The motel room still smelled like Malik—gun oil, smoke, and the kind of charm that lingered long after it should’ve rotted.
Tariq stood by the window, staring out at the empty parking lot. “He took the car.”
Nia sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the necklace Malik left behind. Her thumb ran over the chain again and again, as if she could rub an answer out of the metal. “He’s going after Cas.”
Tariq didn’t look away from the window. “Then he’s going to die.”
Her voice cracked. “So we just let him?”
He turned finally, eyes tired, hard. “You keep confusing mercy with loyalty. The man brought wolves to your door, and you’re still setting a plate for him.”
She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “He’s still your blood.”
Tariq laughed without humor. “And blood’s what got us here.”
They found an abandoned truck half a mile down the road. Tariq hotwired it with the bored precision of someone who’d done worse things with cleaner tools. They rode in silence for miles, asphalt stretching out like a punishment.
The radio was broken, so the only sound was the engine and the low hum of exhaustion.
“He’s heading to the docks,” Tariq finally said.
Nia frowned. “How do you know?”
“Cas never changed his rituals. Friday mornings, he’s at the south pier, collecting tribute like some kind of mob priest.”
“Then that’s where we go.”
He glanced at her. “You think you’re gonna save him?”
“I think I need to know how it ends.”
He sighed, muttering under his breath, “You sound just like him.”
They reached the docks just before sunrise. Fog curled off the water like smoke from a dying fire.
A single car sat near the edge. Malik’s. Door open, engine running, headlights cutting into the mist.
Nia’s stomach twisted.
Tariq killed the truck’s lights and drew his gun. “Stay here.”
“Like hell.”
He gave her a look, but she was already out the door, boots crunching against gravel.
They followed the faint sound of shouting.
Malik stood by the water, gun in hand, facing a group of men in dark coats. Cas was among them—bald head gleaming, smile razor-thin.
“I told you,” Malik yelled, “you’d get what’s yours!”
Cas chuckled. “You brought me a bag of fake bills and a conscience. That’s not payment—that’s comedy.”
Malik raised the gun. “You got jokes. Let’s see if you still funny when—”
A flash.
A bang.
Malik staggered, clutching his chest.
Nia screamed before she even realized it was her voice.
Tariq fired twice, dropping one of Cas’s men. Chaos exploded. Bullets carved through the fog.
Malik fell to his knees, blood blooming across his shirt like a second sunrise. Cas aimed again, but Tariq’s next shot caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around.
“Go!” Tariq shouted.
Nia ran to Malik, dropped beside him, her hands already slick with his blood. “Stay with me!”
He coughed, eyes fluttering open. “Told you… I’d fix it.”
“Stop talking,” she sobbed.
He smiled weakly, teeth red. “You still… mine?”
She didn’t answer. She just held him tighter.
He tried to laugh but it came out as a choke. “Guess not.”
His body went still.
The world didn’t stop; it just got quieter.
Tariq dragged her away seconds before another gun went off. They dove behind the truck, breathless.
“Is he—”
“He’s gone,” Tariq said flatly. “We can’t stay.”
Nia’s mind was static. The docks were filling with sirens, the fog flashing blue and red.
Tariq started the truck. “We go north. New names. New lives. That’s the only way out now.”
She looked back one last time. Malik’s body lay half-shadowed by the fog, the necklace glinting on the ground where she’d dropped it.
She wanted to run back for it.
For him.
For the girl she’d been before all this.
But she didn’t.
Hours later, in a cheap diner three towns over, Tariq sat across from her, coffee untouched. “You can’t save a ghost, Nia.”
She stared out the window. “I’m not trying to. I’m just wondering how long it’ll take before I stop hearing his voice when it’s quiet.”
Tariq’s face softened. “Some debts don’t die. They just change collectors.”
Outside, the rain started again.
Inside, Nia finally let herself cry.