SALEM
If you’d told me three weeks ago that my grand escape from a high-rise human trafficking nightmare would star a guy with a literal mohawk, a sketchy service corridor that smelled like regret and old mop water, and me bickering about door etiquette like we’re auditioning for HGTV’s “Kidnap & Renovate”—I’d have said, “Yeah, sounds about right.” My life’s been a dumpster fire with extra accelerant for years; why not add pyrotechnics?
Ozzy’s hand wraps around mine, warm and steady, not the possessive death-grip I braced for. It’s firm enough to say “I’ve got you,” but loose enough that I could yank free if I wanted. Which is... annoyingly considerate. Also stupidly hot. Like, can we pause the life-or-death sprint for a second so I can appreciate how his fingers feel like they were custom-molded for mine? No? Fine. Priorities.
My brain, however, is on a completely different channel—one where survival takes a backseat to cataloging irrelevant details. Exhibit A: the way his black tactical shirt clings to his shoulders like it lost a bet with gravity. Sweat-damp fabric outlining every ridge of muscle, because of course he’s built like he bench-presses small cars for fun. Exhibit B: the way he moves—quick, precise, predatory in that “I will cheerfully end anyone who touches you” way, not the creepy “I collect eyeballs as souvenirs” way. Big difference. Important distinction when you’re running for your life.
And then there’s the mohawk. The actual mohawk. It’s not even ironic; it’s proudly vertical, and pitch black like it’s auditioning for a cyberpunk reboot. Who looks at a black-ops rescue mission and thinks, “You know what this needs? Peak 2005 Hot Topic energy”? Ozzy, apparently. And somehow it works. I hate that it works.
We hit the service corridor at a dead sprint—well, I’m more like a frantic shuffle in borrowed sneakers two sizes too big; he’s gliding like he was born to dodge imaginary bullets. The door ahead is one of those industrial steel monstrosities with a push-bar that screams “employees only, or you’ll be fired... or worse.” He slams his shoulder into it. Nothing. Locked. Of course it’s locked. Because why would the universe make this easy?
“We need to bust the door down,” the other guy, Arrow, says.
“Won’t budge,” Ozzy says, studying the door once more.
“Kick it,” Arrow says.
I plant both hands on the bar and shove. It doesn’t budge. Because physics hates me. “It’s not locked. It’s stuck, genius.”
“Let’s push together.” He crowds in behind me—close enough that I feel the heat rolling off him, smell clean sweat and something faintly like gun oil and pine—and reaches around to add his strength. Our bodies align for one ridiculous heartbeat: my back to his chest, his arms bracketing mine, breath hot against my ear as he mutters, “On three. One?—”
We both shove. The door gives with a metallic screech that probably wakes half the building. We stumble through into blessed darkness.
“Move,” Arrow orders.
Ozzy doesn’t let go of my hand. Just tugs me forward, down the stairs two at a time, his grip now a lifeline instead of a polite invitation. My heart’s doing cartwheels. Sure, there’s fear, yes, but also this dumb, giddy spark every time his thumb brushes my knuckles like an apology for dragging me into this madness.
We hit a landing. He pauses, ear cocked toward the stairwell above. Far away there's a voice echoing. It’s getting closer.
“Time to improvise,” he whispers, eyes glinting with the same manic glee I imagine serial killers have right before they drop the punchline.
I snort despite myself. “Improvise? Your plan was ‘mohawk and good manners.’ We’re already improvising.”
“Exactly. I’m a natural.” He flashes that grin again, then yanks me toward a side door marked ‘Utility—Authorized Personnel Only.’ “After you.”
“Again with the door thing?”
“Habit. Sue me.”
I shove through first this time, because if we’re dying, I’m not doing it on ceremony. The corridor beyond is narrow, pipes dripping, fluorescent buzz overhead like dying bees. Perfect murder-scene aesthetic.
Behind us, footsteps pound closer.
Ozzy’s hand tightens on mine. “Ready to run like hell?”
I meet his eyes. They’re wild and alive. It’s stupidly reassuring. “Born ready. But if we survive this, you owe me an explanation for the hair.”
“Deal. And coffee. My treat.”
“Make it a latte and we have a deal.”
We keep running. We keep sprinting like our lives depend on it. Well, because they do. They so fucking do.
Ozzy glances at me. “You okay?”
My lungs burn and my heart is trying to punch through my ribs like it wants out too. I’m basically running on zero calories. My throat screams for water. At this point, I’d take anything wet. “I’m having a great time,” I whisper. “Five stars. Would not recommend.”
His mouth twitches. It’s not a full smile—more like he’s fighting it, like he’s trying to be the kind of rescuer who doesn’t joke. Which is adorable. Wrong vibe for him. “Stay close,” he murmurs.