia’s scream tore out before she could stop it. Tariq’s car screeched into the lot out of nowhere, headlights blinding.
“Get in!” he yelled.
Malik grabbed Nia’s hand and ran. Gunfire split the night. Metal clanged. Tires squealed.
When Tariq hit the gas, Malik dove into the back seat, dragging her down with him.
Bullets cracked through the rear window, glass raining down like glitter.
“Drive!” Malik shouted.
“I am!” Tariq roared back.
They tore down the road, sparks flying from a shredded tire.
Nia looked at Malik—blood on his arm, fury in his eyes—and realized the truth she’d been dodging for months:
This wasn’t love. This was survival with lipstick on it.
By the time the car rolled to a stop miles away, Malik was slumped against the seat, pale and shaking.
Nia pressed her hands to his wound, tears streaking her face. “You’re gonna be okay.”
He smiled weakly. “Told you... I’d fix it.”
Sirens wailed somewhere distant. Tariq cursed under his breath.
“Get her out of here,” Malik muttered. “Don’t let them find her.”
Then his eyes rolled back.
Nia screamed his name until her throat broke.