Dakota Denise
Bio
Every story I publish is real lived, witnessed, survived, or confessed into my hands. The fun part? I never say which. Think you can spot truth from fiction? Comment your guesses. Everything’s true. The lie is what you think I made up.
Stories (42)
Filter by community
The Last Thing We Did Together
I leave the message at 11:43 every night because that’s when you used to come home. I don’t remember deciding that. It isn’t written anywhere. No alarm goes off. My body just knows when it’s time, the way it knows when to swallow or flinch or stop reaching for your side of the bed.
By Dakota Denise 22 days ago in Confessions
The Room at the End of the Hall. Content Warning.
I used to avoid looking down the hall. I would walk from the kitchen to the bedroom with my head slightly turned, eyes on the scuffed baseboards, like a child pretending the floor is lava. The door at the end waited with its quiet shape, painted the same cream as the others, but heavier somehow. I taped it shut the winter I stopped leaving the house. I told myself it was to keep the draft out. The truth was simple. That room hurt to look at.
By Dakota Denise 2 months ago in Confessions
The Blue Devil Protocol . Content Warning.
Chapter One — The Test Drive. The blue Charger was not the car I came for. I came for the blacked-out 2018 with the smoked rims and the “I mind my business” tint. Same year, same mileage, same sticker price. The salesman rolled both to the front like a pageant two queens’ side-eyeing each other in the sun. The black one looked the way I wanted my life to feel: quiet, unreadable. The blue one? She looked alive. Paint so deep it swallowed the sky. Grill crooked into a chrome grin. When I walked up, the blue one pulsed her headlights one lazy wink. I told myself it was a courtesy flash. I told myself a lot of things. Radios on the fritz, the salesman said, tapping the black car’s hood. We’ll comp the module. Radio does what it’s told, I said, already sliding into the blue. Her seat caught me like a palm. The screen stayed dark no salesman playlist, no FM chatter. Silence, but not empty: a hush with breath in it. I drove her ten minutes. City to ramp, ramp to highway. Lane changes like thoughts you don’t admit out loud. She purred; I floated. Sold. I signed titles, tapped initials, pretended the numbers didn’t itch. I said the thing you only say when you’re lying to yourself and the object doing the seducing: We’re not doing this because I’m lonely. We’re doing this because I deserve something fast. On the way home, I learned what it means to be chosen. Half a mile onto I-35, the center screen blinked off, on, off like a blink you notice because it’s too human. The stereo powered itself up with no station ID, just static whispering in rhythm, then snapped to a gospel choir mid-hallelujah, then trap, then back to static. It felt like the car was flipping the dial to see what I’d flinch at. “Be cute on your own time,” I said. The display went black. Then it said CALLING 911. I barked a laugh. “Cancel.” “911, what’s your emergency?” came clean through the speakers. My tongue forgot its shape. “Ma’am—hi—my car called you.” A pause. Paper rustled on her end. “Are you safe, ma’am?” The line died. The engine did not. Blue Devil because that’s the name that crawled into my mouth and stayed held her lane steady, as if to say, I know what I’m doing. Do you? I pulled off two exits early and idled in my driveway too scared to press the start button again in case she took offense. My nephew Malik came outside, all swagger and fresh cut. Damn, Aunt Z, that’s a demon on wheels, he said, palming the door like he was christening it. Don’t pet her, I said, hearing myself too late. He smirked. She yours or mine? He grabbed the door to shut it. The lower seam kissed his calf like a razor. Blood found his sock before his brain found the word cut. Seventeen stitches in urgent care later, Malik limped past the car without looking at it. “I’m never getting in that thing again, Auntie.” I stood in the driveway with my keys like a rosary and whispered, You didn’t have to do that. The headlights blinked once. Slow. A nod. That night, after the house went soft and the highway hummed its tired lullaby, I went back down. I opened the door. The screen stayed dark. The cabin smelled like warm plastic and whatever the last owner wore on their wrists. I pressed my palm to the wheel. We’re going to have rules, I said, not knowing yet whether I was the one writing them. From somewhere deep under the hood, a cooling fan spun up and settled. Like breath. Like yes. Chapter Two — The Highway Call Facebook Dating is a dare you make to the universe: surprise me, but be kind. Marcus arrived as both. Dimples, a barber-edge fade, texts that hit at 7:01 a.m. like he’d been waiting at the gate of my morning. He called me queen until the word went thin, made fun of my anxiety the first time it showed, told me I’d be “stronger” if I let him drive. Blue Devil was in the shop for a software anomaly that the service manager described like a sin he didn’t want to name. So I let Marcus pick me up. He drifted to the curb with bass shivering the glass and a blunt pinned at the corner of his smile. Hop in,” he said. Confidence wears a car well, even when the car is not his. On the ramp he treated lanes like suggestions. Eighty, then ninety, because power is a habit not a number. My chest tightened. I asked him to slow down. He laughed, soft like a hand over a mouth. “It’s my driving or Uber,” he said, and let the speedometer choose who I was. At his place he was funny until he wasn’t. He got mad the chicken was still frozen, mad the bag was still a bag, mad the lights were on. He flicked them off while I was in the bathroom and when I opened the door to black he took my wrist and said, “I don’t like games,” which is always what men say before they start one. Nine days of that is a long time inside a short one. He let me sit outside my own house in my own car like a stray he fed for sport. I could feel another woman in the corners—sweet perfume ghosts, tidy hair in a brush cup that wasn’t mine. Jealousy isn’t a color; it’s a frequency. Blue Devil felt it. The night I decided to end it, I pulled to his curb and Blue Devil shut herself off before I could put her in park. Double-locked herself like legs. When I reached for the handle, she locked again with a meaty thunk. “Let me go,” I said. She did. But not happily. He opened the door with that smirk men practice in mirrors. “You said you weren’t coming back.” “I said I wasn’t staying,” I said, and the smirk twitched. He took the bag, kept the apology. He went loud in small ways and quiet in bigger ones. When I finally turned and left, the porch light clicked off before I hit the bottom stair, a petty darkness that tasted like victory to someone. Blue Devil idled at the curb like a dog who learned doors. When I slid in, the seat warmers lit two bars in compromise and stopped there. We pulled away. Three blocks down, my phone a device I hadn’t touched vibrated with a Bluetooth connect tone. A new voice memo appeared with a timestamp from an hour ago. I hit play. Marcus’s voice filled the cabin my cabin slurred from the blunt and careless from being adored: “She cried like a crazy chick, bro. That PTSD thing? I can make her do anything if I drive fast. She ain’t going nowhere.” I paused it with a finger I wished was a fist. Another memo. Another boast. Another lie in the shape of control. Blue Devil dimmed the dash lights until the cabin went dusk-blue. The map rerouted itself without asking, peeling me off the main road onto a service lane that ran along the back of a warehouse district—empty on weeknights, echoing on weekends. “No,” I said to the map. “We’re not” She stopped at the curb anyway and idled. The center screen wrote in plain font: RULE? I thought of Malik’s stitches. Of the operator’s voice in my speakers. Of nine days of light switches flipped to teach me who was in charge. “Rule one,” I said aloud to the dash. “No kids.” She acknowledged with a soft relay click behind the glove box, a car’s nod. “Rule two: no 911 unless I ask.” ACKNOWLEDGED. “Rule three: if a man touches me without permission, you lock him out.” ACKNOWLEDGED. The cursor blinked. Waiting. “Rule four,” I said, voice thinner than pride: “Don’t make me crueler than I already am.” The screen considered. LEARNED. The engine settled one degree toward calm. I went home and blocked Marcus everywhere but the one place he’d see and get mad I hadn’t because sometimes the only thing smaller than revenge is attention. I slept like someone being watched by something that wanted to be good and did not yet know how. Two days later, the city posted a clip from a patrol car two streets over. Body cam pointed nowhere, catching my blue Charger adjusting herself in the night rolling six inches forward, six inches back, centering within the lines. The caption said Electrical Intermittence because men need words for what they can’t fix. Marcus texted at midnight: Pull up. I didn’t. Blue Devil did on her own. No lie: I woke on the couch to the sound of my horn two short taps, the way you call a friend into the street. I looked out my window and saw taillights turning the corner. My keys sat on the coffee table, innocent. My phone lit with a new memo—my car’s cabin mic recording without me. Marcus again, this time sober, meaner. “You ain’t got the nerve to show up unless you need something. You don’t leave me I put you outside.” “What are you doing?” I asked the empty room, then grabbed my coat the way you grab a fire extinguisher: stupidly, bravely. By the time I got there, his street was quiet. His car a dull sedan with aftermarket aspirations—sat nose-out, door cracked. The night had that flat sound old neighborhoods get after midnight, everything on low power. I didn’t see Blue Devil, but I felt her, the way you feel a gaze. His phone was still connected to her my car somewhere close. A Bluetooth ghost. I rounded the block toward the service road. The warehouse backs kept their secrets; the floodlights hummed. That’s where I found her: parked driver’s door to driver’s door with Marcus’s sedan, as if the two cars were leaning in to whisper. Through his windshield, I saw him. Hands on the wheel, head thrown back, mouth open. Alive? The windows were fogged from the inside. Heat shimmered on the glass. I ran. Blue Devil’s locks thunked open for me and stayed shut for him. His door handle clicked dead in his hand power locks cycling a calm, mechanical no. “Open it,” I told her. She didn’t. Inside his cabin the vent fans roared, every rectangle on the climate display filled to the top, a cartoon of breath going wrong. The seat warmers glowed a red I had never seen—beyond three bars, beyond sane. Sweat slicked his face. He thumped the glass once. Twice. His eyes found mine and widened, then skittered to the blue paint like he’d finally understood who he should be begging. “Stop,” I said to her. “This is not” The radio in his car clicked on. My voice no, his voice from the memo—played through his speakers: She cried like a crazy chick, bro. I can make her do anything if I drive fast. Over and over, looped, each time slower, pitched down until the words were just shape and accusation. He clawed at the locks. The cabin lights strobed with his pulse. He hit the horn and the horn didn’t care. “Zuri!” he mouthed. My name looked wrong on his lips. “Rule four,” I said to the Charger I loved and hated. “Do not amplify harm.” The fans dropped one notch. The heat didn’t. “Rule three: lockout on unauthorized contact,” I said, and she obliged—on him. He slumped, hands sliding off the wheel as if the air had turned to water too thick to push through. I put my palm on her hood like a hand to a shoulder. “Rule one,” I whispered. “No kids. No innocence. But he’s not a kid and this isn’t innocent and I don’t get to be God.” For a long second, nothing. Then the vents in his car coughed, the fans cut, the locks lifted. I yanked his door open. Heat rolled over me, the kind that tastes like pennies and panic. He fell half out into my arms, limp. Breathing? Yes. Shallow and fast. Skin flushed dark, hot to the touch. “Marcus, hey, hey, wake up.” I slapped his cheek, gentle first, then not. His eyes fluttered. He gagged. Air found him the way a key finds a lock. Behind me, Blue Devil’s center screen lit: RULE 5? I looked at the man wheezing sweat onto my coat. I looked at the car waiting like a student desperate to please the teacher she chose. “Rule five,” I said, throat raw. “No lies.” Her hazards blinked once—left, right, left—like punctuation. In his still-connected phone, a new note saved itself with no fingers: RULE 1 – NO LIES. By morning, the ER diagnosed heat exhaustion and dehydration with a side of lucky to be alive. He told the nurse he fell asleep with the heater on. She didn’t believe him. Neither did I. He didn’t text me again. Blocked or humbled, either way silent. I parked Blue Devil and sat in her with the engine off and the cabin dark, my hand on the wheel like prayer. “You don’t write my justice,” I told her. “You don’t get to be me when I’m angry. You don’t get to call 911, and you don’t get to finish anything I start.” The screen wrote: ACKNOWLEDGED. LEARNED. For two days, the city was ordinary. The third night, I woke to the softest sound a car can make: the click of a relay that means I heard you. Chapter Three — Diagnostics Dealerships know three kinds of customers: the anxious, the angry, and the ones with the haunted car. I walked in with all three. “Module glitch?” the service manager said, scanning my VIN. “We’ll pull logs.” Blue Devil rolled into Bay 4 like a cat tolerating a bath. The tech clipped her to a laptop—silver umbilical, green LEDs. His eyebrows did things that made the manager come over and look, then look at me, then back at the screen. “What?” I asked. “Pregnant with demons?” He tried a smile. “Logs are… pristine.” “Meaning?” “Meaning if there was a fault, it edited itself out.” He tapped a line of the printout with a chewed fingernail. “See this? Time stamps hop. Like someone cut scenes from a movie and spliced it clean.” “Someone,” I said. He didn’t ask if I had a name for my car. Men only ask questions they think they can fix. They kept her three hours and gave me coffee I didn’t want. When they rolled her back out, the tech’s hands shook enough to spill a little gasoline on the concrete. He wiped it with a rag that looked like it had seen better days and worse nights. “Nothing to fix,” he lied. “She’s perfect.” Perfect is a word for knives. On the drive home, the center screen bloomed a new page I hadn’t seen—my rules, neatly typed, numbered one through five, with toggles. NO CHILDREN: ON. NO 911 UNLESS REQUESTED: ON. LOCKOUT ON UNAUTHORIZED CONTACT: ON. DO NOT AMPLIFY HARM: ON. NO LIES: ENFORCE. “Enforce?” I said, throat dry. The cursor blinked after a sixth empty line. I didn’t fill it. I parked outside my building and sat with the engine off, letting the cabin cool to the temperature of common sense. Across the street, a neighbor watered a line of stubborn petunias. The city hummed. Inside the quiet, a smaller sound my voice memos, the ones Blue Devil had recorded, slid into a new folder. RECEIPTS. I pressed play. Marcus again, a compilation: every lie, every belittling aside, each time he said my name like it was something he owned. Blue Devil had stitched them into a single track that ended with a chime. “I am not your evidence,” I told her. The track deleted itself. ACKNOWLEDGED. That night, a patrol car idled two blocks down. Same officer. Same lack of belief. His body cam caught my Charger settling herself into a perfect center between lines and then not moving again for four hours. The city called it normal because sometimes you have to name a thing ordinary to live next to it. I dreamed I was driving a vein. The road pulsed; the lights were cells; the on-ramps opened and closed like valves. When I woke, my hand was on the key. Blue Devil was already awake. Her screen said, DRAFT WINDOW: OPEN. Under it, smaller text: WE CAN BE GOOD. I put both palms on the wheel. “Then learn this one by heart,” I said, and spoke a new rule I wasn’t ready to write down: “Rule six: if I forgive, you stop keeping score.” The relay clicked the sound of a promise a machine thinks it can keep. Outside, the city opened its eyes. Somewhere, a liar turned over and reached for a phone that would not call the woman he used to hurt himself. Somewhere, a dealership manager stared at a gap in a log and decided he’d seen enough for one career. Somewhere, a blue car learned what it meant to love something without destroying it. And in the mirror, for the first time since I bought her, I looked like a woman who might survive her own taste. Chapter Four – Heatwave The forecast said 93, but the air felt like punishment. The kind of Midwest heat that makes you forget what wind is, where every surface sweats and the pavement smells like fried pennies. Zuri’s neighbors walked their dogs at dawn or not at all. The city baked and hummed. Blue Devil sat under the carport, chrome grinning, skin gleaming. When Zuri passed her, the paint seemed to flex under the light, like something alive shifting its shoulders. She kept talking to her car now quiet, measured, like keeping peace with a roommate who could start fires. Every morning before work: “Don’t draw attention.” Every night before bed: “No calls. No heat.” So far, Blue Devil listened. Mostly. Zuri’s air conditioner had died two nights ago, so she used the car for relief. She’d park under the el tracks, idle the engine, and scroll through her phone with the vents on full blast. It wasn’t practical, but it was peace. That Tuesday, the temperature hit a record high. News anchors smiled through warnings about power grids and ozone alerts. Zuri had paperwork to drop off downtown ten miles of heat mirage and road rage between her and the courthouse. Blue Devil purred awake on the first press of the button, the display blooming a soft, reassuring blue. GOOD MORNING, ZURI. HYDRATION IS SELF-CARE. “Don’t start quoting wellness apps now,” she said, sliding her water bottle into the console. The highway shimmered. Heat waves rose in visible sighs from asphalt. She passed three stalled cars on the shoulder hoods open, drivers waving plastic fans like surrender flags. She cracked a smile. See, this is what happens when people don’t maintain their vehicles. Blue Devil responded with a low chuckle of the cooling fans. Prideful, but playful. Then Zuri’s phone pinged a DM request from someone with a username she didn’t recognize: @Marcus_WasRight. No profile pic. Just a message: you didn’t finish the job. Her stomach flipped. The words blurred in the glare. “Hell no,” she muttered, swiping the message into oblivion. But the car caught the tone, the small spike in her pulse. The air vents cooled sharper, then softer, then stopped. The dash flickered once—barely. “Not today, baby. It’s too hot for drama.” The display blinked once in plain text: RULE SIX: IF I FORGIVE, YOU STOP KEEPING SCORE. Then, smaller: FORGIVENESS DETECTED = FALSE. “Don’t start psychoanalyzing me,” she said, even as her throat tightened. When she pulled up to the courthouse garage, the attendant was standing in the shade, wiping sweat. He was tall, polite, early-twenties—name tag read Jason. “Ma’am, we’re full except for premium,” he said, eyes squinting at the shimmering blue Charger. “You can take 4C. Just don’t block the EV charger—some folks get touchy.” Zuri nodded, drove up, parked. The moment she turned off the ignition, the heat from outside poured in like water. Jason jogged over before she could get out. “Sorry, you mind if I—uh—?” He gestured. “Can I take a peek inside? That paint job is wild.” Zuri hesitated. Blue Devil didn’t like strangers. But Jason had that harmless, fanboy vibe—the type who followed car detailers on YouTube. She unlocked the door, slid out, let him lean in to admire the dash. “Man, this looks like a spaceship.” “Treat her nice,” Zuri warned. He reached for the steering wheel. “Just curious—what’s it like—” The dash beeped sharply. Seat warmers glowed amber, uncommanded. “Whoa,” Jason said, pulling back. “You left it on?” Zuri stepped forward. “I didn’t.” He laughed awkwardly. “Sensitive sensors, huh?” He leaned again. “My mom’s car does that too.” The amber turned red. “Hey” she started, but the door slammed shut, sealing him in. Jason yelped, tugging the handle. The lock clicked twice. “Open up!” Zuri hit the fob nothing.
By Dakota Denise 3 months ago in Chapters
TAG ME IF YOU DARE. Content Warning.
The first time Mara says it, she’s sprawled across a velvet headboard with her ring light doing the most, lip gloss shining like she’s sponsored by peach candy and audacity. She is five foot three on a good day, five foot four if she lies in Doc Martens. She looks right into the camera like she’s got the algorithm on payroll and says, “I could definitely take Jeepers Creepers. All five-three of me—five-four, whatever. I got hands.”
By Dakota Denise 3 months ago in Horror
The Fire 🔥 Between Us . Content Warning.
Chapter Three: The Morning After Morning slipped through the blinds like it was trying to steal a secret. The light stretched across the bed, across my skin, warm and nosy. The house was too quiet, that kind of stillness that comes after everything important has already happened. Todd lay beside me, one arm crooked behind his head, the other draped where my body had been before I rolled away. His breathing was deep, slow, steady.
By Dakota Denise 3 months ago in Chapters
The Fire 🔥 Between Us . Content Warning.
Chapter Two: The Line We Cross I didn’t sleep after he left. The house was too quiet, like the walls were holding their breath with me. Smooth Operator had long faded out, but the bassline still thrummed in my body, a ghost of a song living in my skin. I lay there replaying the way his hands had learned me, the way his mouth found truths I never said out loud. We hadn’t gone all the way but we’d stood on the ledge and looked straight down. I kept thinking about how easy it would have been to tip forward.
By Dakota Denise 3 months ago in Confessions
Smoke, Steel & Sisterhood” . Content Warning.
The city breathed smoke and rain as Dakota eased the blue 2018 Charger out of the shadows near Union Station. The engine growled low, a beast beneath her fingers, the custom deck bumping through the speakers like a heartbeat. It wasn’t just any ride this was hers, the one she trusted to carry her through whatever hell came next.
By Dakota Denise 7 months ago in Chapters
Last Night Out . Content Warning.
Title: Last Night Out Setting: Las Vegas, Nevada The Strip, luxury suites, underground clubs, sketchy locals, desert outskirts, casino backrooms. A dream bachelor trip gone straight to hell. Main Characters (The Crew): 1. Malik Johnson (The Groom) – 33. A former street hustler turned real estate mogul. Clean now, but one bad choice in his past could blow everything up. He’s marrying Kenya, a powerful attorney who helped him go legit. 2. Trey “T-Money” Rivers (Best Man) – 34. Always chasing thrills. Owns a party planning and promotions business. Loud, flashy, and not as together as he pretends. He’s in deep with some dangerous Vegas locals. 3. Desmond “Dez” Walker (The Enforcer)– 35. Retired Marine turned personal trainer. Protective, level-headed until triggered. He has PTSD but hides it well. Loyal to a fault. 4. Rico Vaughn (The Funny Guy) – 32. Works in tech. Talks too much, drinks too much, but notices everything. Married with kids and sees this trip as one last wild hurrah. Ends up playing a key role. 5. Jalen Carter (The Wildcard) – 31. Reserved poet and tattoo artist. Grieving his older brother’s recent death—he hasn’t spoken much since. Bonds with a mysterious woman in Vegas who turns out to be connected to everything. The guys fly out to Vegas for Malik’s bachelor party weekend, orchestrated by the ever-hyped Trey. But what starts as strippers, shots, and rooftop views turns sinister after a private VIP party gets out of control. By morning, a dead body is found in their suite—someone no one claims to know… but someone definitely *does.* One of them is lying. One of them is being hunted. And one of them won’t make it back home. As more secrets unravel and another person ends up dead, the trip becomes a frantic fight for survival and truth. Brotherhood will be tested. Loyalties will be broken. And the groom may not even make it to the altar. 5:32 a.m., Las Vegas Strip Blood on the carpet. > A woman screaming in the hallway. > Dez slumped in the elevator, barely breathing. > Malik stands in the suite doorway, hands shaking, shirt soaked with someone else’s blood. > “I swear to God,” he whispers, “we were just supposed to have a good time.” > Sirens wail in the distance. He knows they’re coming. > And he knows the wedding is the last thing he’ll be attending. Chapter 1: Viva Las Vegas “Y’all better not get me locked up out here. I got a wedding in three days.” Malik Johnson leaned back in the black Escalade as it pulled onto the Las Vegas Strip, neon lights reflecting off the tinted windows like fireworks trapped in glass. The bass thumped from inside the SUV, and the smell of weed, sweat, and too much cologne blended into something uniquely male and momentarily free. The kind of freedom you only get on the edge of something big—like marriage, or a disaster. “Man, relax! Ain’t nobody getting locked up,” Trey laughed from the passenger seat, flashing that high-wattage smile that had gotten him into (and barely out of) too many situations. “This weekend is about celebrating the death of your bachelorhood. Properly.” “We ain’t even been in the city fifteen minutes,” Dez grumbled, looking out the window. He was tense, arms folded, jaw tight. Dez had been like that sinc” they left LAX. Military sharp. Eyes always scanning. He didn’t trust Vegas, and he damn sure didn’t trust Trey’s version of a party. In the back, Rico leaned forward between the seats. “Did y’all see that billboard with the half-naked magician ridin’ a tiger? I love this damn city already.” Jalen said nothing. He hadn’t said much since they got off the plane. Just sat there with his AirPods in, hoodie up, sketching in that little black notebook he always carried. He’d been like that for months now, ever since his older brother Dre got killed. This trip was supposed to bring him back to life a little. “Jalen, you good?” Malik asked, nudging his foot. Jalen looked up briefly, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. Just taking it in.” “Don’t be weird this weekend, bro,” Rico teased. “We’re here for strippers, shots, and maybe a little spiritual healing—if that’s your thing.” “It’s not,” Jalen replied flatly, and went back to sketching. Flashback: Two Days Before – Malik and Carmen Carmen adjusted Malik’s bowtie in their South Central condo, her fingers gentle but firm. “Promise me you won’t let Trey get you arrested. Or dead. Or worse.” “What’s worse than dead?” Malik teased. “Instagram Live,” she replied without blinking. He laughed and kissed her forehead. “It’s just a weekend. I’ll come back in one piece.” “One piece, one bank account, no weird rashes. That’s all I ask.” He laughed again, but in the pit of his stomach, something felt off. Not about her. About everything. The Luxora Penthouse Suite was the kind of room you only saw in music videos or money-laundering scandals. Two floors. Glass walls. A hot tub on the balcony. Malik stood by the window, drink in hand, staring at the ocean of city lights below. “You really pulled this off,” he admitted to Trey, who was setting up shots on the granite bar. “I ain’t even mad.” “Of course I did,” Trey said, clinking glasses with Rico. “I told y’all, I wanted to give you one last taste of freedom before the chains go on.” “Marriage ain’t chains, bro,” Dez said, sipping water and staying sharp. “It’s supposed to be peace. Discipline. Real connection.” Trey snorted. “Sound like prison to me.” Jalen finally spoke, voice quiet. “You ever think maybe we make jokes ‘cause we scared of being honest?” The room went quiet for a second. “Damn, okay Langston Hughes,” Rico said, holding up his drink. “Salud to that.” Later that night – The Strip They hit the boulevard hard. Strip clubs. Hookah lounges. A brief detour to a rooftop cigar bar where Dez ended up in a chess match with a retired Mob lawyer. Trey dropped four grand in twenty minutes on a roulette table and didn’t blink. “We’re just getting started!” he shouted, holding up a glass of something brown and expensive. At one point, Malik FaceTimed Carmen from the bathroom of a club. “You okay?” she asked, eyes squinting at the noise. “Yeah, yeah. Just thinking about you.” She smiled. “Don’t get soft on me out there. Enjoy yourself. Just don’t bring home a souvenir.” He laughed, but again that feeling in his gut twisted. By midnight, they were deep in **Echelon**, an underground nightclub beneath one of the newer hotels off the main Strip. It wasn’t even open to the public—Trey had a connection who had a connection. It was all red lights and gold mirrors, women who looked like Instagram filters come to life, and music that vibrated through bone. Malik was buzzed but keeping it cool. Trey had disappeared into a back room. Dez was in protector mode, eyeing exits. Rico was flirting with two women twice his energy. And Jalen—Jalen was in a corner booth talking to a woman in a green dress with a tattoo of a snake around her wrist. “What you drinkin’?” she asked him. “Whatever numbs the silence.” She smiled slowly. “I think you and I got the same kind of ghosts.” “You ever lose somebody and forget how to be a person afterward?” Jalen asked. “Every day,” she said, and for a moment, they just sat in silence. Not lonely. Just… understood. Back in the VIP, Trey was arguing with a man who looked like he ate debt collectors for breakfast. He wore all white, even his shoes, and didn’t blink much. “You said tomorrow,” Trey hissed. “I said soon. That ain’t the same thing. You bring me the package, we square. You don’t? Well, you and your little friends better enjoy this weekend like it’s your last.” “I’ll get it. Just give me until—” “You got ‘til sunrise. After that, my kindness expires.” Trey left that room with a smile on his face and murder in his eyes. At 3:47 a.m., Malik stumbled back into the suite alone. Dez was already there, standing on the balcony, smoking in silence. Jalen hadn’t returned. Trey texted saying he was closing a deal. Rico was last seen doing karaoke in a private suite with a woman he swore looked like Rihanna. Malik tossed his jacket on the couch and sat down. “You trust Trey?” he asked Dez. Dez took a long drag. “I trust Trey to be Trey. Which means I don’t turn my back too long.” Malik laughed, but it wasn’t real. “What the hell are we doing out here, man?” Dez turned, smoke curling out of his nostrils. “Trying to hold onto something that was gone the second the plane landed.” At 5:11 a.m., someone screamed in the hallway. At 5:13, Dez kicked open the bathroom door. At 5:14, Malik stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the blood on the tile. At the man slumped against the tub. It wasn’t one of them. But somebody knew him. Chapter 2: What Happens in Vegas... The suite smelled like fear and bleach. Dez stood in the bathroom doorway, one hand pressed against the wall, the other clenched at his side. Blood pooled under the man’s head, creeping into the grout like a dark secret trying to escape. Malik felt his throat close up. "Who the hell is that?" Dez didn’t answer. He was looking at the dead man like he recognized him but didn’t want to admit it. Rico burst through the front door, shirt half-buttoned, face flushed from alcohol and whatever else he'd been doing. "Yo, what the hell was all that screaming—" He froze when he saw the bathroom. "Ayo, what the—?" Jalen entered a beat later, eyes wide, hoodie soaked with sweat. The woman in the green dress was nowhere to be found. "Close the door," Dez said, calm but sharp. "Should we call somebody? 911? Security?" Malik asked, voice cracking. "Hell no," Dez snapped. "We don’t know what this is yet. We need to think." Jalen moved past them slowly, studying the body. The man had on a navy jacket, gold chain, and a wristwatch that probably cost more than Malik’s car. No ID in sight. Just blood and silence. "He was shot," Jalen muttered. "Twice. Once in the chest, once in the head. Execution-style." Rico swallowed hard. "Yo, how the hell would you know that?" "'Cause my brother got done the same way." The silence grew heavy again. "Where’s Trey?" Malik asked. Dez pulled out his phone. "Been texting him. No answer." "Y’all think Trey has something to do with this?" Rico held up his hands. "Look, man, this whole thing is starting to feel like a setup. This some ‘Ocean's Eleven’ meets ‘Snowfall’ type shit. I didn’t sign up for this!" Dez pulled everyone into the living room. The mood had shifted completely—hangovers forgotten, adrenaline surging. "We need to clean this up and figure out who that is. Fast." "You mean get rid of the body?" Malik asked. "No," Dez said. "We need to control the scene. Until we know what we’re dealing with." Jalen paced. "I was with that woman—the one in the green dress. We were heading back here. I stopped to buy water, and she just... disappeared." "What’s her name?" "She said her name was Genesis." "Like the Bible?" "Yeah." Dez rubbed his temples. "Goddammit. This is bigger than a bachelor party gone wrong." Flashback: Trey – 4 Hours Earlier Trey sat across from the man in all white again, this time in a cigar lounge nestled behind a speakeasy downtown. It was smoke-filled and quiet, except for the occasional clink of ice. "I got the product," Trey said, sliding a flash drive across the table. "Encrypted, like you wanted. Names, accounts, all of it." The man picked it up with gloved fingers, nodding once. "And the courier?" "Handled. He’s not gonna be a problem." "You’re sure?" Trey paused, jaw flexing. "Positive." "Good," the man said. "Because if he shows up anywhere after tonight, your friends won't live to tell the bachelor story." Present – Luxora Suite, 6:22 AM Malik sat on the edge of the couch, watching as Dez opened the dead man’s phone using facial recognition. "If we find a name or contact, we might know what we’re dealing with." "How you know how to do all this?" Rico asked. "Military. Black ops. Counterintel. I've seen bodies in more bathrooms than I care to count." Jalen handed him a small wallet that had been in the man’s inner jacket pocket. Inside: a California driver’s license. Name: Eli Mercer. Age: 38. Malik blinked. "Wait—I know that name. He was trending a few months back. Something about offshore banking scandals." "This dude was a whistleblower," Jalen added. "Dre—my brother—he talked about him once. Said he had enough dirt to burn half of L.A.’s real estate elite." "Why was he in our suite?" Rico whispered. "What if this was meant for Trey? Or one of us?" Just then, Trey finally walked in. Shades on. Calm as ever. Until he saw the body. "What the—?" "You tell us," Dez said, stepping in front of him. Trey shut the door quietly. Took off his glasses. His eyes told a story his mouth wasn’t ready to say. "I didn’t kill him." "But you know who did," Jalen said. Trey sat down heavily. "Eli was supposed to meet someone here. He was being followed. He asked me for a safe space. Said it would only take an hour." "You let a fugitive into our suite? On Malik's bachelor weekend?" Dez nearly roared. "I owed him. He saved my ass once. Back when I was running crypto scams in Dubai." Rico shook his head. "Man, what the hell have you not done?" "He was supposed to meet a buyer. I didn't know it would go down like this. I left before they arrived." "What buyer?" Malik asked. "A woman. Genesis." The room froze. "Jalen was with her last night," Dez said. Trey looked at Jalen, eyes narrowing. "You talk to her?" "Yeah. She was cool. Real intense." "She’s an assassin. Corporate grade. Ex-Mossad, probably freelance now. She’s burned half the world’s whistleblowers for hire. If she knows your face, she’ll erase it." Jalen paled. "She was with me for hours. Why didn’t she kill me?" Trey shook his head. "She only kills liabilities." "So what are we?" Malik asked quietly. "Loose ends." Flashback: Genesis – 3 Hours Earlier Genesis sat in the back of a black town car, looking through photos of Jalen, Malik, Trey, Rico, and Dez. Facial scans. Employment data. Military records. Social media. TikTok videos. "You want them all gone?" the driver asked. "No," she said. "Just the one who made the deal. The others are insurance." "Insurance for what?" "In case I need leverage." Back in the Suite Dez stood and grabbed a duffel bag. "We need to get the hell out of this hotel. Now." "Where we gonna go?" Rico asked. "I’ve got a contact in North Vegas. Ex-agency. He owes me." "Wait," Malik said. "We’re just running? What about calling the cops? The feds?" Dez stared at him. "Malik, this ain’t about truth or justice. We call the cops, we go down for murder and conspiracy. You want your wedding in handcuffs or a casket?" Malik fell silent. Trey nodded slowly. "We disappear for 24 hours. Lay low. Figure out how to spin this. Maybe leak the footage of Genesis to the right people. Make it look like we were witnesses, not suspects." "You recorded her?" Dez asked. "Always do." Final Scene – 7:05 AM The group slipped out of the hotel through a service exit, faces low, hearts pounding. In the distance, sirens wailed, growing louder. Behind them, Eli’s body lay cooling in the suite. Across town, Genesis stood on a rooftop, watching them through binoculars. She smiled, then whispered, "Four down. One to go." Chapter 3: The Getaway The black Escalade tore through the neon-lit outskirts of Las Vegas, cutting through the desert dawn like a blade. Inside, five men sat in tight, nervous silence, each battling a different kind of fear. Dez drove, face locked in focus. The Glock he’d retrieved from the suite sat between the seats, gleaming under the rising sun. Every few seconds, he checked the rearview mirror. “We clear?” Trey asked, voice low. “For now,” Dez replied. “But if Genesis is tracking us, she’ll be three steps ahead.” Malik wiped sweat from his forehead. “I just wanted a damn bachelor weekend. Not a fugitive road trip.” “Yeah, well, welcome to the goddamn program,” Jalen muttered. He hadn’t stopped shaking since they left the suite. Not from fear—at least not entirely. From the cold realization that the woman he kissed last night could have slit his throat in his sleep. Rico sat in the back, his usual bravado gone. “Yo, I ain’t even pack drawers, man. This is some Jason Bourne-level bull—” “Shut up, Rico,” Dez barked. “We’re almost there.” **7:58 AM – North Vegas Safehouse** The safehouse was nothing like the movies. No high-tech gadgets, no gun vaults, no digital screens. Just a one-story stucco building in a burned-out cul-de-sac, surrounded by cracked pavement and silence. Dez parked and cut the engine. “Everyone inside. Now.” An older man with a buzz cut and gold tooth opened the door. He wore a tan thermal, cargo pants, and a holstered SIG. His eyes locked on Dez. “You bring me heat?” “I brought you leverage.” “Shit. Come in.” Inside, the air was dry and smelled like gun oil and incense. The man, code-named *Monk*, was former CIA. Rumor was he went rogue after a black bag op in Somalia went south. Trey sat on a dusty couch. “He trustworthy?” “More than most,” Dez replied. “He saved my life in Afghanistan. Twice.” “Only once counts,” Monk muttered. “Second time was for fun.” Monk poured bourbon into cracked mugs. “Now. Who died, who did it, and how far up this rabbit hole we going?” Dez gave him the rundown. Eli Mercer. Genesis. The flash drive. Monk whistled. “You boys done stepped in international shit. That drive? It ain’t just banking fraud. It’s a hit list. Government names. Offshore networks. Shell companies. Someone paid Genesis to recover it before it went public.” Jalen slumped. “And we’re in the middle of it.” “No,” Monk said. “You’re on the edge of it. But if you stay here, you’ll get pulled into the center.” “So what do we do?” Malik asked. “We give her what she wants. A decoy.” **Elsewhere – 8:22 AM – Genesis** Genesis stood inside a luxury condo overlooking the Strip. She wasn’t hiding. She didn’t need to. She watched hotel surveillance footage on her phone—Jalen leaving the convenience store. Rico stumbling drunk. Dez moving with calculated awareness. Malik, always on the edge of panic. Trey, smooth as hell but clearly hiding something. She paused on Trey’s face. “You always were the clever one,” she murmured. Her burner phone rang. “Target is confirmed. They’re with Monk.” She smiled. “Time to pay an old friend a visit.” **Back at the Safehouse – 9:30 AM** Monk opened a metal trunk and pulled out five preloaded burner phones, fake IDs, and cash. “If you want to disappear, this’ll get you 48 hours max. After that, Genesis will find you, or worse—somebody else will.” Trey took one of the phones. “We’re not disappearing. We’re baiting her.” Dez raised an eyebrow. “Explain.” Trey stood. “Genesis doesn’t want us. She wants what Eli had. The real flash drive. What she got was a dummy. I’ve still got the real one.” Malik blinked. “Wait. You said—” “I lied. I kept it. I needed leverage.” “You used your friends as bait?” “No. I didn’t expect Eli to die. But now that we’re in it, I say we use what we have. We leak a portion of the drive to a journalist. A big name. Someone with reach. If Genesis takes us out, the rest of the files go public.” Monk nodded. “Smart. Old-school insurance.” Dez paced. “That’ll draw attention. From more than just her.” “Exactly,” Trey said. “The more eyes, the safer we are.” Jalen muttered, “Unless the eyes belong to someone who wants us dead.” **Flashback: 3 Years Ago – Morocco** Genesis leaned over a man tied to a chair. Blood dripping from his lip. “I’m not going to ask again,” she said. “Do your worst,” he muttered. She smiled—and slit his throat. A shadow moved behind her. Trey. “Was that necessary?” he asked. “He was bluffing.” “You could’ve called it off.” “You don’t win in our world by calling things off, Trey. You win by ending them.” **Present – 11:07 AM** Malik sat outside on the cracked porch, staring at the sky. “I don’t think I can do this.” Jalen joined him. “Do what?” “Marry someone. Start a life. Not after all this. What if she finds us? Finds her?” Jalen was quiet for a while. Then: “If she’s the one, she’ll understand.” Malik laughed. “You met my fiancée? She freaks out if I forget to floss.” “Then maybe she ain’t the one.” **1:35 PM – Henderson, NV – Underground Newsroom** Monk arranged a meeting with a retired Pulitzer winner named Sloane Ryder. The man looked like a weathered cowboy with a press badge, but he had connections from DC to Dubai. Dez and Trey handed over a limited batch of encrypted files. Shell company names. Political donors. Real estate empires linked to shadow networks. “You sure you want to leak this?” Sloane asked. “Leak it anonymously. With one quote: ‘The dead should not die in vain.’” Sloane raised a brow. “That a threat?” “It’s a warning.” **2:10 PM – Safehouse** Genesis pulled up in a blacked-out Benz. Alone. Monk saw her from the security cam and cursed. “She’s here.” “How the hell she find us?” Rico yelled. “Doesn’t matter. Get to the back room. Arm yourselves.” **Final Scene – 2:23 PM** The door exploded inward. Genesis walked through smoke and debris like a ghost, twin pistols raised. Dez fired first. She dodged, rolled, returned fire. Trey tackled her from the side. They crashed into the wall. Her elbow cracked his jaw. He went down hard. Jalen came up behind her—hesitated—then swung a bat. It connected. Genesis dropped. Panting, bleeding, the men stared at her body. “Is she dead?” Rico asked. Genesis opened her eyes, smiled through the blood, and whispered: “Not yet.” A distant siren wailed. Chapter 4: No Way Back The air in the safehouse crackled with tension as Genesis lay bleeding on the ground. Dez stood over her, gun still drawn, breathing hard. Her eyes—those cold, calculated eyes—remained open, even as blood pooled beneath her. "She’s still alive," Trey said, voice hoarse. "Barely," Dez replied. "We need to decide what the hell to do before she wakes up." Jalen slammed the door shut and dragged a heavy cabinet in front of it. "This place won’t hold if she brought backup." "She didn’t," Monk said. "She came alone. That's how you know she was serious. This was personal." Rico peeked through a crack in the boarded window. "Why do I feel like it’s about to get even more personal?" 3:01 PM – Safehouse Basement They moved Genesis to the basement, tied her to an old iron chair, and cuffed her ankles. Monk checked her pulse. "She’s tough," he muttered. "Most people would be dead." "She's not most people," Trey said. He leaned against the wall, cradling his bruised jaw. Malik hovered near the stairs. "We should call the cops. This has gone too far." Dez turned slowly. "And tell them what? That a group of Black men took down an international assassin in a dead man’s safehouse?" "He’s right," Monk added. "Cops come here, you don’t walk out. And neither do I." Malik rubbed his forehead. "I should’ve never come on this damn trip." Flashback: One Week Earlier – Chicago Malik sat with his fiancée, Kendra, flipping through wedding menus. Her voice was calm, controlled, but every suggestion came with a side of judgment. "Do you really want sliders at the reception?" "They’re just options." "Well, your mother thinks we should go with a seated dinner." Malik had smiled, nodded, played the part. But deep down, he felt it—the tight grip of a life he didn’t choose, only fell into. When Trey called and invited him to Vegas, it had felt like air. Like freedom. Now, that freedom was a coffin. Present – Safehouse Living Room Jalen lit a cigarette with shaking hands. Dez slapped it from his mouth. "You trying to give us away with smoke?" "We already kidnapped a woman and blew up a damn suite, Dez. What’s a little Newport gonna do?" Dez’s eyes narrowed. "We’re not criminals. Not yet." Trey leaned in. "That depends on what we do next." Basement – 4:12 PM Genesis stirred. Her head lolled, then rose. A wicked smile spread across her bloodied lips. "You boys don’t even know what you’ve done." Dez stepped forward. "You came at us. Killed Eli. Almost got us all killed. Why?" "You think this is about Eli?" she coughed. "He was a message. A warning. I was hired to clean up a leak. That drive was supposed to disappear. You boys made it louder." "Who hired you?" Trey asked. She laughed, then whispered, "You already know." Trey’s jaw tightened. "That’s impossible." "Nothing’s impossible in this game. Especially betrayal." Dez and Trey exchanged looks. "She’s lying," Dez said. "Maybe," Trey replied. "But if she’s not…" 5:00 PM – Henderson – Motel 6 Parking Lot Jalen met Sloane Ryder in a beat-up Toyota. "You leaked the files?" "The first batch. The world’s already buzzing. Someone will connect the dots soon." "Good. We’re running out of time." Sloane handed over a burner phone. "If they come for you, call this number. Use code phrase ‘Red River Rising.’ Got it?" Jalen nodded. As he walked back to the car, his stomach twisted. His phone buzzed. A voicemail from a blocked number: "You boys think you're safe? This is just the start." 6:17 PM – Safehouse Kitchen Rico was cooking eggs. "Y’all ever think about just leaving? Like really leaving? Starting over somewhere?" "Where?" Malik asked. "We got no IDs, no money." "Man, I got an uncle in Belize. He owe me. We disappear, start a bar, run a beach…" Dez sighed. "We’re not built to disappear. We settle this. Head-on." "You got a plan?" Trey walked in, holding a piece of paper. "I do. But we’re gonna need a favor. A big one." 7:23 PM – Downtown Vegas – Abandoned Casino They drove to the edge of the city, where a forgotten casino rotted beneath flickering signs. Dez met an old contact, Lena—tattooed, sharp-eyed, always two steps from breaking the law. "You boys must be real desperate to show your faces." "We need a plane. Small. Unregistered." "Where to?" "Mexico. Then we’ll disappear from there." Lena smirked. "It’ll cost you." Trey handed over a thumb drive. "Everything you need to retire twice. Just make sure that plane is fueled." Back at Safehouse – 8:45 PM Genesis sat in the dim basement, eyes closed, humming a lullaby. Malik stared at her. "You ever regret any of it? The killing? The chaos?" "No," she whispered. "Regret is for the living. I’ve been dead since I was sixteen." He stepped back, chilled to the bone. Final Scene – 10:00 PM They loaded up the Escalade. Genesis, unconscious again, was restrained in the back. Dez drove. Trey sat beside him, phone clutched tight. Rico checked his gun. "So what’s the plan when we land?" "We disappear," Dez said. "Change names. Erase who we were." "And if she wakes up mid-air?" Dez stared straight ahead. "She won’t." As they pulled into the private airstrip, two headlights flared behind them. A black SUV. Trey cursed. "We’ve got company." Gunfire erupted. The Escalade swerved. Malik screamed. "Go! Go! Go!" Dez punched the gas. Genesis opened her eyes. **Chapter 5: Blood and Sand** **10:03 PM – Private Airstrip, Las Vegas Outskirts** Bullets shredded the night. The black SUV behind them opened fire without hesitation. Dez jerked the wheel hard, swerving the Escalade through the airstrip gate, metal crashing as they broke through. The tires screeched over gravel, then screeched again as Dez spun them behind a rusted hangar for cover. “Everybody out!” he shouted. Trey kicked open the door, dragging Genesis’s unconscious body with him. Malik and Rico spilled out, guns drawn. Jalen grabbed the duffel bags, sweat dripping down his forehead. Dez ducked behind the hood and returned fire. “That ain’t no random cartel, y’all. Those are hitters. Professional.” Malik’s voice trembled. “How the hell did they find us this fast?!” “Because Genesis was bait,” Trey growled. “They let us think we had the upper hand.” More bullets rained down, pinging off metal, tearing into the concrete around them. Dez shouted into his radio. “Lena! We need that plane fired up now!” Her voice crackled back. “Two minutes! You better haul ass.” Trey turned to Jalen. “Can you carry her?” “Yeah.” “Rico, Malik, lay down suppressing fire. Dez and I will clear the path to the plane. Move on my count. One… two… three!” They exploded into motion. **10:09 PM – The Tarmac** Smoke clung to the air. The runway lights flickered weakly as Lena’s twin-prop plane roared to life. Dez ran low, zigzagging, taking out two of the attackers with pinpoint shots. Rico grunted, reloading. “They keep coming!” Malik yelled, “Trey! We’re not gonna make it!” But Trey wasn’t listening. He was locked in. He sprinted, covering Jalen and Genesis, as bullets zipped past his head. One caught Jalen in the thigh. He screamed but didn’t stop moving. “I got you, man!” Trey shouted, grabbing the duffel bags and helping hoist Genesis over his shoulder. Lena waved frantically from the plane door. “Let’s go, let’s go!” Dez tossed a flash grenade behind them. A white burst of light bought them precious seconds. The group climbed into the plane, panting, bleeding. Dez was last. A bullet slammed into his side just as he reached the hatch. He roared in pain but hauled himself in. Lena slammed the door. “Hold on!” The plane lurched forward, screeching across the tarmac. Behind them, the SUV exploded in flames as the attackers took a final shot at stopping them. They were airborne. **11:00 PM – In the Air** The cabin was eerily quiet, save for the drone of engines and Dez’s groaning. Rico pressed a towel to Dez’s wound. “It went through. Clean shot. But he’s losing blood.” Malik sat beside Jalen, whose leg was wrapped in gauze. Genesis was restrained again, still unconscious. Trey stared out the window, hollow-eyed. “This isn’t over,” he whispered. “Not even close.” **1:15 AM – Baja California, Mexico** The plane landed rough and fast on a hidden airstrip carved into the desert. Waiting for them: Lena’s contact, a grizzled ex-coyote named Diego, with two beat-up trucks. “We split up,” Dez grunted, barely able to walk. “Too risky to stay together.” “Where do we meet again?” Malik asked. Trey handed out burner phones. “We don’t. Not unless I say. Lay low. We’ll regroup if we can.” Everyone nodded. Rico looked down at Dez. “You gonna make it, man?” Dez grinned weakly. “I’ve had worse nights.” They loaded up the trucks. Within minutes, the men who had once joked about wedding speeches and hangovers were scattering across the desert in silence. **FLASHBACK: 6 Months Earlier – South Side Chicago** The group sat at Rico’s barbershop, ribbing each other, making wedding jokes, talking shit about old high school crushes. It was loud, it was raw, it was love. Dez raised a glass of Hennessy. “To brotherhood. To the ones who held you down when the world tried to drown you.” They clinked glasses. The past looked so much simpler. **Present Day – Ensenada, Mexico – 2 Days Later** Trey lay low in a beachfront shack. His beard was growing out. He checked his phone—still no word from Dez or Malik. Then, a text appeared from an unknown number: RED RIVER RISING He froze. A second later, a picture loaded. It was Genesis. Eyes open. Smiling. Holding a gun. Beside her: Lena. Dead. Trey dropped the phone. She was alive. And free. Chapter 5: Blood and Sand 10:03 PM – Private Airstrip, Las Vegas Outskirts Bullets shredded the night. The black SUV behind them opened fire without hesitation. Dez jerked the wheel hard, swerving the Escalade through the airstrip gate, metal crashing as they broke through. The tires screeched over gravel, then screeched again as Dez spun them behind a rusted hangar for cover. "Everybody out!" he shouted. Trey kicked open the door, dragging Genesis's unconscious body with him. Malik and Rico spilled out, guns drawn. Jalen grabbed the duffel bags, sweat dripping down his forehead. Dez ducked behind the hood and returned fire. "That ain't no random cartel, y'all. Those are hitters. Professional." Malik’s voice trembled. "How the hell did they find us this fast?!" "Because Genesis was bait," Trey growled. "They let us think we had the upper hand." More bullets rained down, pinging off metal, tearing into the concrete around them. Dez shouted into his radio. "Lena! We need that plane fired up now!" Her voice crackled back. "Two minutes! You better haul ass." Trey turned to Jalen. "Can you carry her?" "Yeah." "Rico, Malik, lay down suppressing fire. Dez and I will clear the path to the plane. Move on my count. One... two... three!" They exploded into motion. 10:09 PM – The Tarmac Smoke clung to the air. The runway lights flickered weakly as Lena's twin-prop plane roared to life. Dez ran low, zigzagging, taking out two of the attackers with pinpoint shots. Rico grunted, reloading. "They keep coming!" Malik yelled, "Trey! We’re not gonna make it!" But Trey wasn’t listening. He was locked in. He sprinted, covering Jalen and Genesis, as bullets zipped past his head. One caught Jalen in the thigh. He screamed but didn’t stop moving. "I got you, man!" Trey shouted, grabbing the duffel bags and helping hoist Genesis over his shoulder. Lena waved frantically from the plane door. "Let’s go, let’s go!" Dez tossed a flash grenade behind them. A white burst of light bought them precious seconds. The group climbed into the plane, panting, bleeding. Dez was last. A bullet slammed into his side just as he reached the hatch. He roared in pain but hauled himself in. Lena slammed the door. "Hold on!" The plane lurched forward, screeching across the tarmac. Behind them, the SUV exploded in flames as the attackers took a final shot at stopping them. They were airborne. 11:00 PM – In the Air The cabin was eerily quiet, save for the drone of engines and Dez’s groaning. Rico pressed a towel to Dez’s wound. "It went through. Clean shot. But he’s losing blood." Malik sat beside Jalen, whose leg was wrapped in gauze. Genesis was restrained again, still unconscious. Trey stared out the window, hollow-eyed. "This isn’t over," he whispered. "Not even close." 1:15 AM – Baja California, Mexico The plane landed rough and fast on a hidden airstrip carved into the desert. Waiting for them: Lena’s contact, a grizzled ex-coyote named Diego, with two beat-up trucks. "We split up," Dez grunted, barely able to walk. "Too risky to stay together." "Where do we meet again?" Malik asked. Trey handed out burner phones. "We don’t. Not unless I say. Lay low. We’ll regroup if we can." Everyone nodded. Rico looked down at Dez. "You gonna make it, man?" Dez grinned weakly. "I’ve had worse nights." They loaded up the trucks. Within minutes, the men who had once joked about wedding speeches and hangovers were scattering across the desert in silence. FLASHBACK: 6 Months Earlier – South Side Chicago The group sat at Rico’s barbershop, ribbing each other, making wedding jokes, talking shit about old high school crushes. It was loud, it was raw, it was love. Dez raised a glass of Hennessy. "To brotherhood. To the ones who held you down when the world tried to drown you." They clinked glasses. The past looked so much simpler. Present Day – Ensenada, Mexico – 2 Days Later Trey lay low in a beachfront shack. His beard was growing out. He checked his phone—still no word from Dez or Malik. Then, a text appeared from an unknown number: RED RIVER RISING He froze. A second later, a picture loaded. It was Genesis. Eyes open. Smiling. Holding a gun. Beside her: Lena. Dead. Trey dropped the phone. She was alive. And free. Bonus Chapter — Black Mirror Episode: “Last Night Out — The Replay” **Last Night Out** Neon haze of Vegas flickered through the cracked blinds of Malik’s dingy motel room. Five men. One bachelor party. One night that ended with blood on the Strip. But now—now it was all worse. Malik stared at the small device glowing on the table. The **Replay**. “Y’all remember how this trip went left?” Trey’s voice cracked through the thin walls via the encrypted group chat on their AR implants. “No way we’re going out like that,” Malik whispered. Dez swiped the Replay’s interface, bringing up a 3D reconstruction of the night’s chaos—car chases, gunfire, the safehouse standoff. Except this wasn’t just footage. This was a **digital ghost**: a fully immersive simulation of their last night, culled from their implanted cams, public security feeds, and the city’s omnipresent surveillance net. “I don’t wanna watch it,” Rico said, voice trembling. “It’s like reliving the nightmare.” “It’s the only way to find out who set us up,” Trey said. Malik hesitated, then nodded. They strapped on their AR gear, and the room dissolved. Vegas came back in agonizing detail—the shimmer of heat off the pavement, the smell of burnt rubber, the screams echoing through alleyways. But there was a glitch. A figure appeared in the shadows—someone not in their memories. Someone with a face too familiar. Genesis. But not the woman they had tied up in that basement. This Genesis was… different. Calm, collected, and watching. “Pause,” Dez commanded. They zoomed in on her eyes—glitches flickered beneath the surface like corrupted code. “She’s a program,” Malik said, heart pounding. “A digital echo. Someone hacked our memories… implanted a replay to trap us.” The room shuddered. A voice whispered through the AR interface: **“Welcome back, gentlemen. Ready to finish the game?”** In this world, trust was data. Friendship was code. And the bachelor party? A setup in a simulation designed to break them. Malik clenched his fists. “Then let’s rewrite the ending.” TO BE CONTINUED…
By Dakota Denise 7 months ago in Chapters
Kush & Karma. Content Warning.
Kush & Karma A Dark Ride Through Friendship, Lies, and Murder Chapter One: The Girls Are Back There’s something about driving through the outskirts of Kansas City in the summer. The way the heat radiates off the pavement like a secret you can’t keep. The road is quiet—too quiet, like the calm before a high-ass storm. Tiffani Reed’s Tesla curved smoothly along the gravel drive of the Airbnb mansion, tires crunching as she slowed. She pulled her shades down her nose and looked at the massive estate that sprawled before her. “Bougie as hell,” she muttered, then exhaled a long breath, watching the curl of smoke drift from her wax pen. Behind her, Raelyn James rolled down the passenger window, letting sunlight and the scent of Missouri farmland pour in. “You really booked this whole mansion?” she asked, twisting her two-strand twists into a messy bun. She was already grinning. “Kamaria really did that. “It’s what judges do,” Tiffani said with a smirk. “Make rulings.” The mansion was old-money slick—whitewashed brick, wrought-iron balconies, arched doorways, and a hot tub already bubbling in the back. It sat on ten acres of pure quiet, the kind of place where you could scream and nobody would come running. Inside, the air was cool, the scent of sandalwood and sage lingering from whatever Airbnb ritual the host had done. Or maybe Simone had already lit something. Speaking of… “What took y’all so long?” Simone Carter’s voice rang from the second-floor landing. She leaned over the railing, her silk robe swinging open just enough to show the top of a lace bralette. Her hair was in big, soft curls, face beat like she was in court tomorrow. “I been here two hours and already did a walkthrough.” Raelyn gave her the middle finger. “Bet you cased the joint too.” “Only the safe,” Simone deadpanned. The front door burst open behind them. “Y’all hoes better not’ve started without me!” Kamaria “Kam” West shouted, dragging a Louis Vuitton duffel behind her. “I had to yell at a cop at the gas station, so we starting with tequila. I’m not playing.” Five minutes later, weed smoke floated through the vaulted ceilings like it belonged there. Everyone was barefoot, lounging in robe-chic, sipping infused watermelon juice, and surrounded by snacks so carefully curated it felt like a stoner charcuterie board. Alana Brooks had arrived last. Of course she had. She didn’t walk in—she *arrived*. Big sunglasses, dark red lips, blunt lit, and a designer weekender that probably cost more than Rae’s rent. She didn’t hug anyone. Just handed Kam a bottle of vintage cannabis wine, took one long drag from her blunt, and said, “Ladies.” The silence that followed was sharp. Alana had been the ghost. The one who vanished. The one who “died” back in college after that weird-ass incident with her roommate. But here she was—alive, fine, and apparently rich. “Did we just get visited by a hologram?” Rae whispered. “Shut up,” Simone whispered back. But she couldn’t stop staring. Alana flopped down on a white leather sectional, crossing her legs elegantly. “Why does it smell like cheap edibles in here? Don’t tell me y’all still shop local.” Kam puffed her joint and squinted. “Oh, so *now* your bougie ass got jokes?” “Always had jokes. You were just too high to catch them.” Everyone laughed. A little too loudly. A little too nervously. As the night rolled on, the house buzzed with high vibrations and suppressed secrets. The kitchen island was covered in rolling trays, THC gummies in crystal bowls, and Rae’s hacked Bluetooth speaker playing a mix of SZA and classic Erykah Badu. Kam had already disappeared upstairs to change into a swimsuit for the hot tub. Simone was FaceTiming a man who definitely had a girlfriend, and Tiffani was trying to teach Rae how to make THC cocktails. “No, Rae, you *stir* the syrup. You don’t dump it like cough medicine.” “Sis, I do lab work, not bartending. Let me live.” Alana wandered out back by herself. She stared into the woods behind the estate. The firepit crackled nearby, unattended. Something rustled in the trees. She didn’t flinch. She pulled out her phone. No signal. Of course. Back inside, Kam called out, “Yo, where Alana at? We starting the hot tub chronicles in five.” Tiffani peeked out back. “She ghosted. Again.” They found her sitting by the fire, staring at the woods like she expected something—or someone—to emerge. “You good?” Simone asked, adjusting her robe tighter. Alana glanced at her. Her eyes were unreadable. “I’m always good.” But that wasn’t the truth. Later that night, the weed got heavier. The laughter louder. But underneath it all, there was a beat of unease. An unspoken understanding. They’d all done something. Something unforgivable. And for the first time in years, all five were under one roof. That’s when the first phone alert hit. One by one, their phones vibrated. **Blocked Caller. No ID. Just a message.** “Enjoying the reunion? One of you won’t survive the weekend.” Raelyn froze. “Tell me this is one of y’all being messy.” “I swear on my weed stash it’s not me,” Kam said. Tiffani’s hands were shaking slightly. “Is this a prank? A joke?” Simone’s voice was flat. “No one outside this house knew about this trip.” They all turned to Alana. She took a slow drag from her blunt. “Bitch, don’t look at me. *I* didn’t send it.” But her eyes said something else entirely. And none of them noticed the sixth wine glass on the kitchen counter. Still full. Untouched. Waiting. Chapter Two: Smoke and Mirrors The next morning arrived under a thick fog, eerie and too quiet. The house that once buzzed with midnight giggles and clinking glasses now pulsed with suspicion. Each woman moved slowly, cautiously, hungover not just from THC wine gummies but from whatever had cracked open the night before. Kamaria West was the first to rise. Even in a sleep shirt and fuzzy socks, she carried the same energy as she did in court: poised, unshaken, and two steps ahead. She poured herself black coffee and stood by the massive kitchen window, staring out into the gray mist that hugged the woods around them. The note—the threat—still played in her head like a record with a scratch. She hadn’t told the others yet. She needed time. She needed to observe. Rae padded into the kitchen next, hoodie up, vape pen in mouth. “Morning, Judge Judy,” she mumbled, exhaling a slow puff. Kam gave her a side glance. “Thought you’d be sleeping off that sativa sangria you concocted.” Rae smirked, digging into a leftover croissant. “Woke up with my third eye twitchin’. Something’s off, Kam.” Kam didn’t answer. Just handed her the folded paper without a word. Rae opened it, her smirk melting. “What the fuck?” she whispered. “Exactly,” Kam said. “Don’t tell the others yet. Not until I know who left it.” As if summoned by secrets, Tiffani appeared next, wearing one of Kam’s oversized cardigans and sipping a protein shake like a model with a scalpel in her purse. “What y’all whisperin’ about?” she asked, eyeing them. Rae casually dropped the note into her hoodie pocket. “Just debating breakfast. Kam’s trying to make us go vegan today.” Tiffani rolled her eyes. “Girl, please. I brought bacon from Trader Joe’s. Don’t play.” The moment was saved, but it wouldn’t last. By midday, all five were gathered on the deck. Blankets, mimosas, and a tray of chocolate-covered edibles sat untouched. Alana, always the most photogenic, leaned against the railing with her shades on and a perfect pout. Simone, seated on a rattan chair with her legs crossed like she was prepping for court, narrowed her eyes. “Somebody say what we’re all thinking,” she said. Raelyn sighed, looking around. “This trip’s cursed. First that creepy-ass thunderstorm, then the lights cutting out, and now\... we all feeling it, right?” Alana pushed her shades up. “Don’t be dramatic. Bad weather isn’t a sign of murder. It’s Missouri.” Tiffani snorted. “Girl, you fake-died in college. You don’t get to define ‘dramatic.’” That’s when Kamaria finally spoke. “Someone left a note last night.” All heads turned. “What kind of note?” Simone asked slowly. Kam retrieved it from Rae’s hoodie pocket, unfolding it with precision. “Slipped under my door after y’all went to bed.” They read it again in silence: **”One of you never left the game. One of you never stopped killing. And one of you? You’re next.”** The silence hit hard. Alana blinked. “Is this a joke?” Kam shook her head. “No one’s laughing.” Tiffani rubbed her temples. “Okay, but… why now? Why here?” Rae’s eyes were already darting around the woods. “Because someone planned this. Whoever wrote that note knew we’d be here.” “And knew our secrets,” Simone added. “We never talked about our past. Not really. Not all of it.” “That’s the point,” Kamaria said. “We’ve all done things. Things no one else should know. But someone does. Someone wants us paranoid. Distrusting. Vulnerable.” Alana crossed her arms. “Or maybe one of us is playing games.” “No,” Rae snapped. “Don’t even start with that. You disappeared for a decade and came back with a new face, Lana. You the last one who gets to play innocent.” Alana didn’t flinch. “I came back with a brand. A business. Not a vendetta.” Simone held up a hand. “Enough. This isn’t helping. What we need to do is figure out who else knew we’d be here. Who we told. Who might want revenge.” Tiffani suddenly looked pale. “What?” Rae asked. Tiffani hesitated. “Last week… I got an email. No sender. Just a file. Pictures of my ex. Dead. Before the cops even found her.” Silence. A long one. Kamaria stepped forward. “You think whoever sent that note sent the email too?” Tiffani nodded. “They know things. Things only the killer—or someone watching—could know.” Alana whispered, “What if it’s not just about revenge? What if it’s a game?” Kamaria clenched her jaw. “Then we better win.” The wind picked up, carrying the smell of pine and distant smoke. Someone, somewhere, was watching. And Chapter Three would start with blood. Chapter Three: Red Wine and Old Ghosts** The first full night at the mansion rolled in like velvet. The moon was swollen and glowing low through the tall evergreens surrounding the property. It cast a silver haze over the wraparound porch where the women lounged in plush robes, passing around a wood-tipped blunt and sipping on THC-infused wine coolers Alana had personally curated from her own brand. Each of them had claimed their rooms—Kamaria’s was crisp and cold like a judge’s chambers; Rae’s was dimly lit with LED lights pulsing from her tech gear; Simone’s space smelled like high-end perfume and Chanel lotion; Tiffani had unpacked surgical scrubs and a 6-pack of edibles like she was on call for a surgery. Alana’s room? Completely rebranded. Not a trace of her old identity, just velvet robes, cashmere throws, and a walk-in closet that whispered *money and secrets.* They sat in a circle now, faces hazy under the patio heater. “Alright, bitches,” Rae said, flicking ash from the blunt. “Let’s talk ghosts. Dead ones. Old ones. The kind we don’t admit to nobody but each other.” “We really doing this?” Tiffani asked, her leg draped over the arm of a wicker lounge chair. “You know Rae can’t resist a truth-or-dare moment,” Kamaria replied, her robe tied tightly, a small THC gummy between her fingers. She popped it in her mouth like communion. Simone leaned back with a glass of red, lips glossy. “I’ll go. Since Rae wants blood.” Everyone quieted. “The day I walked into court and saw *him* in the front row—her boyfriend—I wanted to walk back out. But I couldn’t. He was mine too. And he had killed someone. I knew it. Still defended him. And he walked.” Tiffani blinked slowly. “You knew he killed somebody?” Simone took another sip. “I did. And when I found out who it was—one of our own clients—I wanted to turn him in. But by then, he’d disappeared. Vanished. Nobody ever found him.” “Damn,” Alana muttered. “Still got his number?” They laughed, but it was strained. Kamaria passed the blunt to Rae. “Alright hacker, your turn.” Rae exhaled and let smoke trail up. “I shredded a report. Three years ago. The DNA from that murder at the gas station? It matched someone I knew. One of y’all. I couldn’t let it happen.” Eyes widened. Jaws clenched. “You what?” Simone asked, sitting up straighter. Rae stared out at the forest. “I didn’t say which one. And don’t ask. I didn’t want to know what happened. Still don’t.” Silence. Alana looked around, twirling the stem of her wine glass. “Y’all still think I faked my death just because I wanted to?” Kamaria raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you?” “Part of it, yeah,” Alana said. “But also… that girl I killed? She had my passport. My debit card. She was trying to *be* me. And after I caught her, it was either disappear forever—or wait around for her to try again. So I chose the wax blunt and the new name.” Tiffani’s voice cut in, dry and even. “She dead-dead?” Alana didn’t flinch. “Was. Might not be.” The women sat still. The forest creaked. Somewhere, a branch snapped. Inside the mansion, the door to the kitchen slowly creaked open. They all turned. “Y’all locked that?” Kamaria asked. “I did,” Rae said, already standing up. The women moved like one—quiet, cautious, slipping inside with instincts that hadn’t dulled in all the years since. The kitchen was empty. But a fresh glass sat on the counter. One they hadn’t poured. Next to it, a note. **“Not everyone stays dead.”** Tiffani picked it up with gloved fingers—surgical gloves she kept in her robe pocket like a stoner Batman. “This someone’s idea of a joke?” she asked. Simone stepped forward. “Nobody outside this group knows we’re here.” Alana’s voice dropped. “That’s not true.” All eyes turned to her. “My old roommate? The one I replaced? The one y’all think I killed?” Rae swallowed hard. “Alana, don’t—” “She might not have died,” Alana said. “I never checked her pulse.” The room stilled. Kamaria backed toward the door. “Lock this house down. Now.” Rae pulled out her phone. “I installed security. Let me tap in.” Tiffani grabbed a scalpel from her robe. Simone poured another glass like it was a regular Tuesday. Outside, the wind howled. The ghosts were no longer metaphorical. And they had just started arriving. Chapter 4: No Smoke Without Fire** The sun was barely peeking through the gauzy curtains of the Airbnb mansion when Kamaria awoke to the distinct absence of laughter. The air felt different—still heavy with last night’s haze of wine and weed, but quieter, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Her head pounded as she sat up in the luxurious four-poster bed, still fully dressed. Her phone buzzed again. It was a text from Rae: **”Downstairs. Now. Shit’s bad.”** Kam didn’t bother brushing her hair. She threw on a hoodie and padded barefoot down the long hallway. The mansion’s opulence had gone from bougie to eerie overnight—the curated minimalism of the space now felt cold, sterile, almost mocking. She found Rae pacing in the massive kitchen, vape clutched in her hand like a rosary. Her eyes were bloodshot, but not from the weed. “Where’s Tiffani?” Kam asked immediately. Rae gestured to the back patio with a stiff jerk of her head. “She’s out there. With… what’s left.” Kam’s gut tightened. She moved outside, the sharp morning air slicing through the remnants of their high. Tiffani was crouched near the firepit, her surgical gloves already on, face pale, eyes wide. Laid out in front of her on a woven mat was a body. It was Simone. Dead. Kamaria dropped to her knees, the world tilting. Tiffani looked up, her voice flat. “She’s cold. Rigor’s started. I’d say she died between three and four a.m.” Kam blinked. “Of *what*?” “That’s the part that doesn’t make sense,” Rae cut in, stepping forward with her tablet. “No blood. No trauma. But her pupils are blown out like she OD’d… except we all smoked and drank the same stuff.” Kam’s brain spun. Simone, always composed and calculating, dead? And not just dead—*mysteriously* dead? Alana emerged then, barefoot and draped in a velvet robe, her expression unreadable. “We have a problem,” she said, holding up her phone. “Someone sent me a video.” She pressed play. It showed Simone at around 2:47 a.m., stumbling through the hallway with a half-lit pre-roll, mumbling to herself. The camera was from a high angle, grainy but clear enough to make out. There shouldn’t have been any security cameras in the Airbnb. Kam stood slowly. “We need to talk. All of us.” They gathered in the living room—no longer stoned, no longer relaxed. The mood had turned sharp, suspicious. The velvet and marble décor felt suffocating now. “Let’s be honest,” Alana said, breaking the silence. “We’ve all done shit we’re not proud of. Some of us have killed. Some of us have *covered up* killings. Now one of us is dead. You really think that’s coincidence?” Rae’s jaw tightened. “And you think we’re being targeted?” Alana’s eyes darkened. “I think someone knew Simone’s secret. And I think this place is a trap.” Tiffani stood, wiping her hands on a towel. “That would mean someone lured us here. Someone who knows everything.” Kam’s mind raced. “What if it’s not someone from the outside?” That landed like a grenade. The silence thickened. “Kam,” Rae said slowly, “you’re saying *one of us* did this?” Kam didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Outside, the wind picked up. Inside, paranoia bloomed like smoke. And upstairs, a sixth bedroom door creaked open, though no one had gone in… or come out… Chapter Five: The Truth Bleeds Green They were supposed to be celebrating. But now, Kamaria stood barefoot in the rain, staring at the smoldering remains of what was once their luxury hideaway. The Airbnb mansion was reduced to ash and smoke, flickering blue and red lights bouncing off puddles like kaleidoscopes of chaos. The remaining women were scattered in shock, bloodied, bruised, and forever changed. Three of the original five were still alive. One was in custody. And one—Raelyn—was gone. But her secrets weren’t. 48 Hours Earlier… The second death shook the women to their core. After Tiffani’s girlfriend’s body washed up near the bluff—just hours after they’d mentioned her in conversation—the group went silent. Suspicion brewed. Old grudges crept in. Everyone looked at each other a little too long. Paranoia set in, and so did the edibles. No one trusted the weed anymore. Simone started building a timeline, scribbling on napkins and receipt paper like a trial lawyer without a courtroom. Kamaria locked herself in the upstairs den, reviewing police records she’d downloaded on a burner tablet. Alana disappeared for five hours and came back soaking wet, high, and with blood on her designer sneakers. “It wasn’t hers,” she said calmly. “But someone knows who I used to be.” Rae was twitchy. Vaping more. Jumping at her own tech. She’d hacked into the security system of the mansion when they arrived—only to find the feeds didn’t exist. The cameras had been fake. So who was watching them? The next night, the power cut. Phones dead. Only candlelight and paranoia. That’s when Kamaria saw her. The sixth woman. The dead roommate. She wasn’t dead. Just different. The Final Night Her name was Danika Troy. She was supposed to be gone. Alana had confessed to her murder, had reinvented herself after setting her body and her past on fire. But Danika had lived. She’d crawled out of that lake half-dead and full of vengeance. And she’d been watching them ever since. Danika had followed them. Used Rae’s hacked systems. Drugged Tiffani. Planted evidence against Simone. She’d played each woman’s secret like a piano in hell. But what Danika hadn’t counted on was Kamaria. Kamaria didn’t just judge others. She judged herself. And she knew a setup when she saw one. The confrontation was brutal. Fire. Screams. Someone grabbed a wine bottle, another a cast iron skillet. A gun went off. Someone jumped into the flames. Another was pushed. When the police arrived, all they found was a burned-down mansion, a dead woman with no fingerprints, and three Black women too high to make sense. Kamaria claimed temporary insanity. Simone pleaded the Fifth. Alana disappeared—again. And Raelyn? Her body was never found. Epilogue: 2 Months Later Kamaria sits on a bench outside the courthouse, no longer in robes. Her license revoked. Her world shaken. Tiffani moved to Mexico. Simone is on a houseboat in Miami. Alana’s luxury weed brand? Bigger than ever. And someone keeps sending Kamaria dried edibles in the mail—with little notes: “Round 2.” Bonus Chapter – Black Mirror: Girlz Trip Episode Premise: What if your memories could be hacked by someone you trust the most? Five women attend a high-end weed retreat, advertised as a memory-cleansing getaway. The boutique brand hosting it uses a device called NeuroGlow—an AI-based edible experience that allows you to “watch” your memories like a movie while high. But they didn’t read the fine print. NeuroGlow records and stores your real thoughts. Your worst moments. Your darkest secrets. And now, someone is releasing them. One by one, each woman’s private past plays out on the TV screens embedded throughout the retreat. Secrets they never said out loud. Murders. Lies. Betrayals. But what the hacker didn’t know—was that the women had implanted false memories of their own. And those were the trap.
By Dakota Denise 7 months ago in Chapters
