FRACTURE

New York, 12:41 a.m. – Hope’s Apartment, Upper East Side

Hope unlocked the door with a nervous flick of her wrist, shut it behind her and leaned against the wood for a few seconds, eyes closed.

Silence.

She should have felt relieved to leave the hospital. To leave behind the blood, the tension, the adrenaline… and him.

But it was the opposite.

She felt hollow. Off-balance. As if something had slipped out from under her feet without warning.

She kicked off her shoes, crossed her darkened apartment and switched on a single, dim lamp. Then she headed for the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she undid her braid.

Ridiculous.

She’d watched men die. Children scream. She’d held entire lives in her hands with surgical precision. And now she was shaken by… a look? A voice?

She hated herself for it. Truly.

But she couldn’t shake his image. His icy composure. That overwhelming presence. What she’d felt.

She stepped under the shower, hoping the scalding water would burn away that strange tremor inside her. But it didn’t.

And when she came out, towel wrapped around her body, wet hair clinging to her temples, she suddenly felt very alone.

She stopped in front of the fogged-up mirror and stared at herself. For a long time.

There was something in her reflection she didn’t like tonight.

A crack. A question. A vertigo.

She gripped the sink. Closed her eyes.

And whispered:

— What the hell are you doing to me…

She’d never been that kind of woman. The kind who falters for a stranger.

She had always been in control. Always.

But that night… she wished she wasn’t alone. She wished he hadn’t seen her. Hadn’t brushed against her, challenged her, awakened her.

She slipped on a tank top and shorts, curled up on a corner of the couch under an old throw, knees pulled tight to her chest.

And she stayed there, staring out the window.

Hoping she could stop thinking about him.

Expecting to see him again.

And dreading what she would do… if he came back.