The Runner

MAE

The unease within me refuses to fade, like a tiny animal clawing at my ribs.

It’s supposed to be just another day as an underpaid barista: early rise for the opening shift, the mixture of regulars and entitled customers, coffee stains on my uniform, the works.

But the pain in my shoulder is fading again, which means I’ll be cutting my shift early. Again.

I make my way around the bean-covered counter to Emily’s office, gently knocking on the closed door, already rehearsing my explanation, tone, and level of guilt.

“Mae, if this is you trying to leave early again, FORGET IT!” she shrieks from behind the door.

Bristling and ready for confrontation, I push the door open. I shouldn’t care this much, but her disapproval worms its way into me faster than I can block it.

Her desk is littered with bills and paperwork, so cluttered that half of it has migrated to the floor. She doesn’t even flinch. She sits behind the mess, clicking away, jaw clenched, non-clicking hand rubbing her temple like she doesn’t have time to be human.

Her black hair sits in a bun that was probably once stylish and is now just evidence of surrender. Mascara trails down her face.

This is not the day to do this.

“Emily, you know I have a doctor’s note.” A forged doctor’s note, but she doesn’t deserve the truth anyway.

A growl escapes her throat as her eyes finally lock onto mine. I can practically feel the temporary resentment pushing against me.

I shut the door behind me, because I already know how to disarm her. I move behind her, place my hands on her shoulders, and start working the knots that her anxiety has carved into her muscles. She sighs, melting instantly. I hate how easy it is.

“Mae, you know you’re the best girl I’ve got. And our numbers are only up when you’re working,” she whines, leaning back into my hands like she’s starving for relief.

“Well, Em, I can promise some rewards later when you come home to me,” I whisper in her ear, voice low enough to be dangerous. There’s a mild thrill in knowing the others might hear. I’m good at playing the game. Too good.

I manifest the feelings - lust, compromise, distraction - and let them roll through my fingers and into her. She doesn’t know that her sudden desire isn’t a coincidence. She never suspects the invisible hand twisting her mood.

After a few minutes, she relents completely, small moans escaping her lips. I’ve won. Again.

“Fine,” she breathes, defeated in the way she likes best.

I wrap my arms around her, kiss her cheek, barely a brush. Soft enough to promise, quick enough to deny responsibility.

“You really know what you do to me, huh?” she murmurs, fingers tangled in my curls.

I do. God, I do.

“I’ll see you later, Em.” I pull away before I decide to let myself stay. Before I give myself another reason to regret leaving.

This is the last time I’ll see her anyway.

With a wink, I step back into the shop, shoulders sagging, pretending pain again. It feels ridiculous to mimic weakness when I’m drowning in real pain and fear daily.

Kelsey and Anna are scrambling, ignoring the line of impatient customers. I feel briefly guilty. People flock to me, crowd me, hunger for something I don’t even know how to stop giving. Emily is right - the shop is busy when I’m here. She just doesn’t know why the world bends toward me.

You see, I’m an empath. Or, Pathokinesis, if you want to make it sound like a condition instead of a curse. I manipulate people’s emotions. Their desires. Their urgency.

They don’t know why they want me - only that they do.

Which makes it easier for him to find me.

And I refuse to let him find me again.

I collect my tips, purse, and car keys, like I’m just leaving work early. Like this is normal, and not a survival tactic.

The throbbing in my shoulder dips again, the minute pulsing like a warning: too close, too close, too close.

I will not be caught today.

I slip out the back to my used blue Prius.

She’s banged up, dented, and obnoxiously loud. A mess, like me.

Sometimes I think people assume broken things are less noticeable, but brokenness is loud. It echoes.

I sniff the air. No threat. Just the homeless couple that camps nearby, tragedy wrapped in routine.

My turtleneck starts itching—a sign he’s moving further away. Or that my paranoia is bored and wants attention.

I get in the car, start her up, and flee to Emily’s apartment. “Flee” isn’t dramatic. It’s accurate.

9 AM traffic does not care that I’m being hunted.

Every red light feels engineered to trap me. Every slow driver is a personal affront. I simmer with road rage and terror—two emotions that pair far too well. The leaves falling prettily from the trees do nothing to soften the fact that I am prey in daylight.

Finally, I reach the gated complex. Expensive, quiet, safe—on paper. I punch in the code, force calm into my fingers, pretend I’m someone with a normal reason to be keyed in.

I rush through the complex, windows down, scent-hunting like a deranged watchdog. The entire world is a threat assessment.

I park.

And freeze.

He was here.

Gone now, but here. His scent faint, like an accusation.

I knew keeping paperwork in the apartment was stupid. I knew comfort was a trap.

I breathe in, force myself to flatten emotions. Desire attracts him. Fear attracts him. Everything I am attracts him.

Each stair vibrates beneath my feet, like the building itself is warning me to turn back. My shoulder throbs, sharp enough to tether me to reality. If he were here, the pain would be gone.

Reaching the apartment, I stop breathing.

The door is open.

#307 wide, exposed, gutted like a body.

The couch flipped, the TV shattered, glass glittering like broken promises across the floor.

They want me to bleed. They want to find me.

I sneak inside, eyes locked on the path I need to take, ignoring everything else. Especially the photo of Emily and me, torn and clawed, her smile vandalized.

Sorry, Emily.

I reach my room—what used to be home—and grab the somehow untouched photo on the wall hiding in the safe.

Punch in the code, open it.

Birth certificate. ATM codes. Password book. Car title. A picture of my family. Before everything.

I wish I had time to clean. To explain. To mourn the tiny life I tried to build in three weeks.

But survival doesn’t make room for sentimentality.

I move fast, silent, trembling. Not with fear—fear is loud. This is instinct.

I reach my car. He’s still in the air, a ghost of what hunts me. Maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s my mind rehearsing danger like a script.

Paperwork on the seat. Windows up. Engine on.

I don’t look back. I don’t let myself.

The only plan I have is leaving.

Because, as a rogue, this is all I know how to do.