Gun flash.

Body falls.

The killer turns.

Our eyes meet across the alley.

I should run. Should scream. Should do anything except stand here like an idiot with my keys in my hand and my scrubs still smelling like the hospital.

But my feet won't move.

He walks toward me.

Slow. Deliberate. Gun still in his hand.

He's tall. Dark hair, dark clothes, eyes that calculate angles and exits.

This is it.

After twenty-seven years of dodging bullets—metaphorical ones, until now—this is how it ends. Wrong place, wrong time. Story of my life.

He stops two feet away.

"You saw."

Not a question.

"Yeah."

My voice sounds strange. Distant. Like it belongs to someone else.

"You know what happens to witnesses."

"I can guess."

He tilts his head. Studying me.

"You're not screaming."

"Would it help?"

"No."

"Then I won't waste the energy." I tighten my grip on my keys. Like they'll do anything against a gun. "If you're going to kill me, make it fast. I just worked a twelve-hour shift and I'm too tired for drama."

His expression tightened.

Surprise, maybe.

Or confusion.

Like I'm not following the script he expected.

The gun rises.

I close my eyes.

"Look at me."

I don't want to. Don't want my last sight to be the barrel of a weapon.

But I open my eyes anyway.

He's close now. Close enough that I can see the scar on his jaw. The fine lines around his eyes.

"What's your name?"

Strange question from a man about to kill me.

"Maya. Maya Chen."

"Maya." He says it like he's testing it. "Where were you going?"

"Home. I live three blocks from here."

"Alone?"

"With my mother."

Another pause.

The gun doesn't waver.

But his focus sharpened.

"Get in the car."

Not what I expected.

"What?"

"Get. In. The car."

He gestures to a black sedan I didn't notice. Parked at the mouth of the alley. Engine running.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not going to kill you in an alley like an animal."

Cold comfort.

"And if I run?"

"I'll catch you. And then you'll wish you hadn't."

Fair point.

I glance at the body on the ground. The pool of blood spreading toward the gutter.

Then at the car.

Then at him.

"Fine."

I walk to the car.

Because what else am I going to do?

He opens the back door. I get in.

The interior smells like leather and copper.

He slides in beside me. The gun disappears into his jacket.

"Drive," he tells the shadow behind the wheel.

We pull away.

I watch the alley shrink in the rearview mirror.

The body grows smaller.

Soon it's gone.

And I'm trapped in a car with a killer who hasn't decided what to do with me yet.

Mom's going to be so worried when I don't come home.

That's the thought that finally makes my hands shake.

Not fear for myself.

Fear for her.

What happens to her if I disappear?

I clench my fists. Force the shaking to stop.

Survive first.

Worry later.

It's the only thing I know how to do.