DEATHWISH

Chapter 8

26c -- 4:54 pm -- March 4th -- 2235 -- Location: New York City

Anya sat quietly on the couch, Tyson curled up against her, his warmth a comforting weight. The soft hum of the TV filled the room as it flickered to life, a spaghetti western show playing in the background. She barely paid attention to the screen, her fingers gently running against Tyson's skin, grateful to at least still have him.

Meanwhile, Eloise had spent the better part of the day begrudgingly cleaning Grayson's apartment. She may have despised him—constantly on edge, half-expecting him to try to kill them at any moment—but she couldn't stand another second in the filthy slum he called home. The state of the place was unbearable, and Eloise's obsessive need for order overpowered her disdain for Grayson.

She'd already tackled the living room, her determination evident in every scrub and wipe. Now, standing back and surveying her work, she let out a long breath of relief. The beaten and battered table at least clean from dirt it practically gleamed. But as she moved on to the kitchen and entrance area, the overwhelming mess returned. Piles of clothes were scattered haphazardly across the floor, and the heaps of garbage were even worse.

The front door, still boarded up from earlier, had a single dirty sheet taped to the centre, stained with something Eloise didn't even want to think about. She wrinkled her nose, ignoring the unpleasant details, and continued stuffing trash bags with the debris cluttering the space. The endless piles of garbage seemed to mock her efforts, but she pressed on, unable to stop until the place felt somewhat liveable.

In the background, Grayson had holed himself up in his room. Every now and again, strange sounds would emerge from behind his closed door—noises that made their skin crawl. Eloise tried not to think too much about what he was doing in there, her focus firmly on the task at hand. Anya, sitting with Tyson, had heard them too but chose to ignore it, letting herself get lost in the warmth of her cat and the soft flicker of the TV.

The day before, Grayson hadn't spoken a word. It was as if he was coming down from a high. The chaotic, energetic persona he had worn since they first met had faded, replaced by a deep, unsettling quiet. He seemed almost broken, as though the weight of everything that was happening—everything that was about to happen—had finally crashed down on him. It hit hard. Too hard.

Eloise had gotten close, more than once, to throwing open the door and running. But where would she go? What would she do? What would either of them do—Anya or herself? They had no identification, no plan, no money. It would be like jumping into the Amazon rainforest with no preparation, no supplies, and no way out. The outside world felt just as dangerous and unknown as the man holed up in the room behind that door.

So she distracted herself. Eloise cleaned, scrubbing away the filth of Grayson's apartment, using it as an excuse to avoid confronting their helplessness. Anya, on the other hand, had grown disturbingly quiet. For days, she had done nothing but sit on the couch, drowning herself in the garbage TV that flickered in front of her. It wasn't like her, not the vibrant, energetic Anya she knew. But now, she was just... vacant.

The silence between them was broken only by the sound of the TV or the faint rustling of Eloise's cleaning efforts. But then, an eerie metallic screech filled the air—the sound of metal sliding open, harsh and unsettling. Both women froze, eyes darting toward Grayson's room. The door, which had remained closed for what felt like hours, slowly creaked open. Grayson stepped out, his face hidden in shadow as he quickly shut the door behind him.

He didn't speak at first, just moved with purpose, throwing on the same worn brown jacket they had seen him wear constantly since meeting him. His movements were sharp, but there was a heaviness to them, as if he was forcing himself through the motions. Both women watched him in silence, their eyes tracking his every step as he moved toward the fridge, breaking the stillness with a sudden, low voice.