Multiple personalities

CHAPTER ONE

Love doesn’t knock—it crashes in.

It doesn’t wait until your life is perfectly stitched together. No, it prefers the ruins.

The mess. The blood and bruises of a soul too tired to believe in it.

Trust? That word might as well be written in smoke—pretty, delicate, and gone the moment you try to hold onto it. In a world drowning in masks and manicured lies, how could you

expect me to trust anything that breathes?

But if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: chaos has a heartbeat. And mine? It was about to race for all the wrong reasons.

—A week ago—

The sound of heels slamming against linoleum echoed like gunfire down the abandoned

corridor.

“Keep up, Mayla!”

Her breath came in ragged bursts. Her lungs ached. But she didn’t dare slow down. Not now. Not with shadows chasing her like wolves—ravenous, relentless.

“Block her off! If she slips away, the boss will have our fucking heads on a platter!”

Their voices were sharp, full of threat, but there was desperation in them too. Good.

That meant she still had the upper hand—for now.

Mayla turned a sharp corner, eyes darting. There—an unlocked door, cracked just enough to be an invitation. She slipped inside,

slamming it shut and ramming a desk and

filing cabinet in front of it. Her hands trembled as she whispered, “Buy me some time…”

She pressed her back against the cool wall, heart rattling in its cage. Her thoughts spiraled. Debry. That smooth-talking bastard. “Her plans are always trash,” she muttered. “Why the hell do I still listen to her?”

But regret wouldn’t get her out of this mess.

She adjusted her outfit, ripping the slit in her skirt higher for better mobility. The banging on the door started soft—then grew. Boom. Boom. Boom. She knew that sound. Knew it was only a matter of time before—

CRACK!!.

The wood splintered. Dust fell. Mayla’s body tensed as the door creaked open.

A shadow filled the frame. Broad shoulders. Cold eyes. A sneer like he already thought he’d won.

“Well, well,” she said, voice as sharp as a blade. “Took you long enough.”

“You’re the one stirring up tonight’s circus?” His voice was gravel wrapped in arrogance.

She tilted her head, smirking. “Guilty. What’s your excuse? Poor tracking skills?”

“I’m not here to talk.”

“Good. Neither am I.”

He lunged.

Mayla moved.

Her body was a blur of muscle memory and adrenaline. She ducked under his swing,

pivoted, and drove her heel into his

thigh—hard. He buckled, and she used his

momentum to send him sprawling.

“Next,” she breathed, wiping a smudge of blood from her cheek.

But there was no time to rest.

The second one came in fast. He didn’t speak, just grabbed her by the waist and slammed her onto the table. Pain flared through her back—but fear? No. That had burned out long ago.

Her fingers closed around a vase. Without hesitation, she brought it down on his head. It shattered. So did he. Blood trickled down his temple as he crumpled.

“You boys never learn,” she whispered.

Then came the third. Sloppy. Angry.

Predictable.

She ducked his swing, grabbed a chair leg, and swung it upward into his ribs. The impact sent him tumbling. He hit the ground hard—then didn’t move again.

Silence.

Just the sound of her breathing, heavy and raw, filling the room.

Mayla backed toward the window, fingers working fast. She tied sheets together—tight knots, steady hands—and threw the makeshift rope out. Her gaze flicked downward. Not too far. Not if she landed right.

Without a second thought, she climbed out and rappelled down the side of the building like the devil himself was on her heels.

Once her feet hit the ground, she ran. No

hesitation. No looking back.

The night air hit her face, sharp and cold. Her eyes scanned the road—then locked onto headlights in the distance.

She stumbled into the street, waving her arms. “Help! Please! I need a ride—someone’s after me!”

The car slowed. A beat of hesitation. Then the lock clicked.

She threw the door open and jumped in. “Just take me to the nearest bus stop. Anywhere but here.”

The driver didn’t ask questions. Just hit the gas, and they vanished into the night—leaving blood, broken glass, and a trail of regrets

behind them.

Some nights don’t end when the sun comes up. They haunt you, stick to your skin like smoke. And no amount of running makes the shadows forget your name.

The car’s engine hummed like a lullaby for the damned. Mayla leaned against the cold

window, eyes half-closed, heartbeat still sprinting in her chest.

The driver—middle-aged, silent, with a face that had seen too much—didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to. The blood on her knuckles, the torn hem of her skirt, the smudge across her cheek… it told a story. One he had the good sense not to ask about.

“Bus stop,” he said finally, pulling to the side of a half-lit street.

She turned to him, voice gravel-soft. “What’s your name?”

He hesitated. “Marcus.”

“Thank you, Marcus.”

He gave her a tight nod. “Whatever you’re running from, I hope you make it.”

She offered a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, then stepped out. The night clung to her like a second skin.

Twenty minutes later, she stood in Front of her apartment, her heels one leg already broken as she stood on the outside foot mart boldly

written WELCOME.

Her sparkling bag clutched tight to her side. There she thought about Everything she owned. Everything she couldn’t afford to lose.

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