6:00am (3:00am SEQUEL) // Jori fan fic

Chapter 13 - Karaoke Fight Out (Part 1)

It was hellfire hot. Like, melt-your-soul-through-your-boots hot. The kind of heat that makes you wonder if global warming finally decided to have a one-on-one with your epidermis. The sun hung above like an overcooked spotlight, casting long, sharp shadows across the barren landscape—just endless sand, dusty hills, and mountains crouched in the distance like ancient beasts watching silently. The air shimmered in mirage-like ripples, rising from the ground in waves, like the earth itself was exhaling.

I squinted against the blinding light, sweat sliding down the back of my neck, my black combat boots slowly sinking into the sizzling terrain like they were being swallowed by a grudge-holding earth god. My leather jacket clung to me like a second skin. Yeah, I know—leather? In a desert? But image is everything, sweetheart. Even when you're dying of heatstroke, you don't compromise on aesthetic.

Then I heard it—
The sound of tires. Fast. Angry. Kicking up gravel and throwing it like shrapnel.

My body locked up. Fight or flight activated—but only after doing a quick coin toss with death.

My pulse jumped. Everything in me screamed run, but my feet decided to channel their inner dramatic teen protagonist and freeze instead. Cool. Real helpful. The engine snarled louder behind me, and I felt it: the cold sting of dread slicing through the heat like a knife dipped in ice water.

This is it. This is how I die. Not with a bang, but with sand in my teeth and heat rash in places I won't name.

"Baby girl, you're done."

The voice hit me like a sledgehammer dipped in bourbon. Deep. Confident. Chilling. The kind of voice that's either going to shoot you or ask you to slow dance before killing you anyway.

My stomach dropped like I'd just looked over the edge of a skyscraper. My heart thudded so hard I could feel it in my knees.

Then—
Click.

The unmistakable sound of a gun being loaded.

Right behind me.

My eyes snapped open like I'd just been jolted back into my body from another dimension—and maybe I had, considering the freakshow of a dream I just clawed my way out of. Air hit my lungs like a slap, and I sat up fast, chest heaving, head spinning. My room blurred around me for a second before settling into focus. Familiar walls. Familiar smell of cedar and dog fur. No desert. No gun. No death sentence.

"Fuck," I muttered, voice low and cracked. It came out like smoke—burnt at the edges.

I dragged my palms down my face, trying to wipe away whatever remnants of terror were still clinging to my skin. My legs swung off the bed, toes brushing the hardwood like I needed the cold to anchor me to reality. I sat there for a second—silent, processing, breathing. My room was a comfortable mess: rumpled sheets tangled like seaweed, my leather jacket draped over the corner chair, a half-finished sketch on my desk next to a dried-up coffee mug.

My phone buzzed lazily on the nightstand. I picked it up—6:15 AM. Because of course it was. Peak hour for existential dread.

I groaned and collapsed backward, arms flung out like I was summoning the ghost of motivation. The impact made my bed creak and jostled the warm lump beside me—Ice, my sleep-loving pit bull, who blinked awake with the slow confusion of someone who didn't remember getting arrested.

"Morning, bud," I croaked. He yawned, mouth stretched comically wide, then rewarded me with a sleepy lick on the cheek. I smiled despite myself and scratched behind his ears. "You're too good for me, you know that?"

He blinked once, which I chose to interpret as agreement.

"Alright, alright. I'm up. Let's go get breakfast before I have a full-blown identity crisis."