89
The room felt too big to be a kitchen.
Sunlight streamed through the massive glass wall on one side, washing the room in pale gold. Beyond the glass, the ocean stretched endlessly, waves crashing against the shore in a rhythm that felt far away, like it belonged to another world. Inside, everything was white—too clean, too cold. Cabinets lined one wall in neat rows, pristine and untouched. The island in the center gleamed under the light, its polished surface reflecting the soft glow. It felt like the kind of kitchen that belonged in a brochure, not in a place where people actually lived.
I stood there, leaning against the doorframe, feeling out of place in every way imaginable.
Adeline was the first thing my eyes caught, sitting on the edge of the long dining table like she owned the damn room. She had that same slouch, that same don’t-give-a-shit air she always carried. An apple was in her hand, the loud crunch of her chewing filling the silence between breaths. She wore a baggy hoodie and sweatpants that hung loose on her frame, both faded and soft-looking, like they’d been washed a thousand times. She didn’t look at me right away. When she finally did, her gaze was heavy-lidded, almost bored. As if my presence didn’t faze her at all.
I glanced around, taking in the others.
There were three women, with Adeline making five, with one young girl, all scattered across the room like chess pieces waiting for their next move. Near the stove, one of them stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, leaning back against the counter. Her dark hair fell in loose waves, framing a face that looked more tired than angry, though she didn’t try to hide the way her eyes studied me.
Another stood by the fridge, holding the edge of the open door. She wasn’t looking at me but at the blonde girl hunched over the island, whose movements were sharp and frantic.
That girl. I didn’t know her name yet, but I recognized her. The driver. The green eyes I had seen in the rearview mirror before everything went dark.
Now, those same green eyes were red, rimmed with exhaustion and anger that looked like it had burned through her for years.
She was cutting cucumbers.
Not slicing them, not dicing them. Cutting them like they’d done something to her.
Her hand shook as she brought the knife down, over and over again. Each chop was louder than the last, echoing through the room, breaking the silence into pieces.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
Her shoulders were hunched, her chest heaving like every breath hurt. Pieces of cucumber were scattered across the counter, some chunks so thick they could’ve been bricks, others shaved so thin they were practically invisible.
Chop.
Chop.
She grabbed another cucumber, her fingers trembling, and started again.
Chop.
Chop.
Her lips moved, but at first, no sound came out. Then she whispered, hoarse and broken, “Fucking bastards.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, and her hand stilled. Her chest rose and fell, the knife trembling in her grip.
“You don’t know what they fucking do to the kids,” she said, her voice barely above a growl. “And he’s got my baby.”
Her last word broke in half, and it hit me like a punch to the gut.
The woman by the fridge moved toward her, slow and deliberate, like she was approaching a wounded animal. She placed a hand on Clarice’s shoulder, her touch gentle but firm.
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “Clarice, not now. It’s okay.”
Clarice’s grip on the knife slackened, and it clattered onto the counter, loud against the quiet. Her hands flew to her face, cupping her forehead as she started muttering. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Her words ran together, too fast, too raw.
When she finally lifted her head, her eyes met mine.
Those green eyes.
They’d looked so soft, so kind in the mirror that night, like they didn’t belong to someone in a world like this. Now they were full of something else entirely. Something broken. Something furious.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.
At the far end of the room, near the glass wall, a girl stood like a shadow. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen, her petite frame wrapped in a worn sweater and jeans that looked too big for her. Her dark, wavy hair fell just past her shoulders, framing a face that was hauntingly serious for someone her age. Her eyes—big, dark, and impossibly watchful—darted between me and the others. She crossed her arms over her chest, her shoulders hunched as if she were trying to disappear into herself. But those eyes never left me, quiet and calculating, like she was trying to decide if I was a threat.
The room was so still that even the waves outside seemed muted, the faint hum of music the only sound left.
Adeline took another bite of her apple, the crunch breaking the quiet. She didn’t look away from me, her gaze just as unreadable as it had been moments ago.
I glanced down at my feet, bare against the cold tile floor, raw and sore from too many days spent running. For a second, I felt like I wasn’t even here, like I was watching it all through someone else’s eyes. The reflection in the elevator earlier came back to me—my oversized, faded clothes, the bandage on my arm, the distant, hollow look in my own face.
I wasn’t ready to say anything. Not yet. But one thing was clear as I stared back at Clarice.
This wasn’t just a kitchen. This wasn’t just a group of women.
Whatever this was, it was built on pain. Pain they carried. Pain they fought against.
The room seemed to tilt slightly as I stood there, unmoving, a stranger in a scene I didn’t understand. The weight of their stares settled over me like a too-tight blanket, suffocating, itchy, impossible to shrug off. Adeline shifted on the table, her legs still swinging lazily, chewing the last bite of her apple with an almost audible crunch. She raised an eyebrow, her expression laced with impatience.
“Well?” she said finally, her voice breaking the thick silence. “You just gonna stand there like a lost puppy, or are we gonna get some kind of introduction out of you?”
I blinked, her words snapping me out of my daze. “Uh…” The sound was dumb and unfinished, but it was all I managed to muster.
Adeline sighed dramatically, hopping off the table with a soft thud. The motion was smooth, practiced, like someone who was used to moving through life with an easy confidence. She walked to the fridge, the soft pads of her socked feet barely making a sound against the polished floor.
The fridge door swung open, and she reached inside, pulling out a transparent bottle filled with a strange, murky liquid. The color was somewhere between green and brown, thick and almost medicinal-looking, like something an herbalist would concoct.
She handed it to me without hesitation. “Drink this. It’s got vitamins, minerals, probiotics—whatever the hell your body needs to recover from being half-dead. Trust me, you look like you could use it.”
I stared at the bottle, unsure whether to be insulted or grateful. The liquid sloshed around as I gave it a hesitant shake.
“Just drink,” Adeline said, her tone clipped as she leaned casually against the island table, biting into another apple. Her baggy sweatpants and oversized hoodie gave her a deceptively relaxed appearance, but her sharp gaze was anything but. I hesitated, unsure whether to trust her. My voice caught in my throat, but I forced myself to swallow a mouthful of the drink. It was bitter, herbal, with a faint aftertaste of citrus.
Adeline smirked at my grimace but didn’t comment. Instead, she turned back to the women around the room.
“Now, where was I?” She chewed slowly, swallowed, and gestured to the women around the room with the apple still in her hand.
“Right. Introductions.”
The room went still again, every gaze locking on me.
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