Ever After-Ish

The rain hit Everly Rene’s cheek like a passive-aggressive kiss, soft and sideways, with a smug undertone. She smirked. Classic Oregon. She’d walked into the bar on a dry night, stars barely peeking through the haze. Three hours, one set, and a questionable encore later, the sky had flipped like a moody ex. Now it was sideways rain and stench, the kind that clung to your boots and your dignity.

She ducked under the flickering back-exit sign, throat still buzzing from backup vocals. Ever had lied about her age, lent her voice, and walked out with eighty bucks in crumpled twenties. Not bad for a night with a band called Third Rail Romance. Or was it Three-Way Dudes? She snorted. She honestly didn’t care about the band’s name. Money, her only goal for the night, was now a nice bulge in her front jean pocket. Sam, the drummer, grinned when he pressed a half-smoked clove cigarette into her palm. “For the road,” he’d said, eyes twinkling like he had a secret, probably did with that dreamy look on his face.

She sniffed the cigarette, cloves, and something sharper, something off. Laced, probably. It didn’t matter. If she smoked it, she wouldn’t feel a damn thing.

Alcohol, weed, mystery pills, nothing worked. She never got the option to smoke or inject her problems away; no, she got to live them in real time, all the time, no recreational drugs to dampen her homeless, lonely life.

She tucked the cigarette behind her ear. It might be worth trading. She’d take a shower, cold or hot; she didn’t care. She just needed to be clean.

Her tolerance wasn’t some tragic badge of honor; just another weird quirk in a life stuffed with odd-as-hell baggage. Everly didn’t get high; she was wet, broke, and tired daily. And tonight, she’d crash under the underpass again. She’d have to wedge herself into the musty, grimy dryer-corner crack beneath the bridge to dodge the sideways rain.

Her odd quirks were overshadowed by her obsession with cleanliness. That was her only intense fixation: clean skin, clean hair, clean... Unfortunately, life doesn’t have a rinse cycle. She understood where her need for cleanliness originated.

She’d been found in a gutter, minutes old, umbilical cord still dangling like her mother had just squatted, pushed her out, and bolted from her and the Fremont Bridge. Nana Rene spotted her first: an elderly homeless woman with a limp and a gravelly voice. She scooped Everly up fast, before the rats got curious. No cops. No ambulance. Just a blanket tied together from old scarves and a whispered promise: “You’re mine now.”

Everly didn’t remember it, obviously. But she’d heard the story enough times over twelve years to feel it in her bones. Born into filth; no wonder she chased clean. She felt dirty. That small voice inside her, the one she had to scream at to shut the fuck up, poked at her regularly. “You weren’t wanted. You were dirty. Maybe a dirty little secret. Your mom would rather squat and drop you than stick around and love you.”

Everly hated that voice. Didn’t need it. Didn’t want it. She usually kept it quiet with her smug-as-hell outlook on life. If you can kick it, punch it, or run from it, life’s a hell of a lot easier than listening to your inner ‘woe-is-me’ commentary.

The alley behind the bar stretched ahead, its slick pavement lined with dumpsters that resembled sleeping beasts, and trash piles that seemed to have been rejected by other trash piles. The smell hit her like a memory: piss, mold, rot. She could name every note in the bouquet. Her life had a scent, and it wasn’t roses.

She pulled her hood up and thought again about the band name. Third Rail Romance, Three-Way Dudes, whatever… the look on the lead singer’s face. Mason? Jason? Something with a tragic jawline and a dimple he thought was charming. He’d asked if she wanted to “hang out” at his place. You know. Talk.

She’d smiled, said maybe, and walked off like she hadn’t seen that look a hundred times before. Spoiler: she had. His glare and the dramatic van-door slam didn’t faze her. If anything, it was cute, like watching a toddler throw a tantrum in skinny jeans.

Sure, she could’ve been nicer. Maybe whatever-his-name-wouldn’t ask her to sing again. But she hadn’t busted his balls, just his ego. And honestly, that was her being generous. Refusing the offer was how she kept the boundaries she’d carved out for herself. Trust no one, and she didn’t. She never trusted anyone but herself.

Lesson one: Never assume the guy with the guitar and the good hair is safe. No one’s safe when you’re seventeen, homeless, and living off odd jobs and favors from people you should probably be sprinting away from. Everly didn’t complain. She just kept moving, preferably alone, preferably unharmed, and preferably clean.

Everly’s boots splashed loudly in the too-quiet alley, each step echoing off the brick buildings’ walls and the pooling mud and yuck puddles on the ground. That tickly sensation crawled up her spine. The one that showed up when danger got close. Goosebumps prickled beneath her damp hoodie; too many shadows. There are too many places for people to hide.

She was right to feel paranoid. When she was younger, she’d been jumped more times than she could count. The scars on her body proved just how stupid she’d been back then. You don’t ignore that tickly feeling. You also never doubt that bad people hide in dark corners, waiting for girls like her.

Ever stopped mid-step, just shy of the turn that led to her usual crash spot: a cramped nook under a small bridge underpass. Her backpack was already stashed in the corner, tucked where it would mostly annoy bugs and spiders. Most people wouldn’t sleep in dirt and damp concrete, but Everly wasn’t most people. The space was tight, cold, and smelled like mildew, but the noise helped her sleep. Noise meant she wasn’t alone. Noise meant she was still alive.

She’d crashed under that bridge enough times to be a pro at wedging herself into the darkest corner and vanishing if anyone bothered to look. It wasn’t comfortable; it was camouflage.

Everly scanned the alley, every nerve screaming. Her gut twisted, tight, ticklish, wrong. That feeling again. The one that meant someone was hunting.

She moved silently, easing her head around a building corner, and caught sight of a few familiar faces loitering near her usual route, gang guys. One had a busted nose, courtesy of her elbow last month. Another spun a pocket knife like he was warming up for a horror movie. She spotted two more lurking in the shadows, making a total of four.

Shit.

She couldn’t get past four without getting caught. Last time it’d been two, and even that had left her limping. Four was pushing her lucky-as-fuck limit when it came to fighting off guys built like refrigerators.

They weren’t just hanging out. They were waiting for her.

She’d gotten predictable. Same alley. Same bridge. Same routine. And lately, she’d been too damn tired to stay sharp. Odd jobs had dried up, and she had a sneaking suspicion busted-nose-boy had something to do with that.

And now? All her stuff was in that damn backpack stashed under the bridge. Her clothes, her cash, her one halfway-decent hoodie. She leaned her head back against the cold brick wall behind the dumpster she was crouched behind, mentally screaming at herself to think. She needed a way around them. Fast.

She pressed her forehead to the wall, letting the chill snap her brain into gear. Then it hit, sharp and electric, crawling up her spine. That feeling. The one that never lied. In her mind, she pictured her bridge, her backpack, the quiet moonlight. Safe. Familiar. But the image warped. Four shadowy figures crouched around the bridge like predators.

Nope. Not going there.

Everly didn’t ignore gut feelings anymore. She’d learned the hard way that visions like that only showed up when danger was breathing down her neck. And right now, they were screaming. Broken Nose and his crew weren’t alone.

He caught her fear. She saw it in the way his head snapped toward her, that sneering smile stretching across his busted face. His eyes locked onto hers, dark, gleaming, and full of malice.

“Hey, baby, wanna catch up?” he called, snapping his fingers.

More than four guys spilled out of the shadows like cockroaches.

“Fuck!” she shouted, already moving.

Broken Nose laughed behind her. “What I wanted the last time we saw you, Ever girl!”

Her breath hitched. She pivoted hard, boots skidding on wet pavement, and dove into the next alley. Narrower. Filthier. But empty.

She could feel at least seven, maybe more, closing in from different alleyways. Her heart pounded like it wanted to break free and sprint beside her. She skidded into a slimy side alley, the slick pavement yanking her usually solid footing right out from under her. She caught herself on a rusted dumpster, breath ragged, boots slipping.

Then she smelled him.

Broken Nose.

That sour stench, day-old garbage baking in the sun, hit her nostrils and turned her stomach. She gagged just as he lunged, his weight slamming into her from behind. Mid-fall, she twisted, elbow jabbing into his ribs, knee driving up hard. He grunted but didn’t let go.

His hands yanked up her hoodie, fingers going where no man’s hands had any right to be.

“Get off me, you sack of garbage!” she snarled.

He just laughed, breath hot and rancid against her neck. “You’re so hard to catch, baby. And damn, you feel good all wet from me.” He smirked at his own disgusting wordplay, rain soaking them both.

Then he flipped her over, pinning her arms above her head.

Great. Now she could see the rest, seven, just like she’d guessed, emerging from the alleyways, eyes locked on her with sick anticipation.

No way. Not tonight.

She’d spent too many years dodging creeps like them, surviving moments like this. And now? She was pissed.

“I said Get off me, you freak! I broke your nose last time. I can break more than just your nose if that’s what you want.”

Broken Nose just laughed, smug and unbothered, his nose still crooked from their last encounter. He forced a kiss onto her, breath sour, forcing his tongue into her mouth.

Big mistake, stupid too, she thought.

She bit down, hard, on his lip and tongue. Blood flooded her mouth, hot and metallic. He screamed, half pain, half shock.

“Really? You’re shocked I’d bite you?”

She twisted beneath him, hips driving upward. He was straddling her, now clutching his face, blood pouring from his mouth. She’d done more than bust his nose this time; he’d need stitches.

His screams froze the others. They stared at him, not her. Good.

She planted both feet, twisted her torso, and launched him sideways with everything she had. He flew into the green dumpster with a sickening thunk. The clang echoed down the alley. Head injury? Probably. Deserved? Absolutely.

“Stitches and a concussion,” she muttered. “You’re welcome.”

One of the others, a kid, really, too young to be in this mess, thought it was a good idea to tackle her.

She moved fast. So fast, none of them saw it coming.

Mid-rise, she twirled, ducked under his outstretched arms, and drove her fist straight into his groin. He dropped like a sack of bricks, gasping for air and clutching himself.

Everly got back on her feet, boots skidding on wet pavement, and bolted.

But they weren’t done.

Two more guys flanked her. One grabbed her arm, the other swung wildly. His fist connected with her cheekbone, snapping her head sideways. Pain bloomed instantly. Her nose gushed blood, hot and sticky, down her chin.

“Damn, she’s fast,” one muttered, backing off.

“She’s just a girl,” another scoffed, circling. “We can take her.”

Everly wiped the blood with her sleeve and grinned, teeth red. “You sure? Because I’m still standing, and your buddy’s kissing garbage.”

She ducked another punch, but a boot caught her ribs, hard. She stumbled, breath knocked out, pain radiating through her side. Bruised, maybe cracked. It didn’t matter.

The guy was fast. Not as fast as she was, but quick enough to get behind her. His hands clamped onto her chest, rough and possessive, and his breath hit her ear in a giggle that made her stomach twist.

“Nice rack, baby, you should show the..”

Everly did not let him finish the sentence or the grab.

A surge of fury tore through her, hot and violent. She twisted hard in his arms, her body screaming as she forced herself to turn. Every movement was sharp and wrong, but she refused to freeze. She refused to be prey.

“It is not nice to touch what is not yours,” she snarled.

She came face-to-face with him. Groper. Why she kept mentally naming these creeps was a question for later, assuming she got out of this alive.

She drove her forehead upward with everything she had. Her skull cracked against his chin, a brutal, jarring impact that sent pain shooting through her head and stars across her vision. He reeled back with a choked grunt, stunned.

He shook his head, chin lifting defiantly. “I intend to touch you much more; you won’t escape this time, Ever.”

He charged again, spinning her and slamming her against a brick wall, her back crushed against his front. Disgust rolled through her as he pressed against her, tugging at the waistband of her jeans. He ground his hardness into her back.

“I’ve got you exactly where I want you now, bitch.”

“You sure about that?” She slammed her head backward, catching his already‑injured chin. The scream he let out told her she’d done real damage, and the pained moans that followed made it clear he was out of the fight.

She glanced around. Groin Boy was still curled up like a baby in a mud puddle.

“Two down? Or is it three?” she muttered, spitting blood. “Who’s next? Come on, boys. Don’t be shy.”

Another attacker rushed her. He didn’t say a word, but he came straight out of a pile of trash bags, so she mentally tagged him Trash Bin Guy.

She sidestepped, slammed her elbow into his temple, and shoved him into a stack of trash bins. The crash echoed through the alley as he crumpled, dazed and groaning.

The rest hesitated.

She was bleeding, limping, soaked to the bone, but still fighting. This was all she’d ever known: fight, hide, fight again, survive. Her nose throbbed, blood dripping down her chin. Her ribs screamed with every breath. But she stayed upright. Stayed defiant.

One more stepped forward, swaggering like he owned the alley.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he drawled. “You’re not gonna last much longer.”

Sweetheart Guy. Perfect.

Everly grinned through the blood. “Neither are your teeth.”

He swung. She ducked low, pain flaring in her ribs, and drove her boot into his kneecap. He howled, dropped. She followed with a short, brutal strike to his throat. He collapsed, gasping.

That made four down. Groin Boy made five. Broken Nose made six.

“Grab her!” someone barked.

So much for solo attacks. The last two surged forward, one flipping a knife, the other stumbling.

Tiny Knife Guy and Stumbles.

Everything hurt. Her cheekbone throbbed, her ribs pulsed, her vision blurred at the edges. But she planted her feet, shoulders squared, eyes locked. The pain fueled her anger, kept her upright even as her body begged to drop. She shoved back the dark edges creeping into her sight. No passing out. Not now. Not when she was this close to finishing off every ass hat in this alley.

Tiny Knife Guy stepped closer, flipping the blade like it was supposed to scare her.

“I see you’ve got something else tiny on you,” she said, gaze dropping to his crotch with a smirk.

He barreled toward her. Stumbles followed. She ducked, twisted, pain screaming through her side. Somehow she slipped between them, her body moving on pure adrenaline. Stumbles just stared, stunned, watching her weave through them like smoke.

She snatched the knife from Tiny’s hand mid-spin, flipping it in her palm with a twirl that even surprised her. Jeez. Adrenaline really did mess with your reflexes.

Before they could regroup, she moved.

She hurled the stolen knife at the ground between their feet. Not to hit, just to make them flinch. It worked. Stumbles and Tiny jerked back, colliding with each other.

She charged Stumbles while he was still off balance. A sharp shove to his chest sent him skidding on the slick pavement, arms flailing as he toppled over Tiny. Both went down in a tangle of limbs and curses.

“Six,” she rasped.

Tiny Knife Guy scrambled up and grabbed for her arm. She twisted, using his momentum to yank him forward. His shoulder slammed into the brick wall. He staggered, dazed, out of the fight.

“Seven.”

Ever exhaled, shaky but triumphant.

Seven down, eight counting Broken Nose.

The alley finally quieted enough for her heartbeat to thunder in her ears.

“We’ll deal with her later!” one of them shouted as they scrambled to collect their fallen.

“You’re dead, Ever girl!” another yelled.

“Next time, you won’t be so lucky!”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t have the breath. Her body was wrecked, nose bleeding, ribs bruised, cheek swelling. Her hoodie clung to her like a second skin, soaked and heavy. Her boots squelched with every step, each one a reminder she was still alive. She reached down and grabbed the knife she’d flung at the last two guys she’d fought.

She turned and ran, every movement stiff and aching. The alley twisted, unfamiliar. No landmarks. No signs. Just wet pavement and flickering streetlights.

She had no idea where she was.

And that scared her more than the fight.

The rain picked up, slapping her sideways like it had a personal vendetta. Her hoodie was soaked and heavy. Her boots squelched with every step.

She needed a motel. A shower. A miracle. And a route that didn’t involve the testosterone doom patrol.

But first, she needed to disappear.

“Should’ve taken the damn bus,” she muttered, voice low and bitter. “Should’ve taken Mason’s offer. Hell, should’ve taken a different life while I was at it.”

A trash bin rattled behind her. She spun, heart thudding, raising her fists, but it was just a cat. Or a raccoon. Hard to tell in the blur of rain and adrenaline.

She turned down another alley, an unfamiliar, narrower, filthier one. Her pace slowed. Her breath came in ragged bursts. Her body screamed at her to stop, to collapse, to just let the concrete swallow her whole.

Ever’s instinct, grit, and a whole lot of rage were at an all-time high. She rounded the corner, boots slipping for what felt like the millionth time, and a furious thought snapped through her:

Fantastic. At this point, she wasn’t fighting like a badass. She was sliding around like some trash‑slime ice skater, and not the graceful kind. She had excellent balance most nights. Tonight, just really, really sucked.

And then she practically ran into another group of men.

She skidded to a stop. Again, boots sliding out from under her like the alley was personally offended by her existence. She windmilled, caught herself, and blinked through the rain.

Four men stepped out of the wall.

Literally.

One second, the brick beside the dumpster was solid, and the next, it rippled as someone had stomped in a puddle. Four overly muscled men walked straight out of it.

Everly froze, knife still in hand, blood dripping from her nose, her ribs screaming. Her brain, already fried from the fight, just… gave up. Short-circuited. Rebooted. Whatever.

Not being dramatic…these guys looked like they had a fan club dedicated to the original Terminator movie.

She blinked hard, rain stinging her eyes. “Okay… what the hell…”

One filled out a leather jacket like her best wet dream. They didn’t see her. Or maybe they did and didn’t care. One brushed past her shoulder, nearly knocking her into the wall.

“Hey!” she snapped, stumbling. “Watch it, assholes!”

The group halted.

“Men do not walk out of walls,” she said aloud, voice flat with disbelief. “That’s not a thing.”

She backed away from them, heart hammering, eyes darting. Her boot caught on a broken pipe, and she stumbled sideways, right into another rank of dumpsters.

Everly blinked again and rubbed her eyes. “Because big-ass men do not walk out of walls.” Did she say that out loud again? Probably…

Their eyes glowed faintly, a mix of amber, silver, and violet. One dropped the cigarette from his mouth. Another stepped back, nostrils flaring. A tattooed one stiffened, hand twitching near his belt. The silver-haired one tilted his head, braid swaying like a pendulum.

“She sees us,” one whispered, voice cracking.

“No way,” another breathed. “She’s human. Humans can’t see through the wards.”

Everly crossed her arms, heart hammering, but face locked in defiance. The tallest one raised a brow. “You’re bleeding.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” she snapped, wiping her face with her sleeve. “I just played dodgeball with a gang of testosterone junkies.”

The men exchanged glances, uneasy, confused, almost wary. One stepped forward, hands raised in a gesture of peace.

She didn’t lower the knife.

Behind her, the gang still shouted, their voices echoing through the alley. She was out of time.

“Look,” she said, voice cracking. “Get out of my way. I’m not in the mood to bleed twice tonight.”

The leather-jacketed one stepped closer, head tilted like a curious animal. He leaned in and sniffed her shoulder, breath warm against her skin.

Everly recoiled. “What the hell, dude?” She shoved him hard in the chest, her hand slick against the leather. The knife in her grip instinctively lifted toward his neck. She was done. Absolutely done. They all needed to get out of her way before she face planted right here in front of them. Her head was scrambled from the hits she had taken, her thoughts slipping like her boots on the pavement, and she was pretty sure she was one breath away from needing the ER.

He barely moved. But the reaction was instant.

All four men growled.

A cold spike of panic shot through her foggy brain. What the actual hell… Four oversized men had just walked out of a freaking wall, and here she was, shoving them, threatening them, acting like she wasn’t seconds from blacking out. Her vision wobbled at the edges, her ribs screamed, and her knees threatened mutiny.

Anger and fear tangled in her chest, sharp, stupid, loud, and underneath it all, a dizzy, traitorous thought whispered that fainting in front of wall-walking giants was probably the worst possible life choice.

Maybe she was having a full-blown mental breakdown. Maybe going a week on fewer than five meals was finally catching up to her.

Her breath caught. Her mouth, always faster than her brain, fired off pure survival sass. “What are you, some cult? Street magicians? Cosplayers with boundary issues?”

The silver-haired one narrowed his eyes. “You shouldn’t be able to see us. You shouldn’t even be in this alley. The redirection wards should have turned you around long before the portal.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be so damn rude,” Everly shot back. “Nearly knocked me into a dumpster.”

They stared at her like she was a glitch in their reality.

The youngest one, tall with dark curls and a leather jacket, the same one she had just held a knife to. His gaze dragged up her body like he was scanning for something hidden.

“She smells human…” he muttered. Then quieter, almost to himself, “But she’s seeing through everything. The wards. The glamour. All of it.”

Everly blinked hard. When had she lowered the knife? She didn’t remember pulling it back. Her hand felt empty and wrong, like she had misplaced something important. Her vision swayed, the alley tilting. She reached out without thinking and steadied herself against the leather jacket guy’s chest.

Solid. Warm. Too solid.

He caught her arms on instinct, holding her upright before she could hit the ground. His eyes widened, something startled and almost electric flickering across his expression.

The silver-haired one growled low, voice sharp and commanding. “Riven, back up. Something’s wrong. She resisted the redirection spells. No human should be able to stand here.”

Think? Everly was trying. Really trying. But her brain felt like it was sloshing inside her skull. Running sounded great. Screaming sounded better. Bolting into the rain sounded like the best idea she had ever had. But her legs refused to move. Her body locked, frozen, while her mind shrieked for action.

The curly-haired one didn’t wait.

“I don’t think she’s human,” he murmured, eyes unfocused, as if he wasn’t talking to them anymore. “Maybe she’s something else…”

He reached for her wrist.

Everly barely had time to gasp. The moment his skin touched hers, something sparked under her own. A tiny jolt, like static or lightning or recognition. His breath hitched. His grip tightened.

“Riven, no!” the silver-haired guy barked, voice cracking with fury.

Too late.

Her feet left the pavement. The wall loomed, solid and wet, and she braced for impact. Pain. Blood. Broken bones.

Instead, the world split.

She didn’t hit the wall. She passed through it.

And it hurt.

The brick didn’t break. It opened, as if her body were torn open. The sensation reminded her of a tin can meeting a can opener, that first brutal twist when the metal lid peels back. If a can could feel anything, she imagined it would feel as if something important were being ripped off her.

For a heartbeat, she existed in both places, half in the rain-soaked alley, half in something else. Somewhere between. The air tasted like metal and ozone and something she couldn’t name, something that smelled like color. Her bones felt like they were being unmade, not broken, unmade and pulled apart at a molecular level, and reassembled wrong.

Pain tore through her chest, her spine, her skull. Fire bloomed beneath her skin, light she could feel but not see, as if her veins had been replaced with lightning. Her blood didn’t boil; it sang, high and sharp and wrong. Gravity twisted sideways. Up became irrelevant. Her stomach tried to revolt, but she had no sense of where her stomach was anymore.

She tried to scream, but sound bent around her, warping into shapes that pressed against her ribs. The world bled colors that shouldn’t exist, violet threaded with gold, a blue so deep it felt like falling, green that tasted like iron. Her consciousness stretched thin, pulled like taffy across a void that hummed with something alive.

This is dying, she thought. This is what it feels like when your soul gets shredded.

But she wasn’t dying.

She was crossing.

A scream finally ripped out of her, warped and half-sobbed, echoing across dimensions.

Then the wall swallowed her whole.