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ʟᴜɴᴀᴘᴏᴠ __________________
"I KILL PEOPLE FOR MONEY!"
His words still echo through me, even now. I shot up from sleep, my body slick with sweat, my mouth dry, my heart racing like it was trying to escape.
It's been four months—four long, restless months—and I still can't get him out of my head. That night plays on repeat behind my eyes, no matter how much I try to forget. I tell myself to move on, to stop thinking about him, but I can't.
Because how can I, when his son is growing inside me?
My hands drift to my stomach, tracing the gentle curve that holds everything I'm terrified of and everything I love all at once. The doctors say my pregnancy is high-risk—stress, they warn—but how do I find peace when my dreams keep dragging me back to that moment?
And then there's the job. Gone. The company said due to the security breach and no one could be trusted, so they let us all go. I guess it was easier that way—clean, simple, like wiping a slate. I couldn't even blame them. It was because of me and my wretched delusions anyways.
Maybe it was a sign though. A cruel one, but a sign nonetheless. Fates way of telling me to let go and start anew.
So I packed what little I had, drained my savings, and applied for a visa. Now I live in a small town on the outskirts of Cádiz, Spain. I opened up a little cafe/shop near the beach. The air here smells of salt and lemons the locals are wonderful, and the streets are quiet. I don't make much but it'll be enough for me and the little one for the time being.
On the good days I almost believe I can start over. Almost.
I reached over to grab my water when I noticed a dark figure in the corner. Dread quickly washed over me and my heart rate picked up as my mind instantly made out the silhouette. The glasses fell from my hands, shattering onto the floor as I clumsily turned on the light.
There he sat poise, his looks at once fragile and composed, as though he might belong to another century, yet his presence felt like dread. His eyes — alert, searching, endlessly expressive.
"My name is Charles. I grew up in South Wales, in an orphanage, after my parents were shot and killed. When I turned nineteen, I ran away and joined the military. They sent me to Afghanistan, where I spent three long years before deciding I'd had enough. So, I faked my death and started over."
He paused, his eyes distant — haunted.
"I was hired by Mr. Franchetti's son to execute his father. Seventy million dollars for the job. Half paid upfront, the rest once it was done. I did what I was paid to do. But when it came time to collect, Johnny boy decided he didn't owe me a damn thing."
