THE RIDE TO THE STATION WAS THICK WITH TENSION, a silence so heavy it pressed against your chest. Chris barely spoke, his fingers clenched so tightly around the wheel that his knuckles had turned bone-white.

You sat beside him, your leg bouncing restlessly, nerves eating away at you like acid. Every red light, every slow-moving car, felt like a personal attack, stretching the unbearable wait.

The moment Chris pulled up to the curb, you were out of the car, the door slamming shut behind you. You didn't wait for him, didn't care who saw. You needed to find Matt.

Your heartbeat roared in your ears as you shoved through the station doors. The place smelled like stale coffee and disinfectant, but none of it registered. All you saw was the bored-looking officer at the front desk, barely sparing you a glance.

"Where's Matthew Sturniolo?" you demanded, striding up to the counter, your hands slamming down hard enough to make a nearby clipboard rattle.

The officer blinked, unimpressed. "Who?"

"Matthew Sturniolo," you snapped. "He was brought in today. Gun possession. I need to see him."

The man sighed like you were an inconvenience, typing lazily at his computer. "No Sturniolo in holding."

Panic flared white-hot in your chest. "That's not possible. He was brought in hours ago—"

"Then he's being processed," the officer cut in flatly. "You'll have to wait."

Wait?

A cold laugh left your lips. "Do you have any idea who my father is?" Your voice trembled with barely restrained fury. "He's a lawyer, a damn good one. And if you think I won't have this entire department buried in lawsuits for wrongful detainment—"

You heard a whisper of your name.

The voice froze you in place.

It was quiet, rough, edged with exhaustion.

You spun, your eyes sweeping the room.

And then you saw him.

Matt.

Slouched at a desk in the far corner, one wrist cuffed to the metal, his curls messier than usual, his shirt wrinkled. Shadows clung beneath his eyes, exhaustion written into every line of his face. But the second his gaze found yours, something shifted. softened.

You didn't think. Didn't hesitate.

You moved.

Dodging officers, ignoring their protests, you were across the room in seconds, your hands finding his shoulders before you even fully registered that he was real.

His uncuffed arm wrapped around you immediately, pulling you in, holding you like he'd been drowning without you. His breath hitched against your hair, a quiet, shuddering thing.

For a moment, the world shrank to the space between you.

Then you pulled back, scanning his face. "Are you okay?"

Matt exhaled a soft, breathy laugh. "Been better."

Chris was already moving in, his eyes locked on the cuffs. "This is bullshit," he muttered, his voice sharp with barely restrained anger.

You turned, eyes locking onto the officer sitting at the desk beside Matt's. "Uncuff him."

The officer didn't even glance up from his paperwork. "Not happening."

Your blood boiled. You took a step closer, your voice low, cutting. "You don't want to do this. My father—"

"Your friend has 24 hours," the officer interrupted, flipping a page. "He gets a lawyer, or he stays."

Your stomach twisted.

Chris cursed under his breath.

Matt just sighed, leaning back in his chair. "It's fine, princess," he murmured. "You're here. That's enough."

But it wasn't.

Because if you didn't find that gun before the cops did,

Matt was gone.

Twenty minutes later, outside the station

The second Matt was free, you didn't give him a choice. You grabbed his wrist, dragging him through the station doors, past the curious stares, and into the sharp bite of the night air.

Chris followed, but the second you were clear of the building, Matt yanked you back.

Before you could react, his hands were in your hair, his lips crashing against yours.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't careful.

It was desperation.

Raw, unfiltered need.

Like he had spent every second in that station terrified he'd never get the chance.

You melted into it, fingers curling into his shirt, anchoring yourself. His heartbeat thundered against your palm, his breath warm and ragged against your skin.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath shaky. "I needed to do that," he murmured.

Your chest heaved. "Yeah," you whispered. "Me too."

Chris cleared his throat loudly. "As much as I'd love to watch whatever the hell this is, we need to move."

Reluctantly, Matt pulled back, taking your hand as you hurried to the car.

Once inside, Chris dialed, putting the phone on speaker. It barely rang twice before Nick's voice came through, tense and urgent.

"You need to get to the bridge. Now."

Matt straightened. "What's going on?"

"Hector and Scarface," Nick said. "They're meeting. Thirty minutes. If you want answers, this is your shot."

You and Matt exchanged a look.

Chris was already peeling out of the parking lot, tires screeching.

"Then we don't have time to waste."

The tires screeched against the pavement as Chris took a hard turn, pushing the car's limits as the bridge came into view. The city lights flickered against the dark water, casting long shadows over the concrete pillars.

Nick's intel had been good, too good.

Because Hector and Scarface were already there.

Chris killed the headlights as he pulled onto a side street near the bridge, the car rolling to a stop in near darkness. Ahead, the water glistened under the moonlight, black and endless. Two SUVs were parked near the bridge's edge, their engines humming low, and the men standing beside them moved with quiet, deliberate gestures.

Hector and Scarface were already here.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you reached for the door handle, but before you could move, a strong hand wrapped around your wrist, halting you.

"No." Matt's voice was low, firm, edged with something dangerous.

You turned to him, already bracing for the argument. "Matt, let go."

He didn't. His grip tightened just enough to make you pause. "You're not going out there alone."

You exhaled sharply. "You can't be seen here. If they spot you, it's over. They'll tie you to the case, and you'll definitely go to jail."

"I don't give a shit about that." His voice dropped, dark and unwavering. "You think I'm just gonna sit here while you—"

"Yes, that's exactly what you're gonna do," you shot back, twisting your wrist free. "If you go out there and they recognize you, everything gets worse."

Matt clenched his jaw. "And what happens if they catch you, huh? Then what? You think they'll just let you walk away?"

Chris groaned from the driver's seat. "For fuck's sake, not now."

You ignored him. "I can move quietly. I can get close enough to hear what they're saying, and I can leave without them even knowing I was there."

Matt's nostrils flared. "You're not invincible, baby."

You held his gaze, steady, unwavering. "Neither are you."

His fingers curled into fists against his thighs, frustration radiating off of him in waves. "This is a bad idea."

"It's the only idea," you countered.

His breath came sharp and uneven. "Princess, please—"

"Matt." Your voice softened, but your grip on his forearm tightened. "Baby." You watched the way his throat bobbed, the way his shoulders tensed at the word. "You have to trust me."

His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. "I don't want to."

"But you do," you whispered.

His jaw flexed, his hands shaking as he dragged them through his curls. "I hate this."

"I know." You reached up, cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at you. "But you have to stay here."

He was still breathing hard, still radiating tension, but after a long moment, he exhaled sharply. "Fine."

Before you could move, he yanked you forward, pressing his lips to your forehead, holding them there for just a second longer than necessary.

"Be careful, beautiful."

You squeezed his hand once before slipping out of the car.

The night air was crisp against your skin as you moved through the shadows, heart hammering in your chest.

You kept close to the concrete supports of the bridge, making sure each step was deliberate and silent.

Closer.

Closer.

The voices carried before you even saw them.

"—got it done already," Hector was saying, his voice smooth and confident, like this was just another night, another problem solved.

"And it's clean?" Scarface's voice was lower, rougher, laced with skepticism.

Hector let out a dry laugh. "As clean as it needs to be. Cops found the gun, they tied it to Sturniolo, and it's game over. The kid is hopefully gone for a long time, and we're in the clear."

Your stomach twisted.

Scarface hummed, unconvinced. "Still risky. Cops start sniffing around too much, they might find more than we want them to."

Hector exhaled through his nose, irritated. "Which is why we're getting rid of it."

A pause.

"We flush it," Hector said simply. "Storm drain leads straight to the ocean. No gun, no case."

Scarface was silent for a moment before clicking his tongue. "You sure it won't resurface? You know how these things go."

Hector chuckled. "You worry too much. The water out here? Strong currents, deep trenches. That gun will be buried under layers of sand before morning. No one's gonna find it."

Your breath hitched.

If they got rid of that gun Matt was screwed.

You had minutes. Maybe less. And you had to do something now.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you crouched behind the concrete pillar, every muscle coiled tight. The gun was still somewhere in the storm drain for now. But if Hector was right, it wouldn't be there for long.

You had to act.

Carefully, you inched back, retracing your steps in silence. The second you were clear, you broke into a sprint, feet barely making a sound against the pavement as you ran toward the car.

Matt was already halfway out of the passenger seat when you reached them, his entire body thrumming with tension. "What did you hear?"

"They're getting rid of it," you panted, bracing your hands against your knees. "They're flushing the storm drain. It leads straight to the ocean. If we don't move now, it's gone."

Chris swore under his breath, his hands gripping the steering wheel tight. "How long do we have?"

"Minutes."

Matt's jaw clenched. "Where's the drain?"

"Past the bridge, toward the dock entrance," you said quickly. "We need to follow it. There's got to be an outlet where the water flows out."

Chris threw the car into gear, speeding toward the docks. You gripped the handle, trying to steady yourself as the tires skidded over loose gravel. The second he got close enough, you jumped out, Matt right behind you.

It was worse than you expected.

The drain exist was massive, a gaping hole in a wall. Water rushed out, fast and dark, disappearing into the murky grass below. The smell was awful: salt, sewage, and something rotting, but you barely noticed.

"Shit," Chris muttered. "If it's in there, it's getting swept out fast."

Matt turned to you, eyes burning with something close to desperation. "We're not really doing this, are we?"

But you were already pulling your jacket off.

His expression twisted. "No. No way. Don't you dare pull this shit on me again"

"If I don't go now, it's gone," you shot back, yanking off your shoes.

"Jesus Christ." Chris ran a hand down his face.

Matt grabbed your arm. "This is insane. That water is disgusting, and you have no idea what's in there."

"I know what's not in there yet," you countered, stepping closer to the drain.

"Princess." His voice dropped, raw and pleading. "Please."

You hesitated, just for a second. Then you swallowed hard. "If it were me, would you hesitate?"

His lips parted, breath catching.

Exactly.

You didn't wait for an answer.

With one deep breath, you stepped into the water.

It was worse than you imagined. Freezing cold, thick with debris. You fought the urge to gag as you pushed deeper, the murky current swirling around your legs. By the time you were waist-deep, your teeth were chattering.

Chris cursed behind you. "I can't believe you're actually doing this."

Matt was pacing the edge, hands tugging at his hair. "If you don't find it in two minutes, we're getting the hell out of here."

You didn't answer.

You took a deep breath and plunged your hands into the water.

The current was strong, nearly knocking you off balance. You moved blindly, fingers scraping against slimy concrete, searching. A branch. A crushed can. Something that felt disturbingly like a bone.

But no gun.

Panic tightened in your chest. If Hector had already dumped it

Then your fingers brushed something solid.

Your breath caught. You grasped at it, pulling hard. It was metal. Heavy. But as you dragged it up, your heart sank.

Not a gun. A rusted pipe.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your body trembling with cold.

Your body trembled from the cold, your soaked clothes clinging to your skin as you tossed the useless pipe aside.

"It's not here," you gasped, shoving wet hair out of your face. "It has to still be inside the drain."

Chris swore under his breath, pacing near the edge. "That's not good. We're running out of time."

You turned back to the gaping mouth of the storm drain, the rusted grates barely holding against the rush of water. The opening was wide enough for someone to squeeze through if they were desperate enough.

"I'm going in," you said, voice firm.

Matt's head snapped toward you. "The hell you are."

You met his glare head-on. "It's the only way."

"The only way to what? Get swept away in sewage and drown?" He stepped closer, his whole body tense, dripping with frustration. "Absolutely fucking not."

Chris shook his head. "Yeah, I gotta agree with lover boy on this one. That's straight-up suicide."

You ignored them both, moving toward the opening. "The current's too strong for the gun to just be floating. It's probably caught on something, maybe debris, metal grates, something inside." You gestured toward the drain. "I just have to feel around."

Matt grabbed your wrist, forcing you to stop. His fingers dug into your skin, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to tell you he was barely keeping his shit together. "If you go in there and don't come back out, I will lose my fucking mind."

His voice was rough, edged with something deeper. Fear.

Matt's grip on your wrist tightened like a vice. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break his teeth.

"No," he ground out. His voice was sharp, final. "You're not going in there. End of discussion."

You tried to pull back, but he wouldn't let you. His fingers only dug in harder, like he was afraid that the second he let go, you'd disappear.

"Matt—"

"No. Stop." His voice cracked. Not from weakness, but from sheer, unrelenting panic. "I swear to god, if you go in there and something happens. If you don't come back up—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I won't be able to fucking live with that."

The raw intensity in his words made your breath hitch. Matt wasn't just scared, he was furious. At the situation. At you. But more than anything, at himself.

"Matt—"

"No, no, you don't get it," he snapped. "I let you do this, and you get hurt? That's on me." His voice dropped, low and rough. "And I can't handle that, princess. I just can't."

Your chest tightened.

Chris shifted awkwardly beside you. "Uh, guys, clock's ticking—"

Neither of you moved.

Matt's eyes were burning, his body practically vibrating with tension. "Please," he rasped. "Don't make me watch you do this."

You hesitated, heart hammering.

But the water was still rushing. The gun was still inside. And the clock was still running out.

So you inhaled deeply, steadying yourself.

"Then don't watch."

And before he could stop you, you stepped into the drain.

You stepped inside, and the first thing that hits you, is the smell, thick, damp, and rotten, like sewage mixed with mildew.

The floor is slick with filth, the walls stained with years of grime. Every breath feels wrong, like it's coating your lungs with something toxic. You swallows hard, forcing yourselr to move forward despite the disgust curling in your stomach.

"Are you okay?" Matt's voice crackles through the storm drain, laced with concern.

"Yeah," You mutter, stepping carefully over a pile of debris.

A beat. Then, "Are you sure?"

You sigh. "Yes, Matt I'm sure."

Silence for a moment.

"How about now?"

You almost smile, shaking your head. "Hon."

"I'm just checking," he says, softer now. "You sound, I don't know. Just be careful, okay?"

You don't answer, too focused on scanning the area. The water is murky, swirling with God-knows-what, but then your fingers brush against something cold. Metal. Heavy.

The gun.

Without hesitation, you suck in a deep breath and plunge beneath the surface.

The cold is a shock to your system, your body tensing as you fights through the thick, sludgy water.

Your hands fumble blindly, wrapping around the weapon, but it's stuck, lodged between something. You yank at it, your lungs burning, but it won't budge.

Then, through the water, you hears something muffled. Yelling.

Matt.

He's panicking.

You pull harder, desperation kicking in.

Finally, the gun breaks free, and you kick off the ground, breaking the surface with a sharp, gasping inhale.

"Matt!" You cough, water dripping down your face as you scrambles for the wall. "I'm here!"

His voice cracks violently. "Jesus Christ, what the hell happened? Why didn't you answer? I—" His voice breaks. "I thought something happened to you."

You cough again, still catching your breath. "I was underwater."

A long exhale. Then, his voice, softer now. "You scared the hell out of me."

You were about to respond, to tell him you're fine, that he doesn't have to worry so much, but then you heard something.

Voices.

You stiffen, pressing yourself against the wall.

Hector. Scarface.

They're close. Too close.

Your heart pounds as you holds your breath, straining to listen.

"Make it quick," Scarface mutters. "We don't need any evidence floating around."

Hector scoffs. "Relax. Once we flush it, it's gone."

Your blood runs cold.

A loud clank echoes through the tunnel. Then, the deep hum of machinery powering on.

Oh God.

"Matt!" you gasps, panic hitting you like a freight train. "They turned it on!"

"What? What?" His voice spikes, immediate and alarmed.

"The flushing system—" You barely gets the words out before the water explodes.

The force of it slams into you like a brick wall. You're launched backward, your body whipping through the tunnel as the current tears at her.

You crashe into the wall, hard. A white-hot pain erupts in your shoulder, then your ribs, your body ricocheting off the slick concrete as the water drags you faster and faster around the hole.

You can hear Matt yelling, his voice frantic, but it's drowned out by the roaring flood.

Your head smacks against something