Chapter 1 - The Shadow in the Stitches
The hospital room felt like a sterile cage,
shrouded in the scent of bleach and old
anxiety,
while the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor pulsed in my ears.
Every time I closed my eyes,
I felt the weight of the Willamette River pressing against my lungs,
and the freezing water rising to claim my life.
My hands,
wrapped in thick white gauze,
throbbed with a dull ache that reminded me of the shattered glass.
I looked at the chair in the corner,
where the damp black coat still hung like a ghost,
waiting for a master who would never return to claim it.
The gold stitches of the initials C.R. caught the dim light,
glinting with a secret I wasn't sure I was ready to uncover.
I reached out,
my fingers trembling as I touched the expensive fabric,
noting the way the wool felt heavy and cold against my skin.
Who was he,
and why did a man described as the most dangerous soul in Portland risk everything for a photographer?
The detectives had left me with more questions than answers,
their faces grim when they mentioned the professional cut in my brake lines.
I wasn't just a victim of an accident,
I was a target of a calculated execution.
I reached into the inner pocket of the coat,
searching for anything that might explain the man behind the rescue.
My fingers brushed against something hard and metallic,
tucked deep within a hidden seam near the hem.
I pulled it out,
finding a small,
black USB drive and a folded slip of paper.
The paper was thick and cream-colored,
bearing a single address written in a sharp,
commanding hand.
"The Foundry,
Midnight,"
it read,
with no signature and no explanation.
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the hospital’s air conditioning,
realizing that my life had shifted on its axis.
I was no longer just Elara Collins,
the girl who took pictures of happy couples,
I was a woman caught in a crossfire I didn't understand.
I tucked the drive into my own bag,
ignoring the protest of my bruised ribs as I stood up.
The nurse hadn't seen me move,
nor had the police officer stationed at the end of the hallway.
I needed to know why I had been marked for death,
and the only man who knew was the one who had pulled me from the dark.
I dressed slowly,
wincing as the fabric of my shirt rubbed against my stitched skin.
The coat went with me,
draped over my arm like a shield.
I walked out of the hospital through the service entrance,
the cool night air hitting my face like a slap of reality.
Portland looked different tonight,
the city lights reflecting off the wet pavement like spilled ink.
Every shadow seemed to move,
every passing car felt like a predator closing in on its prey.
I hailed a taxi,
my voice cracking as I gave the driver the address on the note.
"You sure about that,
miss?"
the driver asked,
looking at me through the rearview mirror with a look of pity.
"That’s a rough part of the docks,"
he added,
waiting for me to change my mind.
"I'm sure,"
I replied,
clutching the black coat tighter against my chest.
The drive was silent,
the wipers clicking back and forth in a steady rhythm that matched my racing heart.
We passed the neon signs of downtown,
heading toward the industrial skeletal remains of the riverfront.
The Foundry was a massive,
rusting warehouse that loomed over the water,
its windows dark and broken like empty eye sockets.
I paid the driver and stepped out,
the sound of the river churning nearby a haunting reminder of my near-death.
I walked toward the heavy steel door,
my footsteps echoing against the concrete.
I didn't have to knock,
because the door groaned open before I could even reach the handle.
A man stood there,
his silhouette blocking the dim light from within.
He wasn't the man from the river,
but he was built like a mountain,
with eyes that saw everything and felt nothing.
"She’s here,"
the mountain said into a radio on his shoulder.
He stepped aside,
gesturing for me to enter the cavernous space.
The air inside smelled of oil,
salt,
and something metallic,
like old blood.
At the far end of the room,
sitting behind a mahogany desk that looked out of place among the crates,
was him.
He wasn't wearing the tailored coat now,
just a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up,
revealing forearms covered in faint scars.
His temple was still bandaged,
and his eyes,
as dark as the river,
locked onto mine.
"You’re late,
Elara,"
he said,
May you like
his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the empty space.
"And you’re supposed to be dead."
