Chapter Three: Market of fear
Three months.
Ninety days since the fires devoured her home.
Since her father’s death became a whispered footnote in rebel packs and black-market gossip.
Since Shelly stopped returning her calls, her messages, her howls in the dead of night.
Aaliyah moved like a shadow through the crowded Night Walker market, her hoodie pulled low over her face, her hair braided tight and tucked into the collar of a borrowed coat. She kept her gaze down, her steps careful, her presence muted. The Night Walkers didn’t tolerate outsiders, but gold still spoke louder than blood.
And today, all she wanted was an apple.
The stall was manned by a woman with a child strapped to her chest, skin leathery with fatigue. Aaliyah offered a wrinkled bill, and the woman nodded wordlessly. She reached for a bruised apple, the only one that hadn’t started to rot.
But as Aaliyah turned away, a rough voice barked behind her.
“Hey. You shorted her.”
She froze.
A patrolman stood a few feet away, mask pulled down just enough to show his smirk. His uniform was patched, his weapon slung casually over his shoulder. He looked like every corrupt authority figure Aaliyah had ever learned to avoid.
“I paid her what it said,” Aaliyah said evenly, not turning around.
He stepped closer, the crowd giving them space now, smelling the tension.
“Prices went up,” he sneered. “You think you get the outsider discount?”
“I didn’t know,” she said carefully.
“You’re gonna know now.”
His hand dropped to the strap of his weapon. Not in warning—in play. In promise.
Panic bloomed in Aaliyah’s chest, thick and familiar. She took a step back, but her heel clipped a crate behind her. The movement set the patrolman off.
He lunged.
But another hand caught his arm—firm, fast, unyielding.
Chris.
His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that cut like steel. “Let her go.”
The patrolman turned to bark a threat but stopped when he saw Chris’s eyes—wolf eyes. Gamma eyes. Unmistakable.
“This your little runt?” the patrolman muttered, spitting on the ground.
Chris didn’t answer. He twisted the man’s arm just enough to make the point, then shoved him back into the crowd. The patrolman didn’t try again. He wouldn’t forget the humbling, but he wouldn’t report it either. He’d seen what Chris was capable of.
Aaliyah stood frozen.
“Come on,” Chris muttered. “Before he decides to call backup.”
They moved quickly, ducking through alleyways until they reached his car parked in the shadow of a collapsed temple wall. The old sedan smelled like engine oil and burnt toast, but it was safe. It was the only place she could breathe.
Inside, Aaliyah slammed her fist against the dash. “I had it under control.”
Chris raised a brow. “Sure. Looked like you were about to politely get shot.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“You never do,” he snapped, “but that doesn’t mean you don’t need it.”
Silence crackled between them. Outside, the market buzzed on—unaware, uncaring.
Chris sighed and rested his head against the wheel. “You can’t afford to be reckless. They don’t need a reason to kill you, Aaliyah. They just need an excuse.”
She looked away, swallowing the acid rising in her throat. “I’m not scared of them.”
“You should be.”
“No,” she said, voice sharper now. “I was scared. I spent the last three months waking up in strange beds, wondering who’s next. I’ve watched my people vanish. I’ve listened to packmates lie through their teeth and betray each other to save their own skins. I’ve lived in fear long enough. I’m done.”
Chris studied her carefully. “You’re angry.”
“I’m awake.”
The words settled like stone in the air.
Chris nodded slowly. “Then stop running. But start planning. We’re not the only survivors. There are others. Scattered. Hiding. Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” she whispered.
“For someone like you.”
Aaliyah shook her head. “I’m not a leader.”
“You don’t have to be,” he said. “Just be the spark.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she looked out the window at the cracked stone statues beyond the fence—forgotten gods, their faces eroded by time and war.
Her voice was quieter when she asked, “Do you think she’s alive?”
Chris knew who she meant.
Shelly.
He didn’t lie. “I don’t know. I’ve asked around. No one’s seen her since the fire.”
Aaliyah swallowed hard. “She’d never abandon me. Not unless...”
Unless someone made her.
The silence was different now. Heavier.
Aaliyah pulled her braid loose, fingers trembling. “She’s not dead.”
“You’d feel it,” Chris said. “If she was.”
Aaliyah nodded. “So why hasn’t she come?”
Chris hesitated. “Maybe she can’t.”
Or maybe she won’t.
But neither said it.
Instead, Aaliyah opened the door and stepped into the dusty afternoon. The apple was still in her pocket, half-crushed. She bit into it anyway.
The juice was sour.
“Where are we going next?” she asked.
Chris shrugged. “I heard whispers about a smuggler’s road out east. No patrols. Just coyotes and fences.”
Aaliyah rolled the stem of the apple between her fingers. “Good. Let’s see what ghosts we can stir up.”
She didn’t say it, but it throbbed behind every word.
If Shelly was out there, Aaliyah would find her.
And if she wasn’t—if someone took her—then they’d learn just how dangerous a girl with nothing left could become.