Chapter 1
It was a typical Friday night.
Rose was working at her regular job at the local café—a narrow little shop with peeling paint around the windows and the words Midnight Macchiato half-faded on the sign outside. The smell of roasted coffee beans and warm pastries drifted into the street, luring in the late-night wanderers and the lonely insomniacs.
Inside, the air was thick with steam and chatter. Coffee machines hummed and hissed in the background; milk foamed, metal clinked, and voices tangled into one relentless noise. The lights overhead flickered faintly, buzzing like insects.
Rose hated it.
The noise, the lights, the smiles—all of it grated against her nerves like sandpaper. Sometimes, it set her off so badly she had to hide in the back just to breathe. Trying to be a “morally sane” person when everything sets you off isn’t for the faint of heart. Rose would rather let her intrusive thoughts win.
But she had to think of her brother.
Anthony was the only thing keeping her from snapping completely—the chain that tethered her to something resembling humanity.
She stood behind the counter, her expression locked into a polite, practiced smile. She was good at pretending. Long, light brown hair cascaded down her back, catching the warm glow of the café lights and gleaming a faint burnt gold at the ends. Her eyes, however, ruined the illusion—nearly black, reflecting nothing but the people who dared to look too long.
As she handed out another coffee, her mind drifted elsewhere—to the world she wanted. A world where she could act on her thoughts without consequence. A world where she didn’t have to fake control.
Then the fantasy cracked.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
An old man stood at the counter, his hand trembling around a paper cup before slamming it down hard enough for the lid to pop off.
Apparently, she had gotten his order wrong.
The fake smile on Rose’s face faltered — then curled into something else. Something feral.
“Want to play a game?” she asked sweetly, her tone dripping like syrup as she slid a knife from the block and planted it beside his drink. The blade gleamed under the warm glow of the lights, and her grin reached her eyes.
The man flinched but didn’t back down. “What the hell is the matter with people like you?” he spat.
Rose’s grin widened. “Want to find out?”
That did it. He grabbed his drink, muttering something unintelligible as he stumbled for the door.
That’s what I thought.
Her face softened and her pleasant, professional smile returned as if nothing had happened. She slid the knife back into its resting place.
The bell above the door chimed again.
Her smile slipped the instant she saw who it was.
Anthony.
He stood in the doorway—his expression moving from shock to quiet disappointment.
Great.
She stomped over to him, lips forming her best pout. “He was being mean to me,” she said, like a child caught stealing candy.
Anthony sighed. “But did you have to pull a knife on him? What if your manager finds out?” His voice was even, but his eyes—steady and sharp—seemed to search her for something deeper.
Anthony was three years older—twenty-seven to her twenty-four—but he acted like the gap was decades. He always had that protective tone, that moral high ground she couldn’t stand.
Rose crossed her arms. “He started it.”
He scoffed before patting her head like a wayward dog. “Let’s go home. I’ve got a business trip this weekend, so you know what that means.”
Rose’s chest tightened. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Locked in again.
