Chapter Three – Through the Cracks

MALIA

I waited a minute longer before retracing my steps, keeping to the shadows as I moved, the cat no longer nestled in my arms but trailing me a few paces behind, its eyes glinting in the dark like twin mirrors of my nerves. Everything felt sharper now—the wind scraping across broken concrete, the flicker of movement in my peripheral vision, the dull ache in my side from slamming into the wall earlier. What had felt like a reckless curiosity only moments ago now pulsed with the weight of something far more dangerous.

This time, I moved with greater care. I stayed low, ducking behind rusted-out cars and old barrels that reeked of stale oil. The factory lot stretched out before me like the husk of something forgotten, crumbling under time and secrets. My breath came in shallow bursts, and my ears strained for any hint of footsteps. There were none. The guards who had been stationed near the entrance were gone without a trace, and while a part of me wanted to believe it was pure luck, another part whispered that nothing about this place happened by accident.

Still, I couldn't afford to waste the opening.

I crossed the broken pavement until I reached the edge of the main building. The first door I tried didn’t budge—no give, no click, just the solid resistance of a lock that hadn’t been turned in years. I clenched my jaw and backed away, scanning for any sign of another entrance. That’s when I noticed a narrow passage between two sections of the structure—just a sliver of space between the old brick walls, barely wide enough for a body to slide through.

Before I could think twice, voices echoed around the corner, growing louder with each step. Deep, casual, but carrying the kind of tension that made my pulse spike.

I darted toward the narrow gap and squeezed in sideways, flattening myself against the cold, crumbling wall. The air inside the passage was stale and clung to my throat, too tight to breathe properly. My heart thundered as two men passed by, their boots striking the pavement just inches from where I stood. I couldn't see their faces, only the faint murmur of their conversation and the shape of their silhouettes slicing across the alley.

They didn’t notice me.

I stayed pressed against the wall long after their voices faded, waiting for the tension to uncoil just enough for me to move again. The narrow space eventually widened, allowing me to slip out into the back lot. My limbs ached, my coat was dusted with dirt and grime, but I didn’t stop. I needed to find my father before whatever meeting he was attending escalated beyond what he could talk his way out of.

That’s when I heard him.

His voice floated through the air—strained, pleading, thick with desperation. I followed the sound, creeping along the side of the building until I reached a narrow wall with a small, broken window just above eye level. I rose onto my toes and pressed myself against the cold brick, angling my ear upward until I

could make out the words clearly.

“Please, Don. I beg of you,” my father said, his voice trembling like brittle glass. “My daughter needed something for school. That’s why I missed the payment. I didn’t mean—”

A sharp crack cut through the air, followed by a low grunt of pain. I flinched. My fingers dug into the edge of the brick, anchoring me as my heart tumbled in my chest.

Something for school? How could that possibly be expensive enough to miss a seemingly big payment?

That was his excuse?

Even I could tell it was a lie. A flimsy, pathetic one. The silence that followed felt colder than the wind brushing against my back. Whoever he was talking to didn’t buy it—and neither did I.

Another voice responded, deeper and more composed. There was no yelling, no swearing, just a calm edge that sent shivers crawling down my spine.

“You’re not very good at this, Owen.”

Owen. That was my father’s name. Hearing it spoken like that—with total disgust—rattled me.

“I’m starting to think you want to be made an example of.”

The next sound was worse than the first.

My stomach flipped, and I stepped back from the wall, every instinct screaming to get inside. I needed to see him. To stop this. To understand what kind of mess he’d buried us in.

That’s when the damn cat reappeared, winding between my legs. I stumbled, startled, and caught my foot on a protruding piece of metal hidden beneath the weeds.

The cat yowled and bolted as I crashed to the ground.

Pain ripped through my side, hot and immediate. I gasped, one hand flying to the source, only to feel the wet warmth of blood soaking through the layers of my clothes. I’d landed against a rusted beam, and something sharp—probably a nail—had torn straight through the fabric and into my skin.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe.

Adrenaline surged, and I shoved myself upright, clutching my ribs with one arm as I scanned the side of the building for another entrance. The window above me was too high. The door nearby was still locked. I limped forward, trying to ignore the sharp sting in every movement.

I saw a second window, smaller, closer to the ground, half-covered by an old metal awning. It was cracked open, just enough.

I didn’t hesitate.

Dragging myself forward, I gritted my teeth and hoisted myself up. My jacket snagged on the frame, and I bit back a curse, forcing my body through the tight opening. I landed on the other side with a thud, not graceful but silent enough.

The air inside was thick—damp and metallic, laced with the scent of rust and old oil. Corrugated walls loomed around me, their surfaces sweating with age, and I pressed myself into the shadows, wiping my bloody hand against the fabric of my jeans. My side throbbed in time with my pulse, but I pushed forward anyway, guided by the echo of muffled voices bleeding through the open gaps in the structure.

I could hear him again—my father—his voice rasping, strained with pain.

And then the other man’s voice returned, smoother now, almost amused.

“I’m not heartless,” he said slowly. “But I do expect honesty.”

Something scraped against the concrete floor—maybe a chair, maybe something worse. My father whimpered.

“I give people one chance, Owen. You know that. No more.”

That voice—it wasn’t just cold. It was ice in my veins.

But worse than that?

It felt familiar.

Like something I’d heard in a memory I couldn’t quite reach—distant, blurred, but lingering.

I crept closer, skimming my fingers along the edge of a rusted support beam, ducking behind stacked crates and broken machinery. Just one glimpse. One look. That’s all I needed.

I had to see who was hurting him.

And maybe—just maybe—I needed to know what kind of man could make my father beg like that.