The Worst Accident

4

The apartment is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl. I’m halfway through my second drink, trying to drown out the noise in my head, when I hear it—a scream. A woman’s scream, sharp and desperate, slicing through the silence like a knife.

I freeze, glass halfway to my lips, ears straining to catch it again. For a moment, I think I imagined it, that it’s just my mind playing tricks on me after the day I’ve had. But then it comes again, louder this time, closer. There’s no mistaking it—someone’s in trouble.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m on my feet, moving toward the door. A surge of something—adrenaline, maybe, or instinct—pushes me forward, propelling me down the stairs two at a time. My mind races, but my body is calm, controlled, like it knows exactly what to do.

The scream echoes again as I reach the lobby, and I bolt outside, the cool night air slapping me in the face. I scan the street, searching for the source of the sound, and then I see them—three men, huddled in the shadows of a nearby alley, surrounding a girl.

She’s backed up against the wall, trapped, her eyes wide with fear. The men are laughing, talking in low, predatory voices. One of them reaches out, grabbing her arm, and she screams again, her voice raw with panic.

For a split second, I hesitate. It’s none of my business, I tell myself. I should turn around, go back inside, pretend I didn’t see anything. This city is full of bad men doing bad things, and it’s not my job to play hero.

But then something else takes over, something I haven’t felt in a long time—anger. Pure, righteous anger. These bastards think they can do whatever they want, that no one will stop them. That no one will care.

Well, I care. And tonight, I’m going to make sure they know it.

I stride toward them, my footsteps loud on the pavement. The men don’t notice me at first, too focused on their prey, but the girl does. She looks up, her eyes locking with mine, pleading, desperate.

“Hey!” I bark, my voice cutting through the night like a whip.

The men spin around, startled. For a moment, they just stare at me, and I can see the calculations running through their heads. One guy, alone, against three of them. Easy pickings.

But they don’t know me. They don’t know what I’m capable of.

The one closest to me steps forward, a sneer curling his lips. “Mind your own business, pal,” he says, his voice dripping with menace.

“Let her go,” I reply, my tone flat, deadly. I can feel the tension coiling in my muscles, ready to explode.

The other two men exchange glances, then laugh. “Or what?” the first one taunts, taking another step closer.

I don’t bother with a warning. I’ve learned that in situations like this, words are useless. Actions speak louder. So I take action.

The first punch lands square on the leader’s jaw, and the satisfying crack of bone against bone reverberates through my knuckles. He staggers back, surprise and pain flashing across his face, but I don’t give him time to recover.

I’m on him in an instant, driving my fist into his gut, doubling him over. The other two rush me, but I’m ready. I spin around, elbowing the closest one in the ribs, feeling the breath whoosh out of him.

The third guy tries to grab me from behind, but I twist out of his grip, slamming my fist into his face. Blood spurts from his nose, and he stumbles back, cursing.

The girl is still against the wall, frozen in place, her eyes wide as she watches the chaos unfold. I catch a glimpse of her, and something inside me snaps. I’m not just fighting for myself anymore—I’m fighting for her.