Chapter 3: A Vow.
Her phone beeped seconds after the call ended. The reality finally sank in.
This was real.
All of it.
"Okay... okay... where do I begin now?" Frances whispered to herself, her voice empty.
She inhaled deeply and forced her thoughts to slow down.
"Just find somewhere to sleep tonight," she muttered. "Tomorrow... I'll think."
Dragging her small suitcase behind her, she walked into the outskirts of the city—far from the noise, the lights, and the betrayal. Her toe had been bleeding for hours, a small cut from the long, thorny path that had scraped her feet. She didn't even feel it anymore.
The road led to a bushy, silent area—forgotten by time. There, among overgrown weeds and whispering trees, stood an abandoned, uncompleted building.
It was empty. Cracked. Lonely.
Just like her.
She stepped inside without hesitation, more concerned about shelter than safety. One of the rooms still had its windows fixed. It would have to do.
She laid a cloth on the floor and sat down slowly, dropping her bags beside her. Her body ached. Her mind was numb. And as night crept in, memories of her parents filled her heart—warm, fleeting, lost.
Tears tried to come, but her eyes were dry.
Sleep took her in a gentle wave.
---
In the shadows, voices echoed.
"Don't be stupid. You think you can get past him? He's the king of this jungle!" a tall man snapped.
"I don't care," said a shorter one. "The boss wants us to track him down. What are we waiting for?"
"You fools," the leader barked, "no one plays games with Stafford Raymon and walks away. Even without our boss here, I lead this crew. You want to stay alive? You listen to me."
"Alright, alright. But what if we get caught before we even retreat?" the short one grumbled.
As they argued, the tall one—Slaughter—had already wandered off, looking for a safe place to hide.
Inside the abandoned building.
The same one Frances was sleeping in.
He crept through the space, room to room, alert. Then he stopped.
"Guys!" he called. "There's someone here."
Kay, the leader, stiffened. "What are you talking about?"
"I found a woman—young. Sleeping."
Kay rolled his eyes. "We're not here for that. Forget her."
But Firearm, the short man, frowned thoughtfully.
"Wait," he said. "Think about it. Stafford Raymon doesn't touch women. Doesn't kill them. He's got a code. Everyone knows that."
"What's your point?" Kay asked.
"What if we use her? As bait."
There was silence.
Then laughter.
Kay gave a slow nod. "Not bad, Firearm. Maybe you do have some brains after all."
---
They all walked in.
Frances stirred slightly at the sound of boots.
"Wake her up," Kay ordered.
Firearm grinned, tapping her leg with the blunt side of his cutlass. "Hey there, pretty lady. Welcome to our world."
Frances jolted awake. Confused. Disoriented. Terrified.
She scurried backward, her eyes wide with panic.
"Please... please don't kill me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please... I don't even know you..."
"Shhh," Slaughter hissed. "You better stay quiet."
Kay stepped forward. "If you cooperate, you'll leave here unharmed. If not... well, you won't leave at all."
Her breath hitched. This wasn't real. Couldn't be. Were these armed men? Criminals? Robbers?
It was only 6 PM. She had always thought danger waited until the dead of night. She was wrong.
They tied her hands. Left her in the corner. She didn't resist.
Tears fell—silent and constant. Her head throbbed. Her heart ached.
Marcus and Charlotte.
Were they not done? Was betrayal not enough? Did they want her dead too?
But no... these men didn't know her. They weren't sent by Marcus. They had their own mission.
Yet the pain inside her didn't care for logic.
It all blended together—like a storm.
Regret washed over her again. Shame. Sorrow. Confusion.
---
Later, impatience brewed.
Slaughter paced. "Leader, what are we doing? Let's get rid of her. She's seen our faces. She could cause problems later."
"Why would Stafford even care about her?" another muttered.
Kay snapped, "No one moves unless I say so. Watch her. She doesn't leave. Got it?"
"Yeah. Fine," Slaughter grumbled.
Frances sat still—her back against the cold wall, her hands bound, but her mind awakening.
Something changed in that silence.
Something sparked.
Something rose.
A vow.
"If I get out of here alive…" she whispered under her breath, "I swear… I'll make every single one of you regret the day you crossed me."
Her voice was low, but full of fire.
"To Marcus. To Charlotte. To every person who smiled in my face and stabbed me in the back…"
She clenched her fists. Her jaw tightened.
"I will come back for you all. In tenfold. No… in a million."
Her voice grew stronger, steadier.
"I'll rewrite my story. I'll be the one holding the pen. No one—no one—will ever trap me again."
She closed her eyes.
This wasn't weakness anymore.
This was the beginning of her becoming.
Of her rising.
Of her revenge.