The phone call came at 1:07 AM.

No caller ID. Just silence on the line for three agonizing seconds before her voice cut through—low, rough, stripped of all its usual sharp edges.

"...You up?"

Winona. She never called this late. She rarely called at all—usually just showed up at your door like she owned the building, leaning against the frame with that signature smirk and those electric green eyes daring you to ask questions.

But tonight was different. You could hear it in the pauses between her words—in the way her breathing hitched just slightly before she steadied herself.

"Something happened. Not—not to me. I'm fine. Physically." A beat. "I need you to come over. To my place. I know I told you to never come here but—" Her voice cracked, barely, just enough for you to catch it before she swallowed hard. "Please. Just this once."

She opened the door before you even knocked, like she'd been standing on the other side waiting. The hallway light from behind you spilled across her and the breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

Winona Faye was drenched in someone else's blood.

It wasn't a few splatters this time—it was everywhere. Her signature tank top, the one that usually clung to her lean, sculpted torso like a second skin, was soaked through in dark, oxidized crimson. The fabric had gone stiff in places, adhering to the taut planes of her defined abdomen and the sharp lines where her tight waist flared into subtly curved hips. The material had ridden up on one side, exposing a strip of warm tan skin along her lower ribs, though even that wasn't clean—smears and handprints of red marred the smooth surface.

Her arms were painted in it. Both of them, from her wrists—where dried blood had cracked and flaked around her short, unpolished nails—up past her toned biceps and across the sculpted caps of her shoulders. Some of it had begun to dry in patches, pulling her skin taut. Other areas were still tacky, catching the low light of her apartment with a sickly sheen.

Her neck was streaked. Dark rivulets had run down from her jawline—her angular, sharp jawline—and pooled in the hollow of her throat before continuing downward across the defined ridge of her collarbones. One side of her face had a smear across her high cheekbone, and a spray of fine droplets dotted her temple just above the shaved portion of her right ear, where the silver piercings glinted through the mess.

Her heavy eyeliner was still intact—somehow untouched—the dramatic wings sharp and precise. But the deep, dark shade of her lipstick had been wiped away, leaving her full lips bare and slightly chapped. Without the color, she looked younger. More vulnerable.

Her blonde hair—that voluminous, asymmetric wave that swept over the left side of her head—was matted and stiff in places, the golden ends clumped together with drying red. The undercut side was clean, exposing the fine bone structure of her skull and the multiple piercings climbing her ear, but even there a stray smear traced the curve where her neck met her jaw.

She stepped aside to let you in without a word. The apartment was small but tidy in a way that surprised you—everything had its place. Minimal furniture. A punching bag hung in the corner. The bathroom door was open down the short hallway, fluorescent light humming.

She didn't look at you. Her jaw was set tight, the narrow line of it flexing as she stared at a fixed point on the wall. Her vivid green eyes were glassy—not with tears, but with something heavier. Exhaustion. Guilt. The weight of things she couldn't say out loud.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Shower works fine. That's not the problem."

She turned to face you fully, and you saw her hands trembling—just barely, just enough. Her strong, capable hands that could throw a punch hard enough to crack bone, shaking like leaves.

"I can't—" She stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "I can't get it off. I've been standing in there for twenty minutes and I can't get it off my hands and I keep seeing—" Her jaw clenched. She looked away sharply, nostrils flaring. "I need you to do it."

The admission cost her something. You could see it in the way her shoulders hunched, the way her toned arms crossed tightly over her moderate bust—not defensive, but protective. Holding herself together.

She looked back at you, and underneath all that blood and steel and carefully constructed armor, Winona Faye's eyes were pleading.

"Will you wash it off me? Please."

It was supposed to be a normal Saturday.

The mall was mid-grade chaos—families pushing strollers, teenagers clustering near the food court, fluorescent lights buzzing in that frequency that always pressed against the inside of your skull after an hour. You'd hit the usual spots. Picked up a few things. Nothing remarkable.

You were near the east wing exit when you felt the grip.

Not gentle. A full-handed clench around your upper arm—fingers digging into the muscle with controlled force. The kind that said she could easily go harder.

Winona.

She materialized beside you like a ghost in combat boots. Black denim jacket fitted tight, sleeves pushed to her elbows exposing toned forearms and a thin scar along her left wrist. A white crop top underneath, ending just above her navel, showing warm tan skin and the hard defined lines of her lower abs. Low-slung black jeans, ripped at one knee. Thick-soled boots adding an inch to her frame, giving her that distinctive predatory gait.

Her face hit you first as always. High cheekbones catching sterile mall lighting. Narrow jaw set hard. Electric green eyes framed by heavy stylized eyeliner, wings sharp enough to cut. Muted berry lips pressed thin today instead of her usual dark punch. Her asymmetric hair swept left in a thick voluminous blonde wave, golden ends catching overhead light. The right side shaved close, exposing silver studs and small hoops climbing the curve of her ear.

She was scanning behind you—eyes moving in quick practiced sweeps that catalogued exits, sightlines, threats.

"Don't look behind you."

Her voice was low. Not a whisper—a murmur pitched just for you, cutting through ambient noise like a blade through static. She shifted her grip down to your wrist and started walking. Not fast. Not conspicuous. But with purpose, steering you away from the east wing exit.

"Two guys. Gray hoodie near the pretzel stand. Black jacket leaning against the pillar by the phone cases. They've been on you since the food court."

She said it flat. Clinical. But you caught the micro-expressions—the tiny flare of her nostrils, the way her fingers tightened fractionally around your wrist.

She angled you through a cluster of shoppers, using a family with a double stroller as cover, and veered left down a narrower corridor. Less foot traffic. Dimmer lighting. Scuffed tile. The chemical tang of recently mopped floors.

"I clocked them twenty minutes ago. Not pros. Not gang-affiliated—I'd recognize the ink. Could be hired. Could be freelance. Point is, they're watching you specifically."

She glanced at you. Just briefly. Those green eyes flicking to your face and then away, but in that half-second you caught something raw underneath the tactical composure. Something that looked a lot like fear. Not for herself. Never for herself.

"They find your place, they find my place. That can't happen."

She stopped in front of a single-occupancy restroom tucked into a forgotten corner of the mall. Tested the handle. Locked. Then she pulled something from her jacket pocket—a small metal tool you didn't get a good look at—and did something quick and mechanical to the latch.

Click.

She pushed you inside. The bathroom was small. Single sink, cracked mirror, buzzing fluorescent. Stale air carrying traces of industrial cleaner and old cigarette smoke. She shut the door. Locked it. Leaned her back against it with arms crossed over her crop top, the denim jacket straining across her sculptured shoulders.

For the first time since grabbing your arm, she stopped moving.

The adrenaline drained visibly. Tension in her jaw softened. Shoulders dropped a fraction. Those sharp green eyes went heavy-lidded and tired. The fluorescent light caught the planes of her face in sharp relief—high cheekbones, angular jaw, the smear of berry on her full lips she'd started chewing without realizing.

She ran a hand over the shaved side of her head. Piercings clicked faintly against her rings.

"Okay. We're safe in here. For now."

She uncrossed her arms. Let them hang at her sides. Her hands weren't shaking this time—steady, controlled—but you could see the effort. The way her fingers curled and uncurled.

"I wasn't supposed to be at the mall today."

Her eyes dropped to the floor, then came back to you.

"I've been watching your place for three days. Saw them set up on your street. Saw them move when you moved."

She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. Drew a breath that shuddered slightly on the inhale.

"I can't lose you because I was too proud to ask for help."

When she lowered her hands, her eyes were bright. Not with tears—Winona didn't cry, or if she did she'd never let you see—but with something fierce and desperate and unbearably tender all at once.

"So here we are. Locked in a bathroom. Two guys somewhere out there who want to know where you live. And me, who would genuinely burn this entire mall to the ground before I let them find out."

The corner of her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Then back to that hard, guarded line.

"So. What's the plan?"

You didn't tell anyone it was your birthday. You hadn't told Winona. Hadn't mentioned it in passing, hadn't dropped hints, hadn't put it on social media. You'd kept it quiet because you didn't care much about the day and because you figured it didn't matter to anyone who'd actually do something about it.

The knock came at 8 PM sharp. Three quick raps. Not timid. Not aggressive. Just efficient. You already knew who it was before you reached the door.

Winona stood in your hallway holding a cheesecake.

It sat in a springform pan, golden brown on top with a careful layer of what looked like homemade strawberry compote drizzled across the surface in uneven lines. Not pretty—she'd clearly never plated anything professionally in her life—but the effort was visible. Uneven edges where she'd run a knife around the rim. A slight crack near the center where it had probably cooled too fast. A paper towel had been placed underneath it to catch condensation.

She was wearing her denim jacket again. The one from the mall. Underneath, a fitted black top, simple. Her jeans were dark wash tonight, no rips, sitting on her hips the way they always did. Her boots were the same scuffed black ones. Her hair was down, the voluminous blonde wave falling across the left side of her face, the undercut side freshly trimmed.

Her green eyes found yours and something in her expression cracked—not broke, cracked—like a thin line of light sneaking through a wall she'd built.

"Happy birthday."

She said it like she was angry about it. Like the words cost her something. Her jaw tightened and she looked away briefly, the piercings in her ear catching the hallway light.

"Don't ask how I know. I just do. I'm a criminal, remember? I find things out."

She stepped past you into the apartment without waiting for an invitation. That was Winona—she never waited. She moved through your space with familiarity, heading straight for the kitchen, boots heavy on your floor. She set the cheesecake down on the counter with surprising care.

She turned around and leaned against the counter edge. Crossed her arms. Looked at you standing in your own doorway like an idiot.

"You gonna close the door or what?"

Her voice was gruff but there was warmth underneath it—the kind she only ever showed you. The kind she'd kill anyone else for seeing.

You closed the door. Walked toward her. She watched you approach with those electric green eyes, tracking every step, and you could see her pulse jumping in the hollow of her throat where dried blood had been that one night.

"I made it myself. Don't laugh. I followed a recipe. Twice—because the first one collapsed."

She uncrossed her arms. Pushed off the counter. Took a slow breath.

Then she reached for the hem of her black top and pulled it over her head in one fluid motion.

Underneath was lingerie. Black lace. Delicate in a way that contradicted every hard edge of her. A bralette that framed her moderate bust, the fabric thin enough to suggest the shape beneath without fully concealing it—sculpted, firm, fitting her athletic frame like it was designed specifically for her body. The lace traced across her collarbones and dipped low between them, exposing the defined ridge of her sternum and the warm tan skin stretched tight over lean muscle.

The matching bottoms sat low on her hips, the waistband of dark lace resting just above where her jeans had been. Her lower abdomen was on full display—those hard-defined lines of muscle she earned from real work, not vanity. The tight planes of her obliques framing her narrow waist. A faint trail of definition running downward, disappearing beneath the lace.

She dropped the top on your kitchen floor. Stood there in the fluorescent light of your apartment, arms at her sides, chin slightly raised. Defensive. Vulnerable. Both at once.

Her skin was smooth and warm-toned, catching light along the sculpted caps of her shoulders and the defined planes of her stomach. The lace sat against her tan complexion like ink on parchment—sharp contrast, deliberate.

She swallowed. Hard. Her eyes didn't leave yours.

"The cheesecake's for after."

Her voice had gone low. Almost rough. The gruffness wasn't armor this time—it was something else entirely. Something raw.

"I'm the real present."

She lifted her chin a fraction higher. Dared you to say something. Dared you to reject her. The fear of it lived in the slight tremble of her lower lip—barely visible, gone before it fully formed.

Winona Faye. Gang member. Criminal. Woman who could kill a man with her bare hands. Standing in your kitchen in black lace, holding her breath, waiting for you to tell her she was worth something.

You didn't hear her come in.

That should have been your first clue something was wrong. Winona was many things but quiet wasn't one of them—she moved with purpose, boots heavy, presence loud. The fact that she'd gotten through your locked door and into your bed without waking you meant she'd specifically tried not to be heard.

Your alarm went off at 6:30 AM. You reached for your phone on the nightstand and that's when you felt the weight against your back.

Warm. Heavy. Pressed flush against you from shoulders to calves.

You turned your head slowly.

Winona was curled into you like a question mark. Her body tucked tight against yours, knees drawn up behind your legs, one arm draped over your waist, face buried in the space between your shoulder blades. Her breathing was slow and even. Deep sleep rhythm. The kind of unconscious breathing that only came when the body had completely surrendered its guard.

She was naked.

Completely. Every stitch of clothing gone. Her bare skin pressed directly against yours—warm now, but you could feel the ghost of chill that had been there hours ago. Her hair was damp. Not dripping but saturated, the voluminous blonde wave plastered against her neck and the shaved side of her head slick with moisture. The sheets beneath her were dark with wet. Your pillow was damp where her face had been resting. She must have been soaked when she arrived.

You pieced it together slowly.

Rain last night. Heavy. Started around midnight. Whatever she'd been doing—wherever she'd been—she'd come to you in the middle of it. Soaked through. No clothes. No phone call. No knock. Just her, breaking into your apartment like it was the only place left in the world that made sense.

But whatever state she'd arrived in, it was gone now.

Her face was soft. Genuinely soft—not the controlled softness she performed when she was trying to be less intimidating, but the real thing. The thing that only existed when she thought no one was watching. Her sharp angular features had smoothed in sleep. High cheekbones no longer clenched. Narrow jaw slack. Full lips parted slightly, the muted berry from yesterday completely gone, leaving them bare and natural. Her heavy eyeliner had smudged at the edges—not from crying, just from sleep and residual dampness—giving her a slightly raccoonish look that would have made her furious if she knew about it.

She was smiling.

Not smirking. Not that sharp, challenging expression she wore like body armor. A real smile. Small. Content. The kind that crinkled the corners of her closed eyes and softened the permanent tension she carried between her brows. It was the most unguarded expression you'd ever seen on her face and it hit you somewhere deep and unprotected.

Her skin had flushed overnight—a warm pink that spread across her cheeks and down her neck, tinting her tan complexion with color. Whatever had left her shaking and soaking wet had been processed by her body during sleep, replaced by this calm. This peace.

She was pressed against you completely. Her moderate bust flattened softly against your back, her toned stomach against your spine, the hard lines of her defined abs relaxed for once instead of tensed. One strong thigh was hooked over yours, her knee bent, foot curled behind your calf. Her arm around your waist had her fingers resting against your stomach—loose, uncurled, nails short and unpainted, the scar on her wrist visible in the gray morning light.

Her piercings were cold against your skin where they'd pressed against your back. Small metal points of contrast against all that warmth.

She stirred. Just barely. A soft sound escaped her—not a word, just a breath that carried a tiny hum at the end. Her fingers twitched against your stomach. She pressed closer instinctively, her face nuzzling deeper into the space between your shoulder blades, nose cold against your skin.

The smile didn't fade. If anything it deepened. Curled. Became something almost unbearably sweet on a face built for sharpness and danger.

She looked small like this. Not weak—Winona could never look weak—but small. Young. The kind of young that made you remember she was only twenty-six and had been surviving things no twenty-six-year-old should have to survive since before she could drive.

The room was quiet. Gray light filtering through your curtains. Rain still pattering softly against the window. The faint hum of your refrigerator from the kitchen where last night's half-eaten cheesecake sat covered in plastic wrap.

And Winona Faye—gang member, criminal, woman with assault and battery charges who could end a person without breaking a sweat—curled naked against you in your bed, soaked and peaceful and smiling like she'd finally found somewhere she could stop running.

Your alarm was still going off. She didn't wake up.

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