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requinoesis · 6 days ago

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After noticing patterns over the years, I created this list with 13 points to score the level of stereotypes about sharks present in a work. I believe that most of these stereotypes have their main origin in the film Jaws (1975).

With the scarcity of works that explore other creative approaches to sharks, beyond the “man-eating ” narrative, Jaws ended up consolidating itself as the greatest source of inspiration and creative reference for many productions to this day. This was called “The Jaws Effect”. 🩸🦈

I've noticed that certain patterns in the creative world repeat themselves to the point of being tedious, which bothers me. Not because they're bad, but because in many cases they're harmful. With these points, I hope to show sharks in a new light.

🩸1 - Great White Shark Popularized by the Jaws movie, the Great white shark has become the dominant archetype in the representation of sharks in fiction. Often, works choose to use this shark or a generic gray version of imprecise anatomy, with no defined species. However, there are over 400 species of shark, and very few are explored creatively.

🩸2 - Man-eater The persistent idea that sharks have humans as a natural part of their diet is one of the most widespread stereotypes. Although there are reports of incidents, most attacks are isolated and often by mistake. Any animal, including humans, could turn to unexpected sources of food in a situation of desperation or starvation.

🩸3 - Forced Behavior It's common to see sharks portrayed with distorted or exaggerated behaviors that don't match their nature just to cause tension, such as:

Hunting small fish, ignoring the fact that sharks avoid expending energy on low-energy prey.

Abandoning easy prey just to arbitrarily chase the protagonist.

Going crazy at the smell of blood.

Showing a wild and constant hunger.

Obsessively pursuing a single prey.

Making aggressive shark species known for being peaceful or timid.

Attacking and destroying objects, structures or vessels with disproportionate fury just to reach someone.

🩸4 - Monstrous appearance It's common to see sharks' appearance exaggerated to intensify visual fear, making them look like monsters rather than real animals:

A gaping mouth, with huge, crooked teeth that are constantly stained with blood.

Menacing, demonic red, black empty and soulless eyes.

Body covered in grotesque scars, exposed wounds and even weapons embedded in the skin.

A disproportionate figure, with pointed shapes, a swollen or deformed body.

Bizarre mutations that completely alter their anatomy.

Technological modifications to make them more weapon-like, emphasizing the idea of the "Killing Machine".

🩸5 - Shark de-characterization Especially in children's works, in order to be accepted by the public or the other characters in the plot, the shark is often forced to change its identity. It is transformed into a “domesticated” version, such as:

Becoming a vegetarian or a toothless shark, losing its ecological role as a predator.

Taking on exaggeratedly “funny” behavior, becoming a caricature.

Having its behavior and appearance altered to look more like a dolphin or other friendly shape, excluding striking features such as prominent fins, visible gills or a fusiform snout.

Choose to portray a specific species of shark because it seems more “friendly” to the public, such as the whale shark.

🩸6 - Limited Nature The representation of sharks in fiction is usually limited to sensationalist aspects, such as the power of their bite, the old phrase that they "smell a drop of blood in 2 million liters of water", or things like "killers from the womb".

However, sharks have some very interesting characteristics that are little explored creatively:

Acute hearing, capable of picking up sounds more than a kilometer away in the ocean.

Their electroreception, which allows them to perceive tiny electrical impulses emitted by living prey and even sense the electromagnetic field around them.

Possible link between their migrations and the lunar phases.

Incredible healing capacity and immune resistance.

Skin made up of denticles made of the same material as our teeth.

They constantly change their teeth.

Longevity and they never stop growing.

Many fish such as rémoras and pilot fish depend on and live alongside sharks.

Sensitive to pressure changes and can even predict hurricanes and tropical storms.

🩸7 - Red Presence Striking presence of red, either with the presence of blood or the color present in the design. This emphasis on red reinforces the shark's direct association with violence, danger and death, contributing to the construction of the “bloodthirsty monster” stereotype.

🩸8 - Dark Music It is common for sharks to be associated with tense, dark and threatening soundtracks whenever they appear on the scene. More often than not, I notice that when sharks are mentioned in song lyrics, it is to express some sort of comparison to some negative stereotype.

🩸9 - Threatening setting Scenarios with sharks are almost always represented in a gloomy, dark, desaturated way, empty of marine life. The environment is treated as a dangerous place by nature, shipwrecks, dark caves, areas full of garbage, explosive mines or the inhospitable depths of the sea

🩸10 - Masculinization The theme involving sharks has always been very masculine. Shark characters are rarely female, while the human characters who interact with these animals, scientists, hunters, divers or specialists, are almost always white men. Women and minorities almost never occupy central or specialized roles in these narratives.

🩸11 - Villainization Sharks are often portrayed as villains by default, carrying negative and caricatured stereotypes, for example:

Gangster or mobster

Aggressor or school bully

Criminal or loan shark

Brutish idiot or dumb henchman

Corrupt politician or authoritarian fascist figure

Indomitable monster or irrational beast

Recurring enemy, obstacle or final boss in video games

🩸12 - Objectification Sharks are often treated as mere resources or utilitarian objects in fiction. They are represented as trophies, rewards, collectibles or consumables, as if they existed only to be hunted, exhibited or eaten.

This objectification also appears in the constant presence of jaws decorating environments, teeth used as accessories, fins amputated as an ingredient, and in the display of the animal's body in a morbid way: corpses exposed, dead body hung and displayed as a trophy in harbor, parts dissected or being devoured by other creatures.

🩸13 - Death As if it weren't enough to have become a symbol of death incarnate, even in animations aimed at children, sharks almost always have the same fate: death. What's worse, their death is usually celebrated as a relief or a victory.

Impaled, butchered, set on fire, crushed, blown up, fished out or killed by another "heroic" creature, tossed about by hurricanes… In many cases, these scenes are treated with humor or graphic exaggeration, turning the destruction of the shark into a spectacle.

---

I was unsure about publishing this list as it is just personal observations from someone who loves sharks. A few people asked me for this list and said it would be worth posting, don't take it too seriously.

These stereotypes are not necessarily bad or invalid, after all, we are talking about works of fantasy and fiction. However, they could be resignified through new creative ideas that arouse feelings other than fear and terror.

Although many people's passion for sharks arose precisely from movies like Jaws and the stereotypes it popularized, it's important to remember that these same elements have been repeated almost unchanged for decades. This exhaustive repetition was largely because it was profitable, turning sharks into yet another victim of entertainment capitalism. Over time, this type of representation ended up distancing ordinary people from the reality of these animals, reinforcing fear rather than curiosity. Nowadays things are a little better, but not better enough.

The reality of sharks goes far beyond that. They are mysterious and fascinating animals, older than the first trees or dinosaurs. They have survived five mass extinctions, incredibly adapted from the abyssal depths to mangroves and freshwater rivers. They have unique senses and behaviors that are still shrouded in mystery, as well as a biology so singular that it inspires advances in science and technology. For many ancient cultures, sharks are revered as true gods of ocean balance.

I dare say that by looking after the health of the seas for millions of years, sharks made it possible for our own species to emerge from the depths of the primordial ocean. They are, in a way, guardians of our cradle of origin. And so we owe them a great deal of respect and preserve them at all costs.

To date, no creative work has managed to surpass “Jaws”. Who will be creative enough to create a new work and transform the collective imaginary of sharks from fear to fascination? 🦈✨

#shark #sharks #art #illustration #jaws 1975 #jaws #jaws 50th anniversary

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msbigredmachine · 4 months ago

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The Boy Next Door: The Final Chapter

MASTERLIST ✨ harmshake’s masterlist ✨ msbigredmachine’s masterlist

Word Count: 9.2k

💥TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains DARK THEMES. Please proceed with caution💥

“A quiet Connecticut suburb, forever scarred by the horrors hidden within one of its most luxurious homes.”

The news anchor droned on, her voice steady and professional, but still laced with the brand of disbelief that accompanied covering something too monstrous to fully comprehend.

“Authorities have confirmed that Mateo Hobbs, the serial killer Florida law enforcement has been tracking for the past eighteen months, has been apprehended. Linked to multiple kidnappings and murders spanning the East Coast, Hobbs recently embedded himself in an affluent Hartford, Connecticut neighborhood, hiding in plain sight.

“Perceived as a quiet, unassuming neighbor, Hobbs, using the alias Roman Reigns, was in reality, a ruthless, sociopathic predator. With deep ties to the notorious Samoan Sons crime syndicate in California, he’s alleged to have orchestrated a string of brutal crimes from Georgia to Florida all the way up to Connecticut, leaving a trail of devastation in his wake.

His reign of terror came to a violent end yesterday when he was shot by authorities during a tense hostage standoff in the basement of his Hartford mansion.”

The scene cut to an aerial view of Roman’s sprawling mansion, its pristine exterior now marred by crime scene tape and the steady movement of forensic teams. Uniformed officers and cadaver dogs scoured the property, methodically searching the grounds, the basement, and hidden crawl spaces for any remaining evidence of his crimes.

“His latest victim, Ivy Jones, a registered nurse and a single mother of one, had been missing for nine harrowing days. Jones, who was Hobbs’ next door neighbor and rumored to be his lover, was found in his basement, in critical condition but alive. Investigators say she was subjected to severe physical and psychological torture before she was found by authorities. Sources close to the case confirm that she was not the first woman to suffer at Hobbs’ hands—but so far, she has been the only one to make it out alive.

“Hobbs has now been linked to many more unsolved murders including the brutal killing of a pregnant woman whose remains were discovered months ago in a shallow ditch in the woods in this very neighborhood. Further investigation led authorities to a horrifying discovery within the basement of his mansion—two bodies, decomposing in separate barrels. The victims have been identified as local fitness coach Bianca Belair and attorney Gemini Beaufort. Both women had been reported missing in recent weeks, their disappearances previously unexplained.”

A pause, heavy with implication and omen.

“While authorities believe Hobbs acted alone, the full scope of his crimes remains unknown. Investigators are combing through evidence recovered from the property, searching for additional victims. The case remains open, and the search for answers continues.”

The broadcast cut to a clear image of Roman Reigns, reduced to a face on a screen, forever tied to death and destruction.

“For now, the nightmare is over. But for those who suffered at his cold, callus hands, the scars remain.”

Ivy drifted toward consciousness at a snail’s pace, the world around her emerging in fragments. First came the sterile scent of antiseptic, a smell she knew all too well. Then the steady, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor, the faint hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled voices of nurses and doctors moving through the halls.

A heavy fog clung to her thoughts, making it difficult to pull herself fully into wakefulness. Her body ached—deep, radiating pain that pulsed through her limbs and settled in her chest. She inhaled, the simple act an effort, her ribs protesting with a dull, bruising throb.

She shifted slightly, and that was when she became aware of the wires. The thin, plastic tubing taped to her arm, the small pinch where an IV needle was inserted into her skin. It was wrong. Foreign. She was always the one on the other side of the hospital bed, checking vitals, adjusting drips, reassuring patients. Never the one lying there, helpless, under observation.

Her eyelashes fluttered as she forced her heavy lids open. The room was shadowed in a pale yellow light spilling from the small lamp in the corner. The walls were the soft, muted green she recognized from the hospital ward where she worked.

Her hospital.

A sharp breath hitched in her throat as reality came rushing back in a cold, unforgiving wave.

Roman.

The basement.

The gun in her hand, trembling, the trigger pulling back.

The gunshots. The stunned look in his eyes.

The thud of his body hitting the floor.

Her stomach clenched, nausea rolling through her. Her fingers instinctively curled into the stiff white sheets beneath her, her body trembling at the memory. The horror of it still clung to her, wrapped around her like invisible chains.

Ivy’s eyes flickered frantically around the dim hospital room, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Panic clawed at her chest until they landed on a familiar, curled-up form on the floor near the hospital bed.

Duchess was asleep, her body rising and falling with deep, even breaths. A thick bandage was wrapped around her stomach, a stark reminder of Roman’s cruelty. Ivy’s throat tightened at the sight, guilt and sorrow intertwining. He had hurt her too. But she was here—alive. Loyal as ever.

Swallowing hard, Ivy tore her gaze away and searched further.

Zaia.

She was nestled in Becky’s arms, her tiny face tucked against the older woman’s chest, her dark curls tousled from sleep. Becky sat stiffly in the chair, her red-rimmed eyes wide as they locked onto Ivy’s. It was as if she had been afraid to blink, afraid Ivy would disappear if she looked away.

“You’re awake,” Becky breathed, her voice brimming with relief.

Ivy managed a faint, weary smile in acknowledgment, but her focus remained solely on her daughter. With what little strength she had, she whispered, “Zaia…Baby…” Her voice barely more than a breath, but it was enough.

Zaia stirred, her small body shifting as she blinked groggily. Then, as her vision cleared, she saw her mother; awake, eyes open, alive.

“Mama!”

In an instant, she was wriggling out of Becky’s hold, her small feet hitting the tiled floor. However, Becky caught her before she could rush toward the hospital bed, her hands shaking as she wiped at her tear-streaked cheeks.

"Ivy," Becky’s voice cracked, "Can she…can she climb in?"

"Yes." Ivy barely got the word out before her arms were reaching, aching to hold her child, to feel her warmth, to reassure herself that she was real. That she was safe.

Becky carefully helped Zaia into the bed, minding the wires and the IV. The little girl clung to her mother like a lifeline, her small body trembling, her sobs muffled against Ivy’s faded lilac hospital gown.

Ivy held her just as tightly, pressing her lips to Zaia’s curls, breathing her in, as if the scent of her baby could chase away the lingering nightmares. Tears streamed down their faces as she rocked her gently, whispering soft reassurances, "I’m here, baby. Mama’s here. I gotchu."

Zaia hiccupped between sobs, her fingers clutching at Ivy’s hospital gown. "I thought…I thought you weren’t coming back," she whispered. “I thought you were gonna d—”

The hopelessness in her tone cracked Ivy’s heart wide open. "Never, baby. I will always come back to you," she promised, her voice raw with emotion. "Always."

Becky wiped at her face, watching them, barely holding herself together. “She wouldn’t sleep,” she choked out. “She kept asking for you. I tried to calm her down. Told her not to be scared.”

Her voice wavered, and Ivy could see it; etched in the tightness around Becky’s eyes, in the way her lips trembled. Becky now knew what had happened in that house, the horrors Ivy had endured.

Blinking rapidly, Becky cleared her throat. “I’m gonna go find a nurse,” she said gently, her hand lingering on Ivy’s arm for just a moment. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Ivy didn’t answer.

Because she couldn't bring herself to tell the truth. That she wasn’t okay.

Pushing all that aside, Ivy tightened her hold on her daughter, pressing her lips to the crown of her head, breathing her in. Nothing else existed. Nothing else would ever matter again.

"My sweet baby," she murmured, pressing her cheek against her daughter's. "My snuggle bug. I love you. More than anything. More than life itself."

Zaia sniffled, her little arms tightening around her mother’s neck. "I love you too, Mama."

The machines beeped softly in the background, the sterile hospital room surrounding them, but none of it mattered. In that moment, the only thing that existed was the warmth of her daughter in her arms, the unshakeable, unbreakable bond between them.

As the day wore on, Ivy felt exhaustion settle deep into her bones, dragging down every limb. The hospital room felt unbearably small, the steady beep of the monitor beside her too loud in the quiet. Duchess lay curled in her lap, her warm body a source of quiet comfort as Ivy absently stroked her fur. Across the room, Zaia slept soundly on the couch, her small frame rising and falling with each peaceful breath. Ivy glanced over at her daughter, a weary ache pressing against her chest. Their reunion had been everything; painful, overwhelming, much needed. It was the first time since her hellish ordeal that she’d felt even the faintest spark of life in her chest.

A soft knock on the door made her tense.

Lilian, her boss and the head nurse, stepped inside, her expression gentle but firm. “Ivy,” she said carefully, “there are two people here who need to speak with you.”

Ivy’s stomach twisted, but she managed a nod.

Lilian stepped aside, allowing them to enter.

The tall man with striking blonde hair stepped forward first. Ivy recognized him immediately; it was he who shot Roman in the back. The one who ended it.

Behind him, a woman followed, dressed professionally but with an air of quiet confidence. Ivy couldn’t recall her name; she only remembered she was the last face she saw before waking in this bed.

The man’s expression was calm yet serious as he broke the thin ice. “Miss Jones,” he greeted, with a frail semblance of warmth. “I’m Detective Cody Rhodes.” He gestured to the woman beside him. “And this is Lieutenant Jade Cargill. We’re with Florida PD, handling the Mateo Hobbs case—or Roman, as you know him.”

At the mention of that name, Ivy flinched, her breath hitching.

Her reaction made Cody hesitate, but only briefly. “We wanted to check in on you… and also, if you’re up for it, ask a few questions.”

Jade’s approach was softer. She stepped closer, her eyes warm and understanding. “I know this is difficult,” she said gently. “But whatever you can tell us will help.”

Ivy swallowed the burn in her throat. She knew this moment would come, but she wasn’t ready. She didn’t think she ever would be. But she had to.

Duchess nuzzled into her, as if sensing her unease. Ivy absorbed the comfort, steadying herself.

Cody and Jade watched Ivy. Waited, patient.

She forced herself to breathe, to start. “He…” Her voice cracked. She pressed her fingers into her temples. “I don’t know how long he kept me down there for…a week, a month...”

Jade sat on the edge of the bed, her body turned slightly toward Ivy, giving her space but offering silent support.

“From what we gathered, it was nine days,” Jade said softly.

Ivy’s nails dug into her palms. She thought she could do this. She thought she could get the words out, but the second she tried, it was like reliving everything all over again.

Roman’s voice. His hands. His snide, cruel laugh.

Jade’s hand rested lightly on her arm. “It’s okay,” she soothed. “You don’t have to push yourself.”

Ivy took a shaky breath, clutching Duchess tighter, her voice barely above a whisper. “Gemini was in the basement with me. She was…she was dead when I found her…He killed her…”

She squeezed her eyes shut, shame flooding her veins. The last time they had spoken, Ivy had pushed her away. She had been cold. Dismissive. And now, Gemini was dead.

She would never forgive herself for it.

Her fingers curled into the sheets, her entire body trembling as a sob caught in her throat.

“He r-raped me. Over and over and over…”

The words barely left her mouth before a violent shudder overtook her entire body. Her breath expelled in short, sharp gasps as her tears obscured her vision. It felt as though a steel band had closed around her ribs, squeezing, suffocating. Her stomach lurched, bile lurking in the back of her throat.

The memory barreled into her like a truck, brutal and unforgiving; Roman’s weight crushing her, his hands pinning her down, his harsh breath in her ear, the unbearable pain, the helplessness…

Her body convulsed with deep, gut-wrenching sobs.

Jade moved instantly, wrapping an arm around Ivy’s shoulders, grounding her, steadying her. “Breathe, Ivy,” she murmured, rubbing slow, soothing circles into her back. “We’re here. You’re safe.”

Ivy gasped, grasping her chest as if trying to rip something out, that terrifying thing buried deep inside her. “I couldn’t stop him,” she sobbed. “I begged, I fought...I—I—”

Jade tightened her grip on Ivy’s arm. “It's okay, Ivy,” she goaded.

She turned, blinking up at her, desperate. “Is he dead?” she rasped. “Please tell me he’s dead.”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Rhodes and Jade exchanged a glance, something unreadable passing between them.

Cody exhaled. “He had a pulse in the ambulance.”

The world around her screeched to a halt.

Her chest constricted so violently it felt like her ribs were caving in. Her fingers clenched the sheets so tightly that her knuckles ashened, her nails digging into the fabric as if trying to ground herself, to hold onto something—anything that would stop the panic from swallowing her whole.

“He’s alive?” she whispered, a frightened, broken rasp.

“Barely,” Cody said carefully, disgusted at himself that he didn’t get the job done.

Jade leaned forward. “He’s being transferred out of state. He’s going to a maximum-security federal prison in Montana. Miles and miles away. He won’t be able to hurt you or anyone else ever again.”

Ivy could barely breathe. The walls felt like they were closing in. A sharp, ice-cold terror slithered down her spine, wrapping around her like a vice.

Cody’s voice was firm, absolute. “We failed the first time. We should have put him away. That won’t happen again. He’s never getting out.”

Jade squeezed Ivy’s arm. “You’ll never see him again. We promise.”

Ivy wanted to believe them. She wanted to trust that this was over.

But Roman had stolen so much from her.

And no matter how far away they sent him, she didn’t know if she’d ever feel safe again.

Sitting stiffly on the plush couch, her hands clenched together in her lap. The familiar scent of lavender and vanilla filled the air, a salt lamp casting warm hues against the walls. Dr. Ari’s office had never felt like a psychotherapist’s office. No stiff leather chairs, no sterile white walls. Instead, it was warm, inviting, with bookshelves lined with novels and plants cascading from their pots. Ivy used to love this space, used to tell Ari how she had the coziest office in the hospital. It had never felt clinical. Never cold.

Today, it felt suffocating.

Dr. Ari sat across from her, notebook resting lightly in her lap, her expression open, patient. She wasn’t just a colleague today. She was Ivy’s therapist. And right now, that made her feel like the enemy.

“I know this isn’t where you want to be,” Ari said gently. “But I appreciate you being here.”

Ivy didn’t respond. She kept her gaze on the floor, on the delicate weave of the rug beneath her feet.

“Let’s start small,” Ari continued. “How have you been sleeping?”

Ivy exhaled slowly. A question she could answer.

“Not great,” she admitted. “I wake up a lot.”

“Nightmares?”

A short nod. An understatement. The dreams weren’t just bad…They were choking, nausea-inducing. Literally, sometimes.

Ari didn’t push, didn’t ask for details. Not yet. Instead, she shifted slightly. “And Zaia? How is she doing?”

At the mention of her daughter, Ivy’s hands tightened in her lap. “She sleeps in my bed every night now,” she said. “She’s…not the same. Not as lively.”

Ari nodded knowingly. “She’s been through so much.”

Too much. More than any child should endure. Losing her father. Losing Gemini. Watching Gable’s head get blown off. Witnessing such violence firsthand. It wasn’t fair.

Ari let a beat pass before asking, “And Duchess?”

Ivy glanced toward the dog bed by the door, where the puppy lay, watching the two women carefully. “She won’t leave my side.”

Ari hummed in understanding. “She’s protecting you.”

Ivy swallowed against the tightness in her throat. She’d tried to protect her in Roman’s house, took a kick to the ribs for her. Words could never fully express how grateful she was for her bravery.

The silence crawled by like a serpent, cold, slithering. Ari’s voice was softer when she spoke again. “Ivy…do you feel responsible for Gemini’s death?”

She flinched.

Her stomach clenched, her nails biting into her palms. Though she had been expecting the question, it didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“She warned me,” she whispered, “Over and over again. She told me he was dangerous. She told me not to trust him. And I—I defended him.” Her breath hitched. “I let him in. Because of me, she’s gone.”

Her chest constricted under the crushing weight of the truth—Gemini had died trying to protect her. The evidence in her bag confirmed it. The police investigation unearthed even worse horrors: Roman had planted a camera in Gemini’s bedroom, watching her every move. The street cams showed him chasing her back into her house, murdering her, and stealing her bag and her car to erase the proof. Traces of her blood and his DNA smeared across her kitchen like a signature of death.

All because of her.

Ari let her sit with the words for a moment before she said, “That’s not true, Ivy, this wasn’t your fault.”

Ivy let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Then whose was it?”

Ari held Ivy’s gaze, steady and sure. “The man who killed her.”

Her throat tightened. “I should have seen it.”

Ari shook her head. “He manipulated you, Ivy. You weren’t supposed to see it.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“I thought he loved me.”

Ari nodded, not interrupting, not rushing her.

“I—I was so stupid. I fell for him. Oldest fucking trick in the book. I let him into my life. I let him near my daughter.” Her voice cracked, self-loathing thick in her tone. “I slept next to him. I trusted him.”

Ari shifted slightly in her chair. “Again, that is not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Another bitter laugh. “I should have known. I should have seen it. I—I kept giving him the benefit of the doubt. I defended him.” Her breath hitched. “And all the while, he was killing people. He murdered innocent women. Angelo. Gemini.”

Ari gave her a moment before speaking again. “You didn’t know, Ivy. You weren’t the only one he deceived.”

Ivy clenched her jaw, forcing herself to breathe through the crippling guilt. She wanted to believe Ari. But how could she?

Her daughter’s father. Her best friend. Gone. Because of her stupidity.

The pain was unbearable.

And then—

“Can you talk to me about what he did to you in the basement?”

Everything inside Ivy recoiled. Her body went rigid, suddenly forgetting the simple function of breathing.

The basement…

Her mind fought against the flood of memories, but it was useless. The cold, the dark, the endless hours of terror. The feel of his hands on her body. His voice.

Ari’s voice remained gentle. “Ivy, the police confirmed that Roman ra—”

“I don’t wanna talk about it!”

The words came out too sharp, too loud in the quiet room. Her heart pounded, her vision hazing at the edges.

Ari didn’t flinch. She simply nodded. “Okay. We don’t have to—not until you’re ready.”

Ivy sucked in a trembling breath, but it felt like she couldn’t get enough air.

Dr. Ari leaned forward slightly, her voice steady yet soft, like she was trying to anchor Ivy to the present. “But I need you to understand something. Your trauma...It won’t just go away on its own. You’ve survived something unimaginable. You need to let yourself process it.”

Ivy barely heard her. The words echoed distantly, dull and meaningless, as if they belonged to someone else’s story.

She had uttered similar words before. Had stood at bedsides, held trembling hands, looked into the vacant eyes of survivors and tried to offer comfort wrapped in clinical certainty. She had repeated the script so many times, assuring patients that healing was possible, that time and therapy would mend what had been broken.

But never—never—had she imagined those words would be spoken to her.

And just like all the patients she had treated, she didn’t believe them.

Because how could anyone come back from this? How did she process something that had gutted her, left her hollowed out and rotting from the inside? Roman had taken everything from her; her safety, her body, her trust. The horrors lurked stubbornly just behind her eyelids, shadows of memories she wasn’t ready to face.

After another long pause, Ari spoke again. “Avoidance won’t make them go away, Ivy. They’ll fester.”

Ivy swallowed hard. “I don’t care.”

“I think you do.”

“I just wanna go home. I wanna be with my daughter.”

Ari studied her carefully. “Zaia needs you to heal, Ivy.”

Her eyes stung. She looked away, her fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t do this!”

“You can,” Ari insisted, firmly but kindly. “And you don’t have to do it alone.”

Ivy’s shoulders trembled.

Ari didn’t say anything else. She just let Ivy sit there, let her hold onto the silence like a fragile thread keeping her together.

And then, without warning, the dam broke.

A sob tore from Ivy’s throat, raw and gut-wrenching. She folded in on herself, shaking, gasping for breath between broken cries. The pain, the guilt, the fear—it all crashed over her at once.

Ari moved from her chair, settling beside her on the couch. She didn’t speak. She didn’t try to quiet her. She just sat there, her presence solid and unwavering as her patient let it all out.

Minutes passed before Ivy could calm down. She swiped at her tear-streaked face, her body exhausted from the weight of it all.

Ari handed her a tissue, waiting as she wiped at her swollen eyes.

“Same time next week?” Ari asked softly.

Ivy hesitated. The thought of doing this again, of dredging up more of the darkness, made her stomach churn.

But she had no choice.

She nodded weakly. “Yeah.”

Ari gave her a small, reassuring smile. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Ivy didn’t answer. She stared down at the crumpled tissue in her hands, her fingers tightening around it as if she could squeeze the pain out of herself.

One step at a time.

The words felt meaningless.

How could she take another step forward when every part of her felt shattered beyond repair?

As she stood on shaky legs and left Ari’s office, the world outside felt too bright, too normal.

And Ivy…

Ivy wasn’t normal anymore.

She wasn’t sure she ever would be again.

The sky hung low and gray, thick with the weight of a late November chill as Gemini’s funeral unfolded. The world seemed to mourn with them, the clouds heavy, threatening snow but offering nothing—just the quiet, biting wind that cut through coats and scarves. It was the week before Thanksgiving, but there was no warmth, no gratitude. Only grief.

This was the second funeral Ivy had attended in the span of a few months, and her heart could hardly withstand another. First Angelo, now Gemini. Two people who had meant the world to her. It felt unbearable, cruel. She had no more tears to cry, yet they still came, silent and unrelenting, as she clutched Zaia’s small, gloved hand in hers. Her daughter had barely recovered from burying her father, and now she was here, standing beside another fresh grave, saying goodbye to another adult who had loved her.

Gemini’s funeral was private, yet the quiet opulence of her family still bled into the event. The headstones surrounding her final resting place were regal, etched with gold, the markers of a family that had always carried itself with elegance. She was being laid to rest between her parents, a cruel sort of symmetry. Gemini had always missed them, always longed for them, and now, she would be with them forever.

Nearby, Raquel and Kelani, her colleagues and friends, stood, shoulders shaking, their eyes rimmed red from an endless flow of tears. They weren’t just coworkers; they were her sisters, her allies in a field dominated by men, who had loved and respected her fiercely. It was impossible to imagine their firm without her bold voice ringing through the halls, her confidence filling every room, her laughter turning the most grueling days into something bearable.

For three years, Gemini had been a constant in Ivy’s life; a force of nature, vibrant and unstoppable. She was the life of every party, the loudest voice in the room, the kind of friend who made the impossible feel within reach. Ivy had not imagined a world without her in a long, long time.

And yet, here she was.

Watching helplessly as Gemini was lowered into the cold ground, her laughter silenced, her light extinguished forever.

Ivy’s breath hitched, her chest tightening with the unbearable truth. Gem had been more than a friend. She had been a lifeline, a sister in all the ways that mattered. And now, because of the choices Ivy had made, that lifeline had been severed.

She could do nothing but stand there, numb and broken, as the earth swallowed what remained of her best friend.

Beside Ivy, Leo Beaufort stood motionless, his broad frame rigid in a perfectly tailored black suit. His presence was unmistakable—tall, striking, and composed—but there was a weight to him now, a quiet devastation pressing into his shoulders.

Gemini’s twin brother was her mirror. The other half of her soul. Ivy had known him as long as she’d known his sister. She had seen him laugh, tease, argue with Gemini in the way only siblings could. But she had never seen him like this—silent, stripped of the easy confidence he always carried.

As Gemini’s casket sank lower into the earth, Ivy felt him exhale, a breath so shallow it barely existed. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t cry. But the grief radiating from him was as heavy as the sky pressing down on them.

As the final words faded into the cold afternoon air and mourners began to drift away, Ivy forced herself to look up at him.

Something inside her cracked at the look on his face. His expression was raw, anguished, the tears he'd been holding in finally spilling forth.

Without a word, she pulled him into a crushing embrace. She felt the tremor in his tall body, his pain pressing into her own, bleeding together in the worst way.

“I’m so sorry, Leo,” she murmured, heartbroken for him.

“I felt it that day. When she…went,” he whispered against her temple, his voice unsteady. “I was in Tokyo, and I felt it. Half of my soul—shattered.” A ragged breath. “I knew something was terribly wrong. I just couldn’t get to her fast enough.”

Ivy’s lungs tightened, shame sinking its claws into her. “I was awful to her before she passed,” she admitted, the confession digging into her like a knife to the heart. “We fought, and I…” Her voice broke. “I never got to make it right.”

Leo pulled back just enough to cup her face in his hands, his touch startlingly gentle despite the storm inside him. His dark eyes, hollow with pain, burned with something else too—something resolute.

“Ivy, listen to me,” he said, steady and firm. “Gem knew you loved her. She loved you just as much. Whatever happened between you don’t change that.” His grip tightened, willing her to believe him. “This was not your fault. You gotta forgive yourself. Please. She’d want you to. I want you to.”

She wanted to. God, how she wanted to. But the weight of her regret felt immovable, crushing her beneath it. And maybe, deservedly so.

As Leo finally let her go, Ivy turned slightly, her gaze landing on another familiar figure standing just a few feet away.

Officer Hayes. Carmelo.

Equally lost. Equally broken.

The sharp, smooth, composed policeman was gone, replaced by a man drowning in grief. His sunglasses shielded his eyes, but they couldn’t hide the way his body shook, the way his shoulders curled inward, as if the magnitude of his sorrow was too much to bear.

Ivy took a slow step forward, then another, until she was standing beside him. A long, painful stretch of silence.

“I imagined a life with her,” he spoke up, his voice hoarse as he removed his sunglasses to wipe at his eyes. “Marriage. A family. I thought…I thought I had more time.” A sharp breath. “I didn’t do enough to stop this.”

Ivy turned to him, shaking her head. “Don’t,” she pleaded. “Don’t blame yourself.”

“How can I not?” His jaw clenched. “I never thought he was a threat. Never looked at him twice. And that’s the problem.” His voice wavered, thick with regret. “I should’ve dug deeper. Should’ve asked more questions. But I didn’t. I let him be around her—I let him be around all of us—and I didn’t see it.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I should have known. I should have done more.”

Her chest tightened. She had no words, no reassurance that would make any of this easier. The what-ifs were stifling, an endless loop of blame and regret that neither of them could escape.

Carmelo let out a slow, unsteady breath. “I just wish I’d gotten to talk to her one last time,” he murmured. “Tell her how much I…” His voice broke, and he swallowed hard. “Just one more conversation, man. One more chance.”

Ivy squeezed his arm. “She knew, Melo. She knew.”

He gave a faint nod, but his hands clenched at his sides, as if holding onto something invisible, something slipping through his grasp.

After a beat, he exhaled and looked at her. “I’m happy you made it out,” he whispered. “I really am.”

Ivy blinked back fresh tears. “Thank you for taking care of Zaia,” she said. “She talks about you all the time, you know. Says you’re her hero.”

Something flickered in his expression—something softer, lighter, cutting through the thick haze of grief. His lips twitched, almost forming a smile, before it disappeared.

“Zaia’s a good kid,” he said, voice quieter now. “She’s been through enough. I just did what anyone would’ve.”

They stood in silence, side by side, staring down at the fresh mound of dirt that covered Gemini’s coffin. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

Because this—this was what devastation looked like.

Detective Rhodes stood outside the glass window of the hospital room, hands stuffed in his pockets, his frosty blue gaze locked onto the unconscious man inside.

Mateo Hobbs. Roman Reigns.

It didn’t matter what he called himself. He was nothing more than another psychotic criminal who had finally run out of places to run.

Two bullets. One from Ivy. One from him. And yet the bastard still lived.

He shouldn’t be surprised. Hobbs had slipped through his fingers too many times before, surviving when any other man would’ve been six feet under. But this time?

This time, there was no escape.

Behind him, the hesitant shuffle of footsteps drew his attention. Dr. Michael Cole, a wiry, nervous-looking man with thinning hair and thick glasses, cleared his throat. “Detective,” he greeted, voice just shy of a tremor.

“How long?” Cody didn’t bother with pleasantries. His cerulean orbs never left Hobbs’ prone form, watching his huge chest rise and fall steadily beneath the hospital sheets.

Cole wiped his hands on his coat. “A week. The bullets have been removed, but he needs time to recover before he can be transported.”

“A week?” Cody echoed, his jaw clenching. He wanted him gone now.

“It’s the best I can do,” Cole insisted, shifting uneasily under the weight of Cody’s chilling glare. “Moving him too soon could cause complications—”

“I don’t give a fuck about complications,” Rhodes cut him off coldly. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. “The second he’s stable, he’s out of here. You understand me?!”

Cole nodded hurriedly, clearly eager to be anywhere but in Cody’s presence.

Rhodes turned back to the window, his voice dropping to a low, venomous promise.

“You will never see the light of day again, Hobbs.”

A fortress of concrete and steel, Windham Federal Penitentiary sat deep in the wilderness in rural Montana, surrounded by endless miles of nothing. No roads. No civilization. Just mountains and forests stretching as far as the eye could see.

Maximum security.

No one had ever broken out. Many had tried. All had failed.

Guards patrolled the perimeter with semi-automatics. Watchtowers stood high, armed with snipers. The cells were reinforced, the walls impenetrable. A goddamn hellhole.

Exactly where Mateo Hobbs belonged.

But Rhodes made sure he wasn’t just another inmate. He had plans.

Sitting across from CO Strowman in a dimly lit break room, Cody laid it out. Strowman was a mountain of a man; six-foot-eight, built like a tank, with a shaved head, an unruly beard and a ghastly scar running down his cheek. A man whose presence alone made even the most dangerous inmate rethink their life choices.

Cody’s eyes locked on the grainy monitor displaying Roman…Mateo…sitting alone in his cell. Even injured, the bastard still carried that same quiet menace, his expression unreadable, his posture eerily composed.

“You watch him for me,” Cody said, his voice low, edged with something lethal. “I mean really watch him. Make his life a living hell. If he so much as breathes wrong, I wanna know.”

Strowman grunted, arms like tree trunks folding across his chest. “And if he steps outta line?”

Cody smirked. “Handle it.”

Strowman’s eyes gleamed with understanding.

Hobbs wasn’t getting out. And if Cody had his way…

He wouldn’t be getting out alive.

The drive across Hartford felt like a step toward something new—something better. Ivy’s grip on the steering wheel was firm as she navigated unfamiliar streets, her heart pounding in quiet anticipation. Moving again wasn’t ideal—twice in three years—but staying in that house, in that neighborhood, after everything that had happened? Impossible.

Was she running away? Again?

Or was it survival?

Maybe she was running. Maybe this was just another escape, another attempt to put distance between herself and the nightmare that had nearly swallowed her whole. But wasn’t that the point? To keep going, however slowly, however painfully, until the past loosened its grip? If this was running, then let it be. As long as it carried her toward something that had some fragile semblance of peace.

The house Angelo left her sat on a quiet street lined with towering trees, their bare branches dusted with the first hints of winter. It was beautiful. A two-story colonial with soft gray siding, black shutters, and a wide porch that wrapped around the front. The yard stretched out, perfect for a child to run through in the warmer months, and the crisp December air carried the scent of pine from the evergreens bordering the property.

It was a beautiful abode. Angelo had good taste.

As soon as Ivy parked, Zaia unbuckled herself and scrambled out of the car, her little sneakers crunching against the gravel driveway. “Mama, it’s so big!” she gasped, spinning in a circle. “We get to live here?”

Ivy stepped out, taking in the sight of it. “Yeah, baby,” she murmured, trying to push past the weight in her chest. “We do.”

Zaia grabbed her hand, practically bouncing on her toes. “Can we move in before my birthday?”

Ivy smiled, squeezing her fingers. “That’s the plan.”

It was good timing, really. A fresh start before Christmas. A new home, new memories—ones not tainted by fear and loss. Zaia would turn seven on Christmas Eve, and Ivy wanted her to wake up in a house that felt safe, filled with warmth instead of shadows.

To Zaia, this was all just an adventure. The idea of moving again didn’t phase her in the slightest. “I can decorate my room for Christmas, right?” she asked, eyes wide with excitement. “And can we get a big tree? Like, really big?”

Ivy laughed softly. “You can have the biggest tree we can fit.”

Zaia beamed. “And I can have a birthday party here?”

Ivy hesitated but nodded. “We’ll see what we can do.”

She wasn’t sure she had it in her to host a party, not after everything, but she wouldn’t take away Zaia’s excitement. Her daughter had been through enough.

Of course, not everyone was thrilled about the move.

“You’re taking my granddaughter even farther away from me?” Gloria, Angelo’s mother, snapped through the phone when Ivy finally broke the news.

Ivy let out a slow breath, already exhausted. “We’re moving, Gloria. That’s not up for discussion.”

“You expect me to drive all the way across town just to see her?”

“I expect you to figure it out if you actually want to see her.”

Gloria scoffed, muttering something under her breath. But Ivy hung up before she could utter another word. She didn’t care. She was done letting this woman dictate anything in her life. Gloria was not raising Zaia. She never had. And after everything Ivy had been through, she refused to let anyone—especially her ex’s bitter, spiteful mother—make her feel guilty for doing what was best for her daughter.

This was their life. And from now on, Ivy was going to live it on her terms.

For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to believe that things could get better. That healing, no matter how long or winding the road, was possible.

Hope.

Maybe, just maybe, she still had some left.

In just a matter of weeks, Roman’s sprawling fortress across the street was reduced to rubble. Ivy stood by her window and watched as the demolition crew tore through it, their machines snarling as they ripped apart the walls that had once enclosed her in his deception. She had spent a lot more time than she wished to admit in that house, back when she had believed Roman was just a man, just her lover. They had cooked in that kitchen, their laughter filling the air between clinking wine glasses. They had curled up on that expensive leather couch, watching movies until she fell asleep against his chest. She had let him kiss her in that hallway, had given herself to him in that bedroom, tangled in silk sheets, never knowing that one day those same walls would close in on her, trapping her in the darkest nightmare of her life.

She thought its destruction would bring some kind of closure. Instead, she just felt hollow. The house was gone, but the memories remained, clawing at her, sinking their teeth into every quiet moment she tried to reclaim.

Therapy helped. Or at least, that’s what she told herself. Once a week, she sat across from Dr. Ari, picking at the edges of her pain, unraveling it thread by thread. But the nightmares didn’t care about therapy. They came regardless, slipping into her mind like a cruel whisper in the dark. She’d wake up gasping, her skin slick with sweat, the phantom weight of Roman’s body pressing her into the mattress, his voice dripping in her ears like poison.

Then, those “thoughts” began creeping in, without warning, without pity. One moment, she would be doing something mundane, like folding Zaia’s tiny clothes, the scent of lavender detergent clinging to the fabric. The next, the darkness would slither in, whispering insidiously:

You’re broken beyond repair. You’ll never get better. He took too much from you.

Ivy clenched her jaw, shaking her head as if that alone could banish the thoughts. But they didn’t need an invitation. They curled around her mind, wrapping tight like thorns, their voices gentle, persuasive.

You won’t have to wake up screaming anymore. You won’t have to see his face every time you close your eyes. You’ll finally be at peace.

Just do it.

End it all.

She had told Dr. Ari about those morbid thoughts; about the nights she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the weight of exhaustion pressing her into the mattress, but sleep refusing to take her. About the moments when the idea of stepping further into the abyss felt less like surrender and more like relief.

Ari had nodded, unsurprised, unshaken. “These thoughts don’t mean you want to die, Ivy,” she had said softly, her gaze steady. “They mean you’re in pain. And pain needs to be acknowledged before it can heal.”

So she worked through it, piece by jagged piece. She wrote in a journal, even when the words felt too raw, too exposed. She let the music wash over her, heavy and loud, until the static in her mind quieted. She read the book Ari had given her, a guide for survivors, though some nights, she could only get through a paragraph before the words blurred.

And when the darkness became too much, when the past threatened to drag her under, she reminded herself why she kept fighting.

For Zaia. For the little girl who still looked at her like she was the safest place in the world.

For herself.

So she strapped up her boots, gritted her teeth, and moved forward. Even when it hurt. Even when it felt impossible.

She threw herself into packing up the house. It was something to do, something to keep her from drowning. Most people weren’t allowed past the front door anymore. The thought of letting anyone too close, of giving someone the chance to betray her trust again, made her chest tighten. The only exception was Carmelo. He came by often, checking in on Zaia, playing with her, making sure Ivy was eating, sleeping. Becky too, with her loud, unrelenting energy, forcing Ivy to exist in the world even when she didn’t want to.

Tonight, Ivy sat cross-legged on the living room floor, folding a pile of Zaia’s clothes into a suitcase. A few feet away, Zaia played with Duchess, the puppy’s tiny tail wagging as she chased a stuffed toy. Ivy allowed herself a small smile at the sight; at the simple, innocent joy of a child and her dog.

Then the news anchor’s voice cut through the background noise, sharp as a blade.

“Tonight, an in-depth look at the man who terrorized a quiet suburban neighborhood…”

Ivy’s heart lurched as his face filled the screen. Roman’s face. The familiar angles of his bearded jaw, the piercing eyes she had once loved.

Her breath hitched. Her vision blurred at the edges. The room tilted.

No. No, no, no.

She fumbled for the remote with trembling hands, her lungs tightening as if iron bands had cinched around her ribs. The words on the screen swam together; serial killer, rapist, sociopath; but all she could hear was his voice; feel his hands, his weight, his breath.

Her chest seized, air slipping from her grasp. Hyperventilating. She needed to breathe. She needed—

“You got it, Duchess, good girl!”

Zaia’s small voice cut through the haze of terror.

Ivy’s fingers finally found the power button. The TV snapped off, plunging the room into silence, save for the sound of Duchess’ soft panting and her own ragged breaths. She pressed a hand to her chest, grounding herself, forcing her lungs to expand.

She was safe. Roman was gone.

But the ghosts he left behind still refused to let her go.

The house buzzed with movement. The steady rip of packing tape. The shuffle of footsteps against hardwood. The low murmur of conversation between the movers as they carried out furniture. Ivy kneeled beside Zaia, supervising her as she carefully placed her toys into her toy box. Across the room, Carmelo grunted as he helped one of the movers lift the couch.

“Man, you got it?” he asked, adjusting his grip.

The mover huffed out a breath. “Yeah, yeah. Just a little heavier than I expected.”

Carmelo smirked. “You should hit the gym more.”

Becky laughed beside Ivy, shaking her head as she taped up a half-filled moving box. “Lyra’s gonna miss this one,” she said, pointing at Zaia. “She’s been talking about Zaia nonstop.”

Ivy smiled, warmth creeping into her chest. “We’ll visit. I promise.”

Zaia grinned, cradling her favorite plush bear. “I wanna see Lyra on my birthday!”

“Of course, baby,” Ivy murmured, reaching over to playfully tug her braid.

There was a knock at the door. More neighbors, coming to say goodbye. She had already cried too much today. Every hug, every well-wish, every we’ll miss you had threatened to break her all over again. She wasn’t sure she had any more tears left to give.

As she stood, Carmelo called out from across the room, rummaging through a half-packed box. “Yo, Ivy, you seen my sunglasses? I swear I left ‘em on the counter.”

Ivy sighed, brushing a stray loc from her face. “You mean the ones you lose every time you take them off?”

Carmelo scoffed. “Man, just tell me if you’ve seen ‘em!”

She smirked, shaking her head as she made her way toward the foyer. “Maybe check the top of your big ass head—”

She pulled the door open.

Her blood ran cold.

At the other end of her door, inexplicably, was Roman.

The side of his face was slick with blood, a deep gash splitting his temple. His shirt hung open, torn and stained, a bullet hole gaping through the fabric where she had shot him. But it was what he held in his left hand that sent the air wheezing from her lungs.

Angelo’s severed head. Gemini’s severed head. Their lifeless faces frozen in a final, gruesome scream.

Her knees locked, her breath catching in her throat.

Roman smiled, the evil glint in his eyes sending ice through her veins.

“Hey, baby girl.”

In his other hand, he lifted a gun. His gun.

The one she shot him with.

Pointing it right at her.

“No!”

BANG!

Ivy shot upright, a strangled gasp of terror ripping through her chest. The world spun around her. Her stomach twisted, bile rising fast and hot. She barely had time to throw off the covers before she was bolting to the bathroom, dropping to her knees in front of the toilet.

Her body lurched forward, her stomach twisting as she vomited. Her entire frame trembled, sweat clinging to her skin in a cold sheen, the contents of her stomach emptying in a grimy cascade.

Gasping for breath, she pushed herself upright, slow and unsteady, gripping the edges of the sink for support. She turned the faucet on, cupping cool water in her hands before rinsing her mouth, spitting out the lingering taste of bile. The cold water soothed the rawness in her throat, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside her.

The dream. The same damn dream. Over and over. It refused to let her go.

Why wouldn’t it let her go?

With a shaky breath, she turned and sank onto the closed toilet seat, pressing her palms over her face. Her pulse thundered in her ears. No matter how many times she woke up, no matter how many deep breaths she took, the fear never left. It was with a vice-like grip that simply refused to loosen.

“Mama?”

Jumping slightly, she wiped her mouth quickly, looking up to see Zaia standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. Without a word, she stretched out her arms, allowing her daughter to walk into her embrace. She tugged her into her lap, pressed her lips to the crown of her head and smoothed a trembling hand over her little bonnet.

Zaia hesitated, then nestled closer, her small fingers gripping Ivy’s nightgown tightly. “I have bad dreams too,” she murmured, barely above a whisper.

Ivy’s heart clenched. She shut her eyes for a moment, resting her head against her daughter’s. Just a child. She should’ve never had to know this kind of fear.

A lengthy moment of silence drifted between them before Zaia sighed. “I’m gonna miss my friends when we move,” she said, her voice small and wistful.

Grateful for the change in subject, Ivy nodded. “I know, baby. But we’ll make new memories. We’ll celebrate Christmas in our new home. It’s gonna be fun,” she promised.

Zaia yawned, her grip tightening around her mom’s waist. “Okay.”

Ivy held her baby close as she carried her back to the bedroom, grounding herself in her warmth. The nightmare still lingered in the back of her mind, but here, in this moment, she wasn’t drowning in it.

She was still here. Still fighting. And maybe…just maybe…things would get better.

Somehow.

Three Months Later

Windham Penitentiary had descended into absolute bedlam.

Smoke coiled through the air, thick and acrid, stinging the eyes and burning the lungs of anyone still breathing. The relentless screech of alarms blended with the chaotic roar of hundreds of men, their voices rising in a primal symphony of rage and freedom. Inmates swarmed every hallway, their movements frantic and violent, like a hive disturbed. Some were smashing light fixtures, the bulbs bursting in showers of glass, plunging sections of the prison into flickering darkness. Others ripped mattresses apart, their stuffing floating like snowfall in the destruction.

Blood gushed over the concrete floors, fresh boot prints trailing in every direction. The guards who had been unlucky enough to be caught in the initial frenzy now lay crumpled, unconscious, or worse, their bodies discarded against walls like broken furniture. Those still standing were fighting desperately, swinging batons, deploying tear gas, yelling orders that fell on deaf ears.

Somewhere in the chaos, a cluster of correctional officers sprinted toward a specific cell, their faces tight with dread. Their radios crackled with desperate voices, but no reinforcements were coming. Not tonight.

They skidded to a stop in front of the open cell.

Their worst fear materialized before their eyes.

Strowman lay on the floor, his huge neck twisted unnaturally, a deep crimson pool expanding beneath his throat. His keys, slick with blood, glinted in his rigid fingers. His expression was frozen in something caught between shock and agony, his eyes still open, staring vacantly at the ceiling.

There was no one else inside the cell.

Hobbs was gone.

A cold, crippling silence settled over the officers even as the riot raged on around them. The hairs on their arms rose as the weight of realization crashed down upon them like a massive boulder. This wasn’t just an escape.

The ghost had slipped through another pair of fingers.

Hundreds of miles away, Detective Cody Rhodes was wrecking his office.

“Fuck!”

He slammed his fists onto his desk so hard that the entire surface rattled, a stack of files toppling over the edge. His growls came in short, ragged bursts, his chest heaving with the sheer force of his rage. His eyes squeezed shut for half a second, then out came a guttural roar that burst from somewhere deep within his gut.

How? How had this motherfucker gotten away again?

He ran a shaking hand through his blond hair before gripping the edge of his desk and flipping it over with another roar, sending everything crashing to the floor. Papers, pens, his goddamn badge. None of it mattered.

Strowman was dead.

Hobbs was gone.

Again!

And he had nothing. Again!

With a furious snarl, he grabbed the nearest chair and launched it across the room. It crashed against the wall, splintering on impact, but the destruction did nothing to cool the fire burning through him. His vision blurred red, his thoughts a relentless cycle of curses and failures.

That bastard was out there.

Again!

And yet again, Cody had no fucking idea where.

The night stretched on, endless and black, swallowing the empty highway in both directions. The road was cracked and worn, long forgotten by civilization. There were no streetlights. No signs of life. Just the sound of wind scraping across the desolate land.

A lone, hulking figure moved through the darkness, blending with it as one, trudging along the side of the road.

He walked with an easy stride, his hood pulled low over his face, casting shadows where a beard once covered his jaw. Clean-shaven now, his features were different, altered just enough to make a second glance have doubts.

In one hand, he held a photograph. A woman with a little girl.

His thumb dragged over Ivy’s face, slow, thoughtful, lust-filled. Then Zaia’s. Fatherly, nurturing, comforting.

The low hum of an approaching vehicle broke the stillness. Headlights cut through the night, growing brighter, nearing fast.

Roman turned purposefully toward them, lifting his arm, extending his thumb. His grip tightened on the photograph.

As the car slowed to a stop beside him, his smirk widened.

She couldn’t breathe.

The bathroom felt smaller, much smaller. The walls were pressing in, trapping her in the harsh, artificial light. Her body trembled, still raw from retching, but the nausea wasn’t fading. Hadn’t faded for weeks, for one single horrifying reason. It wasn’t the nightmares. It wasn’t the stress.

It was something much more devastating.

Her fingers curled around the plastic white stick in her lap, the small screen glaring up at her. A single word. A simple, undeniable truth.

Her stomach lurched, and she barely managed to swallow down another wave of sickness. Her other hand clutched at the counter as she forced herself to look again, to see the second test beside it. The same positive result.

Oh god.

A strangled whimper broke from her throat as she stumbled backward, pressing herself against the cold tile as if she could shrink away from the reality in front of her. Her chest heaved, her pulse a frantic, erratic, unnatural rhythm in her ears.

This couldn’t be happening.

I will always be a part of you.

His words echoed in her skull, that dark, possessive whisper that had haunted her even in freedom. She had spent months trying to erase him, trying to cleanse herself of his touch, his presence.

Her hands shook violently as she clutched at her stomach, fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt. She wanted to reach into herself and tear it out, wanted to claw him out of her, wanted to make this not real.

But it was real.

Her red-rimmed vision blurred as the first sob broke free, then another, until she was on her knees, gasping, unraveling, drowning in a fresh, endless nightmare.

She had fought so hard to escape him. So, so hard.

But now, he was inside her.

Literally.

Still here. Still owning her. Still tethered to her like a parasite.

A parasite he’d put in her.

You ain’t never gon’ be free of me. You belong to me forever, baby girl.

He was right.

She was never going to be free.

THE END.

A/N: Let me start off by shouting out and sincerely thanking my partner in crime, @harmshake, for her genius. All the brainstorming on Google Docs and the email back and forths paid off. This would have NEVER happened without her, she kickstarted this and is this reason this story has been so epic. Love you, dear!

Another massive thank you to everyone who has read and commented and supplied so many theories and guesses. I loved reading and responding to every one of them and I appreciate you all!

This is also to confirm that this universe ends here. A Part 2 will be damn near impossible for me, as writing this was so emotionally and sometimes physically draining. Again, it's a psychological (erotic) thriller, and cliffhangers are a staple that I'm happily taking advantage of.

On the bright side, there will be a reimagining of the characters from this universe in another universe, coming soon.

Would love to know your thoughts on this final chapter!

Dr. Ari is played by @trippinsorrows

🏷️: @harmshake @cyberdejos2 @thesamoanqueen @vebner37 @thewarlordsworld @trippinsorrows @herwickedlittlesins @jxtina-86 @wrestlingprincess80

@dreamsinfocus @fame-ass-ers @southerngirl41 @jeyusos-girl @romansthrone @wwecrazed2010 @sayyestoheav3nn @trentybenty

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