Justin POV
The cool breeze gently brushed against my face as I stood exactly in front of the dorm gates. I was still watching Lia's retreating figure disappearing into the dorm building.
Lia.
The nickname had just slipped out earlier. I didn't even think it through. One second I was watching her mess with that stubborn strand of hair, and the next—I called her that. "Thanks, Lia." Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And it felt right. Too right.
I didn't say it to be charming or clever. I wasn't trying anything. It just... happened.
And now that I think about it-I don't regret it at all.
As I turned away from the dorm and started walking back to my apartment, the cool night breeze caught the edges of my jacket, but I barely noticed.
My hands were in my pockets, my head full of her. It was quiet—just the gentle rustling of leaves and the faint hum of distant traffic. And yet, somehow, the silence felt loud. Full.
The warmth of Lia's laughter still lingered in my ears. The way she had looked back just before entering the building—half-smile, slightly hesitant, as if she wanted to say something else but didn't. That image stuck.
By the time I reached my apartment complex, the night had grown darker, but the air still held that crisp autumn coolness. I took the stairs two at a time, not really in a rush, just needing to move. Inside, the hallway lights flickered softly. Everything was familiar. Normal. But I wasn't.
I unlocked my door, stepped into the quiet of my place, and stood there for a second. The silence felt different now–quieter somehow, like something had followed me in and settled with me.
I should probably sleep. I had things to do tomorrow. But instead, I found myself standing by the window of the kitchen, staring out at the city, hands in my pockets again.
A soft smile tugged at the corner of my lips.
Lia.
Yeah... I liked that.
Too much, maybe.
But I wasn't planning on stopping.
Tonight, I walked her back. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to. She doesn't trust easily. I could see it in her eyes. But for a split second, when she looked up at me under the streetlight... it felt like she almost did.
I took a slow breath, pushing off the counter to grab a glass of water—when there was a knock. Short. Hard. Not the kind you'd expect from neighbors borrowing sugar.
I froze.
Nobody knocks like that without purpose.
I set the glass down, quietly stepping toward the door. My hand hovered over the knob for half a second. Something felt wrong. I peered through the peephole.
Two men. Black coats. One with a scar running down his left cheek. The other had his hands in his pockets, too calm for a visitor.
My chest tightened. I didn't need to guess.
They weren't here by accident.
I moved quickly—turned off the lights, reached under the couch where I kept the old blade.
A loud bang!
They'd kicked the door open.
I didn't wait.
I launched the nearest chair at the first guy as he stormed in. It slowed him, just enough. I lunged with the knife, slashing upward. His arm blocked it, but not fast enough-blood sprayed across the wall.
The other guy came at me from the side. Heavy punch to the ribs. I stumbled, gasped. Pain bloomed sharp and instant. He pulled out something - shiny. A knife, maybe. I couldn't see clearly through the adrenaline haze.
I ducked, barely missed it. I fought back with instinct, not form. Elbowed him hard in the gut, headbutted his nose. I felt something crunch.
He yelled, fell back.
But the first guy was up again.
He grabbed my shirt, slammed me against the wall. My shoulder cracked hard-I might've screamed, I don't even know. My vision pulsed black.
No. Not tonight.
I rammed the knife hilt into his face. Again. Again. Until he collapsed.
Blood on my hands. My shirt. My arms shaking. Breathing hard.
The second guy was crawling now-toward the door. I let him. Let him see I could've stopped him–but didn't.
"Tell them," I rasped, voice raw, "the next time they send someone to kill me-make sure they can."
He didn't even look back.
I slammed the door shut behind him, bolted it, then slid down to the floor, heart racing like a goddamn war drum.
Silence again.
Except now, I was sitting in it, bloodied, breathing like I just outran death.
And through the chaos, one stupid thought wouldn't leave me.
What if Lia had been here tonight, till now?
That scared me more than the blades ever could.
It was truly a horrifying thought. I'm too scared to imagine her caught up here in this situation.
I reached out to my phone, somehow, stumbling on my steps with blurred vision and bleeding arms. I quickly texted Liam: They were here again. We need to talk.
A few minutes later
Author POV
He sat on the floor, back pressed to the wall, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, arms resting heavy. His shirt was stained crimson at the sleeve, a cut slicing through just below his shoulder. But it wasn't the wound that made him feel hollow.
It was the timing.
He always knew they'd come back. He had lived with that expectation like a second skin, worn it with quiet readiness. But not tonight. Not this hour.
Not when his thoughts were still warm with the memory of Amelia's smile.
The door creaked open.
Fast steps. Familiar ones.
Liam.
He didn't say a word at first-just stood at the entrance, taking in the wreckage. Blood smeared across the floor. A cracked picture frame near the bookshelf. And Justin, silent, eyes dark and heavy, a knife still gripped loosely in one hand.
"Shit," Liam finally muttered, rushing forward and kneeling beside him. "Why the hell didn't you call me sooner?"
"I handled it," Justin murmured, voice like gravel. Dry. Detached. "Didn't need a rescue."
Liam looked at him, frustrated. "This isn't handling it. This is bleeding all over the floor and looking like you've seen the inside of hell."
Justin gave the faintest smirk. "Hell's quieter."
He wasn't in shock. Not the way most people would be. He'd seen worse. Done worse. But tonight wasn't about violence-it was about exhaustion. The kind that seeps into your bones when you've been looking over your shoulder for five damn years.
Since the night everything burned.
Since his father's name became a curse whispered in the underworld, and Justin's life turned into a debt he never asked to pay.
Liam pressed a towel to the wound, muttering something under his breath. Justin didn't flinch.
"They sent two?" Liam asked, glancing toward the smeared trail at the door.
Justin nodded once. "Scarface and someone new. Amateurs. Testing the waters."
"They know you're still a threat."
Justin's gaze flicked to the window, toward the faint glow of the streetlights outside. His voice dropped, lower now. "They know I'm still alive. That's enough for them to keep trying."
Silence settled. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that sits beside you like a warning.
The past wasn't behind Justin. It was in his bloodstream. In the way he moved. The way he locked his doors. The way he never let anyone too close.
And yet... something was changing.
Justin leaned his head back against the wall, eyes half-closed.
"Let's go to Dad. Tomorrow. For lunch," Liam said quietly at first, but there was weight behind every syllable. "We cannot ignore this warning, Justin."
Justin exhaled through his nose, leaning back into the worn leather couch, his white shirt dark at the shoulder where the bleeding had finally slowed. He ran a hand through his hair, the cut on his knuckles catching on a strand.
"You're overthinking," he muttered. "Two amateurs. I handled it."
Liam's jaw clenched. "Handled it?" he snapped, suddenly sitting up straight. "You call getting stabbed in your own apartment handling it?"
Justin didn't reply.
"You're not invincible,Justin," Liam continued. "You've been quiet, holding everything in like you always do. And I get it. I do. But this-this isn't a ghost from five years ago. This is real. Now. Bleeding-into-your-floor real."
Justin rubbed at his face, but the ache wasn't from the injury. It was deeper. "I don't want to drag him into this for nothing. He's done enough. I owe him peace, not problems."
"You think this is nothing?" Liam barked, standing now. "He's not just your father's friend. He raised us both. He's more of a father than half the blood-tied ones out there. He wants to protect you, but you're so goddamn stubborn-"
"I respect him," Justin snapped, finally meeting his gaze. "That's why I don't go running to him every time something goes wrong."
"And maybe that's your problem," Liam said, quieter now. "You think leaning on people is weakness. It's not. It's survival. If he finds out someone came after you again and you didn't tell him, he'll lose it. You know he will."
Justin stared at the floor, jaw locked, conflict flickering behind his eyes. The old pride, the quiet trauma, the weariness-it all boiled under the surface.
"Just lunch," Liam said softer now, his voice lowering as he sat again. "He needs to know. And we need to hear what he's not telling us."
A long silence passed between them.
Then finally, Justin nodded once. Reluctantly.
"Fine. Tomorrow."
Liam exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for an hour. He reached over, clapped a hand on Justin's shoulder-not the injured one-and gave it a squeeze.
"Good. I'll let him know we are coming over."
Justin didn't say it aloud, but in the back of his mind, he already knew-
Lunch with Edward Whitmore was never just lunch.
Justin's past is no longer content to stay buried-and now the cost of silence may be too high. Justin survived the night but the real danger is what's waiting in daylight.
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