Chapter 3 - Midnight Witness

Henry

Her footsteps had been light; that small laugh that used to tease me hovered in my head.

“Henry, you can beat that guy, right?” she taunted in a mischievous tone.

Irina Collins. My sister.

Three years ago she was taken from me—snatched by a brutal man. He still lived. He should have died. I once promised myself: if I ever found him, I wouldn’t stop until he stopped breathing. I don’t care if I go to prison for it. But the world was never that simple.

Now, again, I saw something that reminded me of her. Not the same face. Not the same voice. But that bright spirit—the way she moved, the way she laughed like a little light in a room this big. Rylee Andrews. From the first time I saw her, a part of my past trembled at the sight of her. She unsettled me.

I was spending more time than usual at the gym. My sessions ran long—long enough for night to thicken outside the windows. When I finally stepped out, my original plan was to run an errand and head home. The streets were empty. Streetlights stood in a row like silent sentinels.

Then I saw her.

Rylee. Still wearing the same clothes she’d left the gym in—only now parts were shoved and torn, her hair messy, her eyes hollow, no longer reflecting any light. She walked slowly, like someone moving through a fog. She passed me without recognizing me. My chest tightened.

I called her name, quietly, holding my breath. “Rylee.”

She didn’t turn.

I reached for the sleeve of her jacket—just to stop her. Immediately she leapt back and screamed, her face pure terror. The sound cut through me.

Something was terribly wrong. My instincts wouldn’t accept excuses. I let go of the rough grip and replaced it with a firmer, steadier hold, trying to calm her. “Hey—breathe. I’m Henry. Calm down, I’m here.”

She froze; her breath hitched. Her eyes widened, then closed again. There was confusion, fear, and something else—an old pain so familiar it constricted my chest. She wasn’t Irina, but the ghost of that past clung to every movement.

I guided her to the nearest bench and called paramedics. While we waited I took a heavy jacket from my duffel and draped it over her shoulders. I didn’t touch her—not after that reaction. But I wouldn’t leave her alone. I would not let her become like Irina.

Fifteen minutes later the paramedics arrived. They spoke gently, checked her physical and emotional state professionally. One of them glanced at me, then at Rylee. “We recommend taking her to the hospital for further checks,” he said softly. “There are crisis services that can help, and it’s important to make sure there aren’t any injuries.”

Rylee bit her lip; she was shivering for reasons beyond the cold. “No,” she said in a thin voice. “I don’t want… the hospital.” She refused, her voice hoarse. The paramedics explained the process—what they’d do, why it mattered, and that she had the right to refuse. They offered a refusal form. With trembling breath, Rylee also refused to sign. That was her choice. Her right.

Part of me wanted to force her, to take her to the ER even if she said no. But something in her eyes made me pull back. It reminded me that helping wasn’t about seizing control from someone in crisis. Helping meant offering choices, and standing with them no matter what they chose.

“I can take you somewhere safe,” I finally said, my voice rough from held-back emotion. “There’s a campus clinic open late, or I can walk you to your apartment—whichever you prefer, I’ll go with you. But you won’t be alone, okay?”

She looked at me for a long moment. Hesitation, fear, and then a small, faint nod. “Apartment,” she said at last. Her voice was almost gone.

The paramedics gave extra blankets and explained again how to contact campus crisis services if she changed her mind. They recorded her refusal for care on the paperwork—formalities that left me partly relieved and partly angry at a system that demanded box-checking when all I wanted was something simple: to hold her and make sure she was safe.

I helped her to her feet—just a little support at her back—and we walked into the quiet night. The cold air slapped my face, waking up the old anger I’d kept for the man who’d taken Irina. But tonight was not the time. Tonight I had another promise: to make sure the girl who reminded me of her didn’t disappear into the night alone.

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All the way to her apartment she barely spoke. Every so often she pointed the way—nothing more. I offered to come inside and wait in the hallway until she calmed down, but she refused outright. I could only watch her small steps fade away as the apartment door shut firmly behind her.

I couldn’t just stand there. I called Winona right away—she was the one who’d set me up to model for Professor Vaughn yesterday, and she had good contacts at Lakewood University.

“What’s going on this late?” she asked, breath quick over the phone.

“Winona… I found a girl near the studio. She was shaken, her clothes torn. Paramedics came but she refused to go. I walked her home, but she wouldn’t let me come in. I don’t want to just sit in the car. Where should I report this? What should I do now?” My voice was flat but full of desperation.

On the other end, Winona paused, then gave firm, practical instructions. “Report it to Campus Security first, Henry. They handle emergencies on campus. After that, contact the Title IX coordinator—they handle sexual-assault cases formally. If she changes her mind, direct her to campus health services or the hospital. But remember, if the victim refuses, don’t force it. Record the time, location, condition, and any witnesses. That documentation is important.”

Her words felt like a map. I stared at the dark apartment door in front of me and took a long breath. Those instructions gave me a way to act without taking away Rylee’s choices. “Okay. I’ll call security now,” I answered. My voice sounded professional—the only thing I could manage besides waiting outside, as she had asked.

Sitting in my car while the call connected, old memories surged—the pain cut deep. But tonight I forced myself not to act recklessly. I would be a witness. I would take notes. I would stay by her side, as far as she wanted me to.

Security finally picked up. I explained the studio location, the time, and that the victim had refused treatment but someone was willing to wait. They sent a patrol to file an initial report and check the scene. After I hung up I sat a while longer, staring at the streetlight and the dark apartment door.

There was an unnamed anger in my chest—anger at whoever hurt her, anger at a system that’s often unfair. I promised myself: tonight, I would not leave her alone.

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