Heaven's Crime (gxg) ✓

four. yeah, the hooligans with the guns

                      Let me introduce myself.

                      My name is Kaya Lee Rivers. I'm a computer science major at the California Institute. I'm from Dallas, Texas, and I spend most of my time at my waitressing job. A place called Pride & Pasta, for gay drag queens.

                      It definitely tips well. But everything I earn, I send back home. Not to my parents―but to Cassie, my little sister.

                      I know I left her behind. But it was the only way to make it out alive.

                      "Are you fucking crazy?" I say to Veah. Because in this moment, I'm sure I'm going to die. No, I'm pretty damn positive that the moment we expose ourselves, we'll be riddled with more bullet holes than a honeycomb.

                      It doesn't even faze her.

                      Somehow, the bullets have stopped―as though she knew it would happen, she drags me towards the stairs.

                      I don't know why I'm trusting her to protect me, but I do. 

                      It goes against everything I know, everything I think―but all of my instincts urge me towards her. To follow her.

                      The front door flies open, and the footfall of the men entering sends dizziness shooting through my spine.

                       Veah doesn't say anything when she notices me hesitate; she just gives me a searing look. And I know―if I can't do this, she'll carry me. She'll do what she has to. 

                       I shouldn't trust her. I shouldn't follow her.

                       But what other choice do I have? I can't go anywhere without her, and she can't go anywhere without me. I have to put my faith in her, or risk getting shot by the people downstairs.

                      Who are they? What do they want?

                      There is no time to think about it. Veah pulls me into my room and closes the door. I am breathing hard, but she hasn't even broken a sweat.

                      Who is this girl?  

                      It comes back to me. Her costume.

                      Last night, she opened the door. Breathless. And the sound of fireworks outside . . . wasn't fireworks. Gunshots.

                       People chasing her. Even then.

                       Her jacket. The tattoos on her arms, on the back of her neck. Her missing pinkie finger. Her swords.

                        I had said, Let me guess―Yakuza, right? 

                        The Yakuza. The Japanese Mafia.

                        I stumble back from Veah . . . as far away as I can go, at least. Everything in me screams, Run! But I can't: we're handcuffed together. 

                        "Back at the accident . . ." I start.

                        Those people on the street who I thought were watching us. And later, the truck driver―could that have been a coincidence?