She texted, “He broke my ribcage” to the wrong number—and the reply came back: “I’m coming.”
Pain rolled through Lena in crushing waves, sharp and suffocating, each breath fractured, refusing to fully reach her lungs. She curled tighter on the freezing bathroom floor, her cheek pressed against the tiles as if the cold could dull what her body could not endure, but it didn’t. Nothing did. Not the silence, not the locked door, not even the low hum of the house that once felt safe but now felt like a prison with no exit.
Her hand trembled against her side, fingers pressing into bruised flesh that sent bursts of agony through her chest. She knew something was seriously wrong, something deeper than bruises—something cracked, fractured, broken beyond what makeup or lies could hide anymore.
Outside, his footsteps moved slowly, deliberately, each one measured like he had all the time in the world, like he knew she had nowhere to run. The worst part wasn’t the anger in his voice anymore. It was the calm. The quiet certainty that he would get what he wanted eventually.
“You done hiding?” he called, his tone almost bored, like this was routine, like she was just another lesson to teach.
Lena squeezed her eyes shut, forcing back the panic rising in her throat, because panic made breathing harder—and breathing was already unbearable.
Her phone was still in her hand, the screen cracked from earlier, but still working. That was enough. It had to be enough. She had one chance left, and she wasn’t wasting it. With shaking fingers, she unlocked it, vision blurred by tears and pain, and opened her messages. She scrolled too fast, too unfocused, until she saw the name she needed—the one person who might come, might help, might believe her.
Maya.
Her thumb hovered, doubt creeping in like always, that voice whispering she was overreacting, that it wasn’t that bad, that she could survive one more night.
But then she tried to breathe again—and pain tore through her chest so violently she gasped.
That was it. No more doubt.
She typed quickly, uneven words fueled by desperation.
He broke my rib cage, I think. I can’t breathe. Please come. Please.
Her grip slipped slightly as she hit send, her focus gone—and she didn’t notice the number wasn’t Maya’s. The unfamiliar digits meant nothing in that moment. All that mattered was getting help before the door gave way.
The message sent. The screen stayed open.
Almost instantly, three dots appeared.
Lena frowned weakly. Maya never replied that fast. Before she could process it, the reply came.
Address.
Just one word. No hesitation. No questions.
Lena blinked, confused, and looked again—really looked. It wasn’t Maya. Not anyone she knew. Just a random number. A cold fear settled in—she had told a stranger something she couldn’t take back.
She started typing again.
Sorry, wrong—
Another message came before she finished.
Who did this to you?
The bathroom suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier. Outside, the footsteps stopped. Silence stretched tight.
Lena stared at the screen, heart pounding unevenly, unsure what to do, unsure who this was, unsure if she’d made things worse.
Then the handle rattled violently. She flinched as pain shot through her ribs.
“Open the door,” his voice came, sharper now.
Her breathing turned shallow, frantic, eyes darting between door and phone.
The screen lit again.
Send me address. I’m on my way.
Her pulse stuttered. The message didn’t feel comforting—it felt certain. Like whoever this was had already decided what would happen.
She should’ve ignored it. Corrected the mistake. Stayed silent. But fear doesn’t make careful choices—it makes desperate ones. And Lena was beyond careful.
Another crash hit the door, louder, wood cracking. She gasped, clutching her side.
“I said open it!”
That broke her hesitation. With trembling fingers, she typed her address and hit send.
Delivered.
No undo. No taking it back.
Outside, the door shook under another blow. She pressed against the wall, breath fractured, phone clutched like her last anchor.
Seconds passed.
Then her phone buzzed again.
I’m close.
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