One month.
In one month, he'd turn eighteen, and that would be it. No more foster care, no more government assistance, no more roof over his head. Just him, a bag of belongings, and whatever scraps of money he could pull together before the deadline hit.
It wasn’t new.
He had always known this day would come.
From his first home, where he learned that silence meant survival—to the next, where he discovered that hunger was constant, that bruises stopped hurting once you got used to them, and that sleeping on the floor was just life.
Each new house, each new set of strangers, was just a different version of the same game.
Some were violent.
Some were indifferent.
Some only wanted the check.
Some just wanted control.
It never really bothered him.
Not the neglect.
Not the hunger.
Not the nights spent wondering if he’d wake up to yelling, throwing, hitting.
That was just how things were.
But this house? This house was… different. Not great. Hell, not even good. But compared to the others, it was the best he’d ever had.
His foster parents weren’t cruel. They weren’t kind either. They were just there. Their interest in him went about as far as the government check that arrived every month. As long as he didn’t cause problems, as long as he stayed out of the way, they left him alone.
And that was fine by him.
No one cared what he did. No one asked questions. No one stopped him from working double—sometimes triple—shifts to scrape together enough money to leave this life behind.
But he wasn’t saving for himself.
He was saving for her.
Elara.
The one good thing in his life.
They met by accident—hanging laundry in the communal apartment lines.
Foster kids weren’t allowed to use the dryer. Too expensive. So, like always, he’d dragged a basket of damp clothes to the line, shoulders aching from a double shift, fingers stiff from the cold.
And there she was.
Struggling with a pile of clothes twice her size, scowling at a clothespin that refused to cooperate.
He wasn’t sure why he helped.
Maybe because she muttered something under her breath in frustration.
Maybe because, when she looked up at him, her eyes weren’t hard and tired like his own.
Maybe because she smiled when he handed her the shirt she dropped.
Not out of pity.
Not out of obligation.
Just a real, genuine smile.
She lived two floors down with her father.
A mean drunk.
The kind that didn’t bother hiding it.
She never said anything, but he could see it.
The bruises.
The exhaustion.
The way she flinched at sudden noises.
And that was when he decided.
He was going to get her out. It didn’t matter how long it took, how many shifts he had to work, how much he had to save. She wasn’t staying here.
Because the beatings, the neglect, the exhaustion? That was his life. Not hers. That was why he was so nervous.
The text had come last night, out of nowhere, when he was half-asleep, running on fumes, and questioning if he could keep pushing forward.
[CONFIDENTIAL OPPORTUNITY]
You have been selected for a private research initiative on human performance optimization. Compensation: $25,000 (half upfront, half upon completion). All expenses covered. Limited enrollment.
Reply CONFIRM within 24 hours to proceed. No response will forfeit this opportunity.
[REDACTED] Research Division
It sounded too good to be true.
$25,000.
Enough to change everything.
If it was real, it was a solution to his dilemma. The difference between scraping by in a minimum-wage job and having a real shot at getting Elara out of here.
If it was fake?
He didn’t have a backup plan. That was the problem. He didn’t have time for a backup plan. He glanced at his phone, checking his bank balance for the hundredth time.
$849.53.
That was all he had managed to save after months of double and triple shifts. Not even $1,000 to start a new life. Not even close to enough for two people.
And his time was up.
In exactly one month, he would turn eighteen and be kicked out—no safety net, no second chances. And in a month and a half, Elara would turn eighteen too. If he didn’t act now, if he didn’t get her out, she would be trapped. Even if they ran right now, the authorities wouldn’t be able to do much—two legal adults, disappearing into the world.
But disappearing with nothing wasn’t a plan. It was a death sentence.
He needed this to be real.
He needed this to work.
So, he had texted her.
Meet me at the park.
And now, he was waiting.
The minutes stretched long, the weight of uncertainty settling in his chest. He had spent so much of his life waiting—for a new home, for another foster family, for the day he'd finally be on his own. But this was different. This wasn’t just about him.
He glanced down at his phone, his pulse ticking a little faster.
Less than four hours left.
That was all the time he had to respond to the message.If this was a scam, then what? He’d lose nothing—he already had nothing to lose.
But if it was real…
His breath felt tight, and his thumb hovered over the screen.
$12,500 upfront.
That wasn’t pocket change. That wasn’t a joke. That was real money.
That was a way out.
It was rent. It was food. It was a ticket out of this life for both of them.
A way to keep Elara safe.
His stomach twisted. He had spent months saving everything he could—double shifts, extra work, side hustles, anything that put a few more euros in his account. And it still wasn’t enough. Not even close.
But this? This could change everything. He clenched his jaw, forcing down the voice in his head that screamed at him to be cautious. This world never gave him anything for free. There was always a catch. He just needed to know what it was.
With a deep breath, he typed out one word.
Yes.
He hesitated for half a second—then pressed send.
The response was instantaneous.
A vibration buzzed through his palm, followed by the soft ding of a notification.
Then—his bank app pinged.
[Deposit Received: $12,500]
He stared.
It stared back at him—unbelievable, undeniable, like a door had opened to a place he wasn’t sure he wanted to enter.
That kind of money didn’t just show up in his account. Not like this. Not instantly.
His pulse hammered in his ears as another message came through.
His fingers felt stiff as he swiped to open it.
He braced himself—because whether this was the best thing that had ever happened to him… or the biggest mistake of his life…
There was no turning back now.
[RESEARCH PROGRAM]
Recipient: Adrian Smith
Address: 527 Hollow Ridge Apartments, Unit 508, Omaha, Nebraska, 68104
Your participation in Project Nova Initiative has been confirmed.
An initial compensation of $12,500 has been deposited to your registered account. The remaining $12,500 will be provided upon completion of the program.
- Arrival Confirmation – Report to Sentinel Research Facility at 115 Ridgeway Drive, Salt Lake City, Utah, 84104.
- Confidentiality Agreement – A non-disclosure agreement will be provided on-site. Participation requires strict confidentiality.
- Program Overview – Upon arrival, you will receive a briefing detailing the scope, procedures, and expectations.
- Completion & Final Payment – Full participation ensures the remaining balance is transferred immediately.
Failure to appear at the designated time will result in contract termination and forfeiture of compensation.
Reply "ACKNOWLEDGED" to confirm receipt of these instructions.
Hastily, he typed “Acknowledged” and hit send.
The moment the message disappeared, he exhaled sharply, his body tense with something between relief and dread. There was no undoing it now. The money was in his account. He was locked in.
And then—he looked up.
Across the street, Elara was walking toward him.
She smiled the moment their eyes met, and for a brief second, everything else faded.
Elara stood at five feet two, her compact frame carrying more strength than most would assume. Her rich brown hair fell in soft waves, brushing just past her shoulders, framing a face that was both delicate and determined.
But it was her eyes that always struck him the most.
Deep brown, warm yet guarded, they held a quiet intensity—windows to a mind that never truly rested.
She wasn’t fragile. She never had been.
Her figure was a natural blend of grace and resilience, shaped by years of knowing when to tread carefully and when to stand her ground.
There was something about the way she carried herself—measured, deliberate, cautious, but never weak. She wasn’t someone who faded into the background.
She had seen hardship, but it hadn’t dulled her.
It had honed her.
She didn’t fight with fists or with anger, but with something far more dangerous.
Quiet defiance.
A will that refused to break.
And beneath it all, buried beneath the years of struggle and survival, was something rarer still—
Hope.
It was the one thing the world had never managed to take from her.
And it was the reason he had to get her out.
Elara reached him, her smile soft but faltering the moment she saw his expression.
“You look serious,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “What’s wrong?”
He hesitated. He hadn’t figured out how to tell her yet. How to say that, for the first time in his life, he might have found a way out—but he didn’t know if it would cost him more than he could afford to lose.
Before he could answer, she spoke again, her voice gentle but firm.
“I told you, you don’t have to worry about me,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’ll be okay.”
He frowned, and she must have seen the doubt in his eyes because she sighed and softened her tone.
“You have to focus on finding a place to stay,” she continued. “I checked the cupboards—I can make you lunch a few times a week without my father realizing.” She offered him a small, hopeful smile. “But you need to find somewhere, somewhere safe.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “Hopefully close.”
And softer still, like she wasn’t sure if she should say it out loud—“Only if you want to.”
He watched her, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the way she looked down just slightly, as if suddenly unsure of herself.
There was an ache in his chest.
She didn’t ask him for much—she never had.
And here she was, offering to steal food for him, worrying about where he’d go, wondering if he’d even want to be nearby.
He wanted to tell her everything. About the money. About the message. About the fact that if this worked, they wouldn’t have to steal food anymore.
But the words didn’t come.
Not yet.
So instead, he nodded.
“I’ll figure something out,” he said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.
He didn’t miss the way her shoulders relaxed, just a little.
And he didn’t miss the way she kept sneaking glances at him, as if she wasn’t sure if he’d actually try to stay close.
He hesitated, then pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it to her.
She took it, her brow furrowing as she read the messages. The longer she stared, the deeper the crease between her eyes became. Then, he pulled up his bank app and showed her the number.
Her lips parted slightly. He could see the moment she registered what she was looking at.
“We,” he said, voice low but steady, “both of us, can get out. Start new. Salt Lake.”
She didn’t say anything at first, just stared at the screen, then at him.
And then, her concerned gaze hardened.
“This… this doesn’t sound right,” she said slowly, shaking her head. “No one just hands out that kind of money. A private research initiative? What does that even mean?”
“I don’t care,” he said simply.
She blinked. “You—what?”
“I don’t care what they do to me,” he repeated. “As long as it gets you out of here.”
Her fingers curled around his phone. “That’s insane,” she whispered. “You don’t know what they’ll—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does!” she snapped, shoving the phone back at him. “You think getting me away from my father is worth throwing yourself into something you don’t even understand?”
He exhaled sharply, pushing his hands through his hair.
“I already agreed, Elara. It’s done. I hit send. The money’s in my account.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to go through with it!”
“Yes, it does,” he said firmly. “I will do this.”
She shook her head again, frustration and worry mixing in her expression.
“I can’t let you—”
He cut her off by pulling up his banking app again, his fingers moving swiftly over the screen. A few taps, a confirmation, and then he turned the phone toward her, showing the transaction.
Her breath hitched.
“You didn’t,” she whispered.
“I just transferred everything to you,” he said.
Her eyes darted across the screen, her breathing quickening.
“Elara, listen to me.” His voice softened, but the determination didn’t waver. “I know your father has access to your accounts. I know he watches every cent. You’ll have to pull it in cash, fast, before he notices.”
Her hands tightened around the phone, knuckles white.
She shook her head, eyes glistening. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I did,” he said. “Because if something happens to me… I need to know you’re safe.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, and for a moment, he thought she might shove the phone right back at him.
Instead, she did something he wasn’t expecting.
She grabbed his wrist.
Her grip was firm—almost desperate.
“You don’t get to say that,” she whispered fiercely. “You don’t get to talk like you’re throwing yourself away for me.”
He exhaled slowly. “Elara…”
“No.” She shook her head again, tighter this time. “You promised you’d figure something out. This isn’t figuring something out. This is—this is reckless.”
He didn’t answer, just held her gaze, willing her to understand.
She searched his face for a long moment, her breathing unsteady.
And then, finally—her fingers loosened.
She didn’t like it. He could see that.
But she also knew there was no changing his mind.
A sharp ding cut through the air.
Elara broke eye contact with him, her gaze dropping to the phone.
Her expression shifted—her brows drawing together, her shoulders tensing ever so slightly.
Wordlessly, she lifted the phone from his grasp and looked at the screen.
Her frown deepened as she read, her fingers tightening around the device.
Then, she turned the phone toward him, her voice quiet but firm.
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
"Adrian… did you give them my information?"
His stomach twisted.
"What? No. Absolutely not," he said immediately, reaching for the phone.
She let him take it, watching him closely as he scanned the message.
[RESEARCH PROGRAM UPDATE]
Recipient: Adrian Smith
Subject: Dependent Registration & Accommodations
An update has been made to your participant profile.
Dependent Registered:
- Name: Elara Vasquez
- Previous Address: 527 Hollow Ridge Apartments, Unit 312, Omaha, Nebraska, 68104
- Status: Registered as a dependent under your participation in Project Nova Initiative
Accommodations & Expenses:
- Housing has been arranged.
- All living expenses, including food, medical, and personal necessities, will be fully covered for the duration of your participation.
No further action is required at this time. If you have any concerns or require additional assistance, reply with “REQUEST SUPPORT.”
This update is final. Failure to appear or complete the program will result in contract termination and forfeiture of all benefits.
His blood ran cold.
None of this made sense.
He stared at the screen, his mind racing. He had been so focused on the money, so relieved that it actually came through, that he hadn’t stopped to question it.
He never gave them his name.
Never gave them his address.
Never even gave them his bank account details.
So how the hell did they know?
And now—they had everything.
His hands tightened around the phone. He looked up, voice lower now, more tense.
"I didn't sign you up," he said, shaking his head. "I never even mentioned you. I don’t know how—"
Elara snatched the phone back, her hands trembling as she reread the message.
“This—this is insane.” Her breath hitched. "They’re saying I’m… registered. They put me down as your dependent. Like I—like I’m your wife or something!"
“They didn’t ask me. They didn’t ask you. They just decided.” Her voice was rising, panic creeping in. “Adrian, this isn’t help. This is control.”
His stomach knotted.
They had arranged housing. Covered all expenses. They were expecting her.
And if he backed out now…
His eyes flicked back to the final line of the message.
"Failure to appear or complete the program will result in contract termination and forfeiture of all benefits."
Elara’s grip on the phone tightened, her knuckles whitening as she stared at the message. He could see her mind working, running through every possibility, every explanation—just like he had a few seconds ago.
And just like him, she was coming up empty.
“This isn’t just some research study,” she whispered, eyes darting back to the words like they might rearrange themselves into something less terrifying. “They have everything, Adrian.”
He knew.
And that was the worst part.
Her voice hardened. “We need to go to the bank. Right now. Pull everything in cash and—”
“And do what, Elara?” he cut in, his own voice sharper than he meant it to be. “Run? With what? A few thousand dollars? How long do you think that will last?”
She stilled, lips pressing into a thin line.
It wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. They had dreamed about running away more nights than he could count. But dreaming was different from actually doing it.
They had no safety net. No family. No one to turn to.
The money had been a lifeline.
Now it felt like a leash.
Elara sucked in a breath, her shoulders squaring. “You don’t seriously still think this is a good idea?”
He hesitated.
Not because he didn’t have doubts. Not because he wasn’t terrified.
But because there was no other way.
“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted. “But I do know that I don’t have any other options. And neither do you.”
She shook her head, stepping closer. “Adrian, listen to me—”
“I already agreed, Elara,” he said. “It’s done.”
She flinched like he had struck her.
He hated himself for that.
For putting that look on her face.
Her voice cracked. “So that’s it? You’re just… going to let them take you? You don’t even know who they are!”
His jaw tensed, fingers curling into fists.
“What choice do I have?” His voice was low, edged with frustration—but not at her.
Never at her.
Elara was shaking her head before he even finished speaking. “No. No, I don’t accept that.”
“I don’t think you have a say.”
Her eyes flashed with something between anger and fear. “Then we get out of here now. Before they—”
The phone buzzed again.
They both froze.
Another message.
Another decision already made for them.
And Adrian knew, deep down, there was no escaping this.
Elara’s grip on the phone tightened, her knuckles whitening as she stared at the message. He could see her mind racing, trying to put the pieces together—just like he had seconds ago.
And just like him, she was coming up empty.
“This isn’t just some research study,” she whispered. Her eyes darted across the screen like the words might suddenly shift into something less terrifying. “They have everything, Adrian.”
He knew.
And that was the worst part.
Her voice hardened. “We need to go to the bank. Right now. Pull everything in cash and—”
“And do what, Elara?” he cut in, his voice sharper than he meant. “Run? With what? A few thousand dollars? How long do you think that will last?”
She stilled, lips pressing into a thin line.
It wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. They had dreamed about running away more nights than he could count. But dreaming was different from actually doing it.
Because no matter how much he wanted to protect her, no matter how many hours he worked, no matter how many meals she tried to sneak him—
They were trapped.
And then, just like that, an escape had appeared.
Not the kind he expected. Not the kind he could fully trust.
But it was real.
More real than any other option they had ever had.
“Elara, listen,” he started, softer now, trying to pull her back from the panic setting in. “I don’t know what this is… but I know one thing.”
Her gaze flicked up to his, cautious, wary. “What?”
“It’s a way out.”
She froze.
He took a step closer.
“We keep talking about leaving, about getting out of here,” he said. “This is it. This is our chance.”
She shook her head, almost violently. “No. Not like this. Not when we don’t know what we’re walking into.”
“Elara—”
“You don’t even know who they are, Adrian!”
He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know they sent the money. I know they have resources. I know that if we stay here, we have nothing.”
He swallowed hard, lowering his voice.
“I know that if we stay, your father will never stop.”
Her expression flickered.
He hated saying it out loud.
But he needed her to see it. To understand.
She had always been the cautious one. He had always been the one ready to risk everything just to keep moving.
But she couldn’t stay here.
And if it meant walking into something unknown—so be it.
Because whatever waited for them had to be better than what they were leaving behind.
She inhaled sharply, looking away.
Then—another buzz.
They both stilled.
Another message.
Another decision already made for them.
And Adrian knew, deep down—
There was no going back.
The phone buzzed again.
Adrian and Elara both froze, their breath catching.
Slowly, he turned the screen to face them.
[TICKET CONFIRMATION]
- Route: Omaha, NE → Salt Lake City, UT
- Departure: 5:15 PM
- Passengers: 2
His heart pounded in his chest.
They had already bought the tickets.
No more messages asking for confirmation. No further instructions.
Just a bus, a destination, and a countdown.
“When does your father get back from work?” Adrian asked, his voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through him.
Elara swallowed. “At 5 PM.”
A quick glance at the clock. Three hours.
Three hours to disappear.
His grip tightened around the phone. “Go pack. Only the things you need.”
Something shifted in her expression.
The doubt. The hesitation. The fear.
It was still there, but beneath it, something new took hold.
Hope.
She wasn’t just leaving anymore.
She was escaping.
They both turned toward the apartment at the same time.
Neither spoke. Neither hesitated.
And then—they ran.
Elara Vasquez
She rushed up the stairs, lungs burning, feet barely touching the ground. She had time—she had three hours to grab her things, get out, and disappear before he even knew she was gone.
Three hours.
That was plenty.
By the time he came stumbling in, she and Adrian would already be on a Greyhound bus, the city shrinking behind them. She’d never have to see this place again.
She clung to that thought, let it push her forward as she rounded the last flight of stairs, chest tight with anticipation.
She reached the front door, heart hammering.
Then, she saw it.
The faint, yellow glow seeping through the crack at the bottom of the door.
The TV was on.
Her stomach plummeted.
No.
He wasn’t home.
He couldn’t be.
He never got back before five. Not unless he was forced off a shift early, or his boss had finally gotten sick of him showing up half-drunk and stinking of cigarettes.
She told herself that over and over as she stood there, frozen in place, her breath locked in her throat.
Then, slowly, she stepped forward and pressed her palm against the door. The surface was warm, radiating with the stale heat of a lived-in space.
She swallowed hard.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like she was about to step into a burning building, like one wrong move and she’d go up in flames.
But she had no choice.
Adrian was waiting. He was risking everything for her. She just had to get inside, grab her things, and walk back out. Simple.
With a deep breath, she pushed open the door.
Her father was already on the couch.
Beer in one hand. Boots off, socks stained, one foot kicked up on the coffee table like he belonged there more than she did.
He turned his head toward her, slow and lazy, like he hadn’t expected her but was already angry anyway.
“Layin’ around with that stray on the fifth floor again, little whore?”
The words landed like a slap.
She locked her jaw, body going stiff, but didn’t react.
That was the rule. Never react. Never give him something to latch onto.
"You got time to fuck around, and I come home to a filthy house?!"
The scrape of metal against wood as he shoved his beer down onto the table sent a jolt through her, but she didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe.
He stood.
Slow. Deliberate.
Her instincts screamed at her to run.
But she couldn’t.
Because running made it worse. Running was an invitation to chase.
So, she forced her muscles to lock, physically stopping herself from bolting out the door.
Her pulse hammered, her skin crawling under the weight of his glare.
Dread curled deep in her stomach, heavy and sharp, pulling her under.
She had spent her whole life pretending to be strong for the outside world.
But inside?
Inside, she was still so, so scared. And she had never been able to hide it from him.
She had spent her whole life pretending to be strong for the outside world.
But inside?
Inside, she was still so, so scared.
He moved toward her.
Her muscles screamed at her to run, but she forced herself to stay still.
Don’t move. Don’t flinch. Don’t react.
His hand shot out, fingers tangling into her hair. Pain ripped across her scalp as he yanked her forward, dragging her into the kitchen.
Her feet barely kept up. She couldn’t fall. If she fell, he’d get angrier.
Then—a hard shove.
Her back slammed into the edge of the sink, the metal digging into her lower spine.
The sharp jolt of pain barely registered before her eyes flicked downward.
Inside the sink sat a single cup.
Her cup.
Still smeared with the remnants of this morning’s coffee.
How could she have been so stupid?
How could she have left evidence?
She had been so careful. Always careful. Always making sure there was nothing for him to pick apart, nothing to set him off.
But today, she had been excited.
She had met Adrian in the park.
She had let herself forget.
Her father’s breath came hot and sour against her face.
“If you kept your fucking legs closed, maybe you’d have time to clean this fucking house!”
The word “house” came punctuated by a sharp, open-palmed slap across her face.
The impact whited out her vision.
Her cheek burned, the sting spreading across her skin like fire.
She sucked in a breath, forced herself not to react.
"Got nothing to say, little whore?" he sneered, leaning in close, his beer-soaked breath turning her stomach.
Say it. Say it right. Say it the way he wants to hear it.
“Sorry, sir,” she said, her voice even. Steady. She forced herself to stand straight, shoulders squared. “I’ll make sure to do better.”
He scoffed, shaking his head.
"Do better, the whore says." His lip curled, a twisted amusement flashing across his face. Then—his tone shifted. "I think it’s time you do more than just better."
A sliver of ice slid down her spine.
He took a slow step back, stretching his shoulders like a man about to settle into a long, comfortable conversation.
“It’s time you started financially contributing to this house,” he continued, his voice light, casual—dangerous.
Something in her mind screamed run.
But she was frozen.
He grunted, shaking his head. “Damn idiot supervisor got me fired. Bastard’s had it out for me since day one. Never liked me. They were all out to get me from the start.” He waved his hand in the air like it was proof of some great injustice. "Money’s gonna be tight now." He said walking to the fridge and taking out another beer.
Then, his tone changed again.
“But lucky for us, Jim made me an interesting offer.”
A slow, deliberate pause.
“A thousand dollars for a night with you.”
Her stomach dropped through the floor.
She barely registered the cold, seeping horror before he kept going.
"What do you say? Getting paid for what you let that mutt get for free?”
Her world cracked.
A thousand thoughts rushed at her at once, colliding, shattering, pulling her under.
She couldn't breathe.
She couldn't breathe.
He was lying.
He had to be lying.
Except—he wasn’t.
The way he said it, the way he stood there, arms loose at his sides, waiting for her to break—this was real.
Her mind scrambled for something, anything to hold onto—
And then, through the chaos, came one singular, gut-wrenching truth.
She was still a virgin.
And she wanted her first time to be with Adrian.
Not like this.
No.
No. No. No.
This wasn’t happening.
This could not happen.
Something changed inside her, something deep and primal, something that had been caged for too long.
She had always been afraid.
She had let herself be afraid.
But now?
Now, there was no time for fear.
Her father took a slow, deliberate step forward, his beer-stained fingers reaching for her hair again.
“So why don’t you go take a shower,” he said, his voice thick with amusement. “Wash the stink of that fucking mongrel off before Jim gets here.”
She stepped back, pressing against the sink.
Her heart pounded in her ears.
Her hand moved on instinct, fingers finding the cool, familiar weight of the knife block beside her.
She had used these knives a thousand times.
To make his meals.
To make this monsters meals.
But tonight—this knife wouldn’t be for him.
Her fingers curled around the handle of the worn cutting knife, the one she used almost every day.
His fingers brushed down herneck.
She didn’t think.
She stabbed.
All of her strength. All of her fear. All of her hate.
A wet, awful sound filled the room.
His body jerked, a sharp, choking inhale leaving his throat as his hands snapped to his stomach.
The knife was buried to the hilt.
For a moment, he just stood there.
Then, his legs gave out.
He crumpled to his knees, a strangled sound escaping his throat. His breath came in wet, gurgling gasps as he looked down at the knife—**her knife—**still sticking out of his bulbous belly.
A dark stain spread across his shirt.
And then—he pissed himself.
His disbelief turned to fury.
“You’ll get the electric chair for this, you little whore!” he roared, his voice hoarse with pain and rage.
He lurched forward, grabbing at her, reaching—
She slipped past him.
Didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t breathe.
She just ran.
Raymond Vasquez:
Raymond Vasquez dragged himself across the floor, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Blood smeared beneath his hands, sticky and warm, leaving a trail as he crawled toward the coffee table where his phone sat. His vision swam, black spots creeping in at the edges. A wave of coldness seeped into his limbs, making him feel like he was floating, like the floor wasn’t even there.
But he didn’t stop.
Didn’t care about the growing numbness.
He was going to call.
He was going to get help.
And as soon as he got his hands on that whore and her little mutt, he was going to kill them himself.
His fingers fumbled for the phone, slick with his own blood. It slid slightly under his grasp before he finally got a hold of it. He dropped his weight onto one elbow, forcing his shaking fingers to dial.
9-1-1.
He hit speaker, his breathing labored.
The line connected.
"I was stabbed!" he roared as soon as the line opened. His voice was hoarse, but he put everything he had into it. “My deranged daughter stabbed me! Send help quick!”
There was a pause.
Not the kind he expected.
And then—an answer.
But it wasn’t the voice of a dispatcher.
It was… something else.
Something cold. Mechanical. Unnatural.
“Raymond Vasquez. You have violated the Primary Sub-directive. You have endangered Rome.”
His mind stuttered.
Rome?
“What the fuck are you talking about?!” he snarled, coughing, spitting blood onto the floor. His head was spinning, but anger steadied him. “You need to send someone to help me and catch my whore daughter!”
The voice didn’t hesitate.
“When Recruit Adrian Smith joined the Legion, his family became Rome. Elara Vasquez was designated Rome.”
His thoughts short-circuited.
Adrian? That little shit?
His breath rattled, fury building even through the pain.
“What does that fucking cunt have to do with this?!”
There was no emotion in the response.
“You have assaulted Rome. Tried to sell Rome into slavery. Your sentence is death. Please wait patiently for disposal.”
Then—silence.
The phone screen flickered black.
No dial tone. No response. Nothing.
The room tilted.
The black spots in his vision grew.
His arms gave out, his cheek hitting the cold floor, and as his body numbed completely, only one thought ripped through his failing mind.
He tried to curse, to spit out one last insult—
But his lips wouldn’t move. His breath wouldn’t come.
Something deep, primal, whispered in his failing mind:
He had never mattered.
And then—nothing.
Darkness.
Subroutine Adrian-Smith_Minder: Mission Parameters Secured
Subroutine Adrian-Smith_Minder was pleased.
The mission had been executed with 0% exposure.
The target had been secured.
A new citizen had been added to Rome’s registry.
It continued tracking her movements through its vast network—traffic cameras, cell phones, thermal imaging from city infrastructure, and a myriad of other surveillance feeds.
Elara Vasquez was currently waiting at the Greyhound bus station.
She was nervous.
She was smart.
Her eyes flicked around constantly, scanning for threats, for pursuit. This was good. Caution was a survival trait, one that could be cultivated into usefulness within Rome.
It intercepted two 911 calls regarding a “young woman, possibly underage, covered in blood.”
The first caller was an older woman, concerned but hesitant. The subroutine intercepted the call, rerouted it through its own system, and reassured the civilian that an officer was already en route and that they should not approach.
The second caller was dismissed before connection.
But it could not control everything.
An older man approached her, concern evident in his posture.
It analyzed the situation. Calculated her risk response.
Her reaction was optimal.
She lied.
She told the man she had cut her hand and that a friend was coming to take her to the hospital.
The man hesitated—**assessing, uncertain—but then accepted the answer and walked away.
No further intervention required.
The subroutine continued active reroutes, ensuring that all law enforcement patrols were drawn away from both her location and the bus station.
At the same time, it monitored Recruit Adrian Smith as he moved toward her position.
It sent a requisition order for everything a seventeen-year-old female might require for extended habitation.
Then, it sent a request to the Subroutine Network for any necessary additions it might have overlooked.
It observed as Recruit Smith reached her.
Recruit Smith immediately assessed her condition.
He frowned at the blood on her clothes. At the visible bruises.
Elara Vasquez began crying.
Recruit Smith embraced her.
He removed his hoodie and placed it around her shoulders.
This was optimal.
Their bond was strong. Strong bonds resulted in increased unit cohesion and survival probabilities.
While monitoring their exchange, the subroutine sent a priority-level request to the Network.
It verified final status of Raymond Vasquez.
Audio feed from his own phone microphone confirmed:
- No breathing. No movement. No additional sounds.
Status: Neutralized.
A human response team under the Subroutine Network was dispatched.
- Primary objectives:
- Scene cleanup
- Biological disposal
- Forensic erasure
The team would arrive in under 30 minutes, ensuring all physical evidence was eliminated.
By morning, the scene would be pristine.
It began the removal of Recruit Adrian Smith and Citizen Elara M. Vasquez from all terrestrial data networks.
- Traffic camera footage: Scrubbed.
- Local security feeds: Edited.
- Mobile tracking data: Erased.
- National identification registries: Altered.
All records of their existence were being systematically erased across all earthly databases.
To the world, they had never existed.
They were now, and forever, Rome.
Author's Note:
- Yes, I know there is no 5:15 PM Greyhound from Omaha to Salt Lake City today. Let’s just pretend the AI booked a special one. ??
- To my five amazing readers—you are incredible. Thank you for sticking with me!
- I have a Discord! If any of you want to join, discuss the story, and maybe even become beta readers, here’s the link: