Chapter 1 - The Eight-Minute Clock
The splintered oak of the bathroom door caved inward with a terrifying spray of wood chips. Marcus, my husband of five years, stood framing the doorway. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw set in a dark, twisted grin. He smelled of cheap rye and sweat, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
"Look at you," he spat, taking a heavy step over the debris. "Hiding on the floor like a wounded animal. Who were you talking to, Lena? Huh? Who's going to save a broken, useless waitress?"
I pressed my back as hard as I could against the cold porcelain of the bathtub, clutching the phone with my right hand and tucking my shattered left arm against my chest. Every tiny vibration in the floor sent a blinding flare of agony straight up my shoulder, making my vision swim with black spots.
"Don't come near me," I whispered, my voice rattling in my throat.
Marcus laughed, a harsh, dismissive bark. He reached down, his large, calloused fingers wrapping brutally around my right wrist—my good arm—and yanked me off the floor. I let out a ragged scream as the sudden motion jolted my broken limb.
"You think you can run from me?" he sneered, his breath hot against my cheek. "I made you, Lena! I gave you a roof over your head! You have nothing without me. Nobody cares about you!"
He raised his hand, backheading me across the face. The blow sent me crashing against the bathroom sink. The phone flew from my grip, skidding across the wet tiles and coming to rest near the hallway entrance.
"Let's see who you were calling," Marcus muttered, bending over to pick up the phone.
The screen was still lit up. The call timer was still ticking.
"Hello?" Marcus snarled into the receiver. "Whoever the hell this is, you'd better mind your own damn business if you know what's good for you!"
A voice came through the tiny speaker. It wasn't loud. It wasn't panicked. It was an icy, low rumble that seemed to drop the temperature of the entire room.
"You have six minutes left to pray," Vincent Moretti said.
Marcus blinked, a brief flicker of uncertainty crossing his flushed face before his arrogance swallowed it whole. "Is that right? You think you scare me, pal? I don't know who you are, but this is my wife, my apartment, and—"
The line went dead with a flat, final tone.
Marcus stared at the phone for a second, then threw it against the mirror, shattering the glass into a hundred webbed cracks. He turned back to me, his eyes wild with a fresh wave of alcohol-fueled rage. "You're pulling games now? Getting some tough guy from the diner to talk trash on my phone?"
He grabbed my hair, forcing my head back. I gritted my teeth, refusing to give him another scream. I stared past his shoulder at the digital clock on the bedroom wall visible through the doorway.
11:42 PM.
Two minutes had passed.
"I'm going to teach you a lesson you'll never forget tonight, Lena," Marcus growled, dragging me out of the bathroom into the living room. "By the time I'm done with you, you won't even be able to hold a coffee pot."
He threw me onto the worn velvet sofa. The impact jarred my broken arm so severely that the world turned gray for a long, horrifying moment. Through the haze, I watched him walk toward the hall closet where he kept his heavy leather work belt.
11:45 PM.
Five minutes.
"You always thought you were too good for this place," Marcus rumbled, pulling the belt free and folding it in half with a sharp crack. "Always smiling at customers, looking at the city out the window like you were going somewhere. You're staying right here. Under my shoe."
He took three slow steps toward the couch. My breath came in short, desperate gasps. I tried to push myself backward using my feet, but my heel caught on the edge of the rug.
11:47 PM.
Seven minutes.
"Say it," Marcus demanded, raising his arm. "Say you're mine."
I looked up at him through my swollen left eye. For five years, I had said those exact words whenever he demanded them. I had apologized for his bad days, taken the blame for his failures, and shrunk myself into a shadow just to survive until morning.
I looked at the front door.
"No," I whispered.
Marcus's face contorted into pure venom. "What did you say?"
"I said no," I repeated, my voice growing stronger through the pain. "I'm not yours. I'll never be yours again."
May you like
He roared in frustration and swung his arm downward.
Before the leather could strike, the front door of our apartment didn't just open—it exploded off its hinges with a deafening metallic bang that echoed down the hallway like a cannon shot.
