His Salvation

"Is this really it?"

"Lyla, quit your daydreaming and move aside!"

I don't quit the daydreaming. I don't know how to. Every day is hazy. Every second is a struggle. But my body moves on its own. I step out of Luke's way. He passes by, giving me a hard stare. I stare back, unfazed. Paying him no attention, I move toward the basement.

My hands work mechanically as I reach the armory, opening doors and cabinets. I pick up the guns one by one, disassembling them and cleaning each piece as I've done countless times before. I don't remember how many times. I never kept count. How could I, when I can't even recall doing this? My mind isn't here to remember. It's still upstairs, staring at the white wall in the hallway, thinking about how red it would turn if my head were bashed against it, again and again. It's a violent thought, I know. I also know I shouldn't be thinking like this. When I do my mind wanders away too much.

The door creaks open, and I hear footsteps. As much as I try to keep thinking about the wall, I can't ignore the sound. Anxiety creeps up like the most evil of demons, sending a shiver down my spine. I recognize those footsteps. They never bring good news.

Xavier walks up behind me and stops, standing silently. I hear him breathing. He leans in, lowering his head until it's beside my ear. I can feel his breath, but my hands keep moving.

"Those precious hands," he whispers. "I will never stop marveling at how beautiful they are."

He waits, expecting me to say something—maybe thank him. But no words come out.

"Turn around," he says.

I don't hesitate this time, turning immediately to face him. I look straight ahead, avoiding his eyes at all costs. He’s more intrigued by my eyes than my hands. If he sees the fear I'm trying desperately to hide, we won’t leave this room for a long time.

"What are you up to?" he asks, smiling in a way that makes me want to puke. He knows exactly what I'm doing.

"Cleaning the guns before everyone gets here," I reply.

"Well done," he mutters mockingly. "When I first let you near this room, I was sure I'd regret it. But you’ve proved to be quite useful since then."

What I wouldn't give to never hear him speak again.

"Unfortunately, I have to steal you for a while. We're going to the Silver Room. Get cleaned up; we leave in an hour."

I do as I'm told, putting the guns back in place and making my exit.

"Oh, and Lyla..."

Please, no. Don’t say what I think you’re about to say.

"Dress for the occasion."

I let out a sigh of relief and head out as fast as I can. This just means I have to wear a dress—nothing drastic, nothing compared to the things Xavier could make me do.

The Silver Room is one of the most prestigious clubs I've ever seen. Whenever Xavier goes there, it's to impress someone important—usually to close a deal. Not that he needs to impress anyone; most of his work gets done with the barrel of a gun pointed at the other person. But when the rare occasion to visit the Silver Room arises, it means the person on the other end is as powerful as Xavier himself.

Not that it makes a difference to me. My only purpose there is to be... I don't even know. Something to show off, a possession maybe.

I pull a magenta dress from my closet. It's full-sleeved and not too tight. I don't wearing revealing clothes around here .As I pull the dress over my head, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The reflection looks back at me with hollow eyes. I barely recognize the girl staring back. She looks lifeless, more like a ghost than a person. I almost want to reach into the mirror and shake her, tell her to wake the hell up. I just turn around instead and avoid the mirror.

The night outside is quiet. I like the quiet. It’s comforting. But that comfort vanishes the moment we step inside the club. This place embodies everything I loathe—ignorance, false pride, and sin. It reeks of sin. I don't have a shred of respect for a single person here.

Xavier scans the room and spots the man we're here to meet. I notice him before Xavier does. His aura is impossible to miss. He looks like he owns the place, though I know he doesn't. That is because Xavier does. Still, he sits there as if he commands everyone, dominant yet relaxed, as if he's watching his favorite 90s film in his living room.

As we approach the table, me walking a step behind Xavier, the man doesn’t change his posture. It unsettles me how relaxed he is. If he isn’t fazed by the company he’s in, I doubt there’s anything in the world that could scare him.

I sit at the far end of the table, trying to make myself as invisible as possible. Thankfully, Xavier’s attention stays on the man in front of him. They skip the pleasantries and dive straight into business.

I let my mind drift away. I’ve sat through enough of these meetings to know that listening won’t do me any good. I let my mind wander again, drifting away from the tension at the table. In moments like this, I wish I could leave my body entirely—just slip away, vanish like smoke. I imagine what it would be like to dissolve into the air, to never feel fear or pain again. Would it be peaceful? Or would the nothingness be worse?

A laugh breaks out from a nearby table—sharp, obnoxious, cutting through the low hum of the club. For a second, I flinch, instinctively bracing for something worse to follow. I hate that. I hate how every unexpected sound feels like a threat. But that’s what living with Xavier does to you it teaches you to anticipate and fear things before they happen. The meeting drags on, though I barely register the words. I keep my gaze low, tracing the patterns on the tablecloth with my finger, anything to keep myself grounded. Time stretches, slow and heavy, each minute pressing down on me like a weight I can’t shake off.

And yet, somehow, I know deep down that tonight isn’t just another night. The air feels different, charged with something I can’t name. I think about the wall again, forgetting all about the dark, brooding man across the table. Unaware that our futures will soon be tied together

If I had a penny for every time I wanted to reach across the table and beat the life out of someone, I’d be the richest man in town. I’ve sat through my fair share of these fake meetings. They don’t usually bother me. I’ve played so many roles that pretending to be a crime lord dealing in weapons is a breeze, especially after working on this project for months.

But this particular man... Something about him makes my skin crawl. He stands a little over six feet tall, about the same as me. Buzz cut hair, a jagged scar on the eyebrow and a joyless smile on his face. I know enough about this man to want him rotting in a hole or buried in some unmarked grave. I remind myself that that moment is fast approaching. My work here is almost finished, and I couldn’t care less about the nonsense he’s spouting to impress me.

He drones on, bragging about his wealth like I give a d*mn. I raise my hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Listen, I don’t care how big your mansion is or