Chapter 1
Layla panted, her chest rising and falling as sweat slipped onto her hands, tightening her grip on the knife.
“You need to pay the price!” she screamed, her voice cracking as it tore through the silence. With every ounce of strength, she sprinted toward Elias.
Elias staggered back, fear widening his eyes. His hands lifted in surrender, trembling, as perspiration streamed down his forehead. “Layla... how can you be so ruthless to someone who loves you so dearly?”
Her lips curled into a smirk, though a single tear betrayed her defiance, tracing a path down her cheek. “Tsk. Love? I know your games too well.”
And then, just as the blade’s edge glinted under the pale light, her vision faltered. The world spun. In a heartbeat, her whole life unraveled before her eyes.
Layla crossed the wet cobblestones, the faint patter of drizzle tapping against her white puff-sleeved shirt. Her black ponytail swayed with each step, catching the dim glow of The street lamps.
Her eyes looked like a midnight blue colored jewel.
Ahead, the familiar wooden sign of the little bookstore swayed gently in the evening wind, her sanctuary after long hours juggling boring part-time jobs. Even though it was also her part time job, the only difference was that she enjoyed this job as she could sit and read for free when there were no customers around.
A sharp voice from the corner of the street cut through the quiet.
At the mouth of an alley, a lanky man with a grin like a rusted blade had cornered someone; a thin, scruffy figure clutching a paper bag to his chest. The poor man’s shoulders trembled under the weight of the insults being thrown at him.
Layla froze.
For a moment, the alley blurred, replaced by a memory she’d buried deep: herself, years younger, standing in the middle of a street while strangers jeered, her small fists clenched, her father’s death still raw. Behind her, relatives argued over custody, not out of love, but over who would hold power as guardian to the late President’s daughter. The children her age made fun of her and bullied her ob the street but no one bothered to bat an eye.
The man in the alley winced as the bully shoved him against the wall.
Layla stepped forward.
“Enough.”
The bully turned, sizing her up with a smirk. “And who are you supposed to be?”
She stood there, her gaze steady, her voice low enough to slice the air between them.
"I will call the police!"
She held tight on to her phone.
After a tense pause, the man scoffed, muttered something under his breath, and stalked away.
"Watch out both of you!"
He spoke from a distance in a louder rone with a fake confidence.
The scruffy man straightened, brushing off his threadbare coat. When his eyes met hers, there was something unexpected there, not just gratitude, but an unguarded warmth, as if in that instant, she’d become a fixed point in his world.
He didn’t know her name.
But now, he wanted to.
....
He hesitated, shifting his weight as if debating whether to speak.
“Thank you,” he said finally, his voice low and a little rough, like it hadn’t been used much.
Layla offered a small nod, already turning toward the bookstore. “Be careful out here,” she replied without meeting his gaze for long.
But she felt it… the weight of his eyes following her as she walked away, the silent tether pulling between them.
Inside the bookstore, the familiar scent of old pages and brewing coffee greeted her. She hung her coat on the hook by the counter and took her place behind the desk. The rain outside deepened, pattering against the large front window in steady rhythm.
Through the glass, she caught a glimpse of the man again, still standing across the street. He didn’t move, didn’t approach. He just watched for a moment longer before vanishing into the mist.
She shook her head and turned back to work, but something in her chest felt unsettled, as if she’d just stepped into the opening lines of a story she hadn’t agreed to tell.
The next evening, the shop smelled faintly of rain and old paper when the bell above the door rang sharp and fast.
Layla looked up, her stomach tightening.
It was him, the bully from the alley, and this time he had company. The one trailing behind was heavier, broader, with a shaved head and a smile.
“Well, well,” the first man said, loud enough for the two customers in the corner to hear. “If it isn’t the street angel.”
Layla kept her voice level. “If you’re here to buy a book, pick one. Otherwise, leave.”
His friend let out a low laugh. “This dump counts as a store? Looks like a grave for dead trees. Place should be bulldozed.”
The smaller man leaned his elbows on the counter. “Bet you think you’re smart, stepping in the other night. You embarrassed me.”
“You did that yourself,” she replied, refusing to back away.
The bigger man took a step closer, scanning the shelves. “All these books… probably worth nothing. How do you even keep the lights on?”
“Not your concern,” she said, pulse thudding in her ears.
Then, from the far end of the shop, a calm voice broke in.
“Is there a problem here?”
Elias, the man who was being accused in the alley the other day, stepped out from between two shelves, a book in hand, his sleeves, a bit torn, rolled above the forearms. His face was unreadable, but his gaze was fixed entirely on the two intruders.
The first man sneered. “Not your business.”
“It is,” Elias said evenly, “when you’re harassing the staff.”
“Or what?” the bigger one asked.
Elias didn’t raise his voice. “You don’t want me to answer that.”
“Aren't you…?” -The smaller man stroked his chin & then laughed his heart out - “Ah ha! You are the guy I almost smashed last evening.”
Elias on the other hand had a somber look with tensed eyebrows.
A flicker of something passed through the bigger man’s eyes, not fear exactly, but a sudden awareness that this stranger was not bluffing. He nudged the smaller man with his elbow still, trying to cover it with a scoff.
They lingered, trading a few more insults, but the tension in the air thickened until even the customers had frozen in place, books forgotten in their hands.
Finally, the smaller man spat on the floor, muttered, “Watch yourself,” and walked out with his friend. The bell jangled in their wake.
Layla exhaled slowly. “Thank you,” she said.
Elias gave a small nod. “Some people don’t understand boundaries.” He paused, looking around the store. “Nice place, though.”
And just like that Elias Also left after buying a book.
Two days later, Elias returned, the same calm expression on his face.
He placed a book on the counter. “Thought I should return this.”
“Borrowed?” she asked.
“Bought. But I’ve read it before.” He smiled faintly. “No point keeping it when I could find something new.”
She shook her head. “Not how bookstores work.”
“Then I’ll take something else.” He offered his hand. “Elias.”
She hesitated before shaking it. “Layla.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said, “The café down the street, 'Marlowe’s', right? makes a good coffee. I think I’ll stop there after I swap this book.”
She tilted her head. “You’ve been there before?”
“Once or twice.” The answer was casual, but there was something in his tone, like he already knew the menu, the staff, maybe even her schedule. After the exchange Elias left with a small stack under his arm.
The next morning, while she worked the early shift at Marlowe’s Café, she unfolded the newspaper for the regulars. A headline caught her eye:
Local man reported missing. last seen near central market.
She stared at the grainy photo. It was the immoral man from the bookstore.
Her stomach tightened. And then, as if on cue, the café door opened. Elias walked in, ordered a black coffee, and took a seat by the window.
She carried the mug to his table, the newspaper folded open to the page with the article. Without a word, she placed it beside his cup.
Elias glanced down, then up at her. For the briefest moment, something unreadable passed through his eyes, a flicker, gone as quickly as it came.
She walked away without asking the question echoing in her mind.
Is Elias behind this?
