Chapter 177 up
Nyla chose the simplest kind of day.
No plans that required reservations. No crowded places that demanded attention. Just movement, air, and the quiet agreement that today did not belong to the system, the lawyers, or the waiting rooms filled with plastic chairs and polite lies.
“Ice cream first,” she said, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “Then the park. We can decide the rest as we go.”
Evan nodded, his fingers wrapped around hers. His grip was lighter than it had been in days—not tight with fear, not desperate. Just there. Present.
It felt like a victory.
They walked two blocks before he started talking. Not about anything important. Not about the past or the future. He told her about a dog he had seen earlier that morning, about how the clouds looked like torn paper, about how he wondered whether pigeons knew where they were going or just pretended they did.
Nyla listened. She laughed when he laughed. She answered when he asked questions that didn’t need answers.
For the first time in a while, she allowed herself to believe this was working—that normalcy could still be stitched together from small things.
The ice cream shop was nearly empty. Evan took a long time choosing, changing his mind twice before settling on vanilla with chocolate sprinkles. Nyla pretended not to notice how carefully he counted the coins when he paid, how he glanced back at her as if checking whether this moment was allowed.
They sat on the low wall outside, legs swinging slightly. Evan’s mouth was ringed with white, and Nyla wiped it gently with a napkin.
“Messy,” she teased.
He smiled. A real one. Unguarded.
That was when Nyla felt it.
Not fear. Not exactly.
Awareness.
She looked up and caught her reflection in the shop window—and behind it, the street. A car parked too close to the curb, engine still running. Not unusual. Cities were full of cars that waited for reasons that had nothing to do with you.
Still, her shoulders tightened.
She told herself she was imagining things. Trauma made patterns where none existed. Hypervigilance was a habit that pretended to be instinct.
They finished their ice cream and headed toward the bus stop. Evan skipped one step, then another, testing the cracks in the pavement like stepping stones over an invisible river.
“Do you think the park will be crowded?” he asked.
“Not this time of day,” Nyla said. “It’ll be quiet.”
Quiet sounded good.
The bus arrived late. Evan didn’t mind. He liked watching people. He narrated them softly—who looked tired, who looked like they were pretending not to be late, who looked like they wished they were somewhere else.
Nyla smiled, but her eyes kept drifting.
The same car passed slowly.
She told herself not to reach for Evan’s hand tighter than necessary. She didn’t want him to feel it.
On the bus, they sat near the window. Evan pressed his forehead lightly against the glass, watching the city slide by. Nyla watched reflections instead—faces behind them, movements that lingered a second too long.
When they got off two stops earlier than planned, it felt like a decision made without words. A shortcut. A quieter route through a side street that led toward the park’s back entrance.
The street was narrow, lined with closed shops and parked cars. Sunlight filtered unevenly between buildings. The air smelled faintly of dust and old leaves.
Evan slowed.
“What’s wrong?” Nyla asked, keeping her voice even.
“I think someone’s walking like us,” he said.
Her stomach dropped.
She didn’t turn around right away. She didn’t want to confirm his fear with her own. Instead, she squeezed his hand once. A signal. I’m here.
“We’re okay,” she said. “Sometimes people just walk the same way.”
But she adjusted their path, stepping closer to the buildings, shortening the distance to the open street ahead.
Footsteps echoed behind them.
Closer now.
Nyla turned.
Three men stood several meters away. Not running. Not rushing. Just there. Blocking the narrow stretch ahead as if they had always been part of the street.
They didn’t look dramatic. No masks. No obvious weapons. Ordinary clothes. Faces that would disappear into a crowd without effort.
One of them smiled without warmth.
“Evan,” he said.
The sound of Evan’s name hit like a blow.
Evan froze. His fingers tightened around Nyla’s, hard now, desperate.
Nyla stepped forward, placing herself fully in front of him.
“You’re mistaken,” she said. Her voice surprised her with its steadiness. “We’re just passing through.”
The man tilted his head slightly, studying her. Another man shifted behind him, closing the space they might have used to escape.
“No,” the first man said. “We’re not.”
He gestured casually toward Evan. “The kid comes with us.”
“No,” Nyla said.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t theatrical.
It was absolute.
The smile vanished.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” one of them said.
Nyla felt Evan press into her back, his small body shaking.
She widened her stance, grounding herself. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she knew better. Running turned fear into permission.
“You don’t touch him,” she said. “You step away. Now.”
One of them laughed under his breath.
Another reached out.
Nyla reacted without thinking. She slapped the hand away and pulled Evan closer, wrapping one arm around him protectively.
“Don’t,” she warned.
The man’s expression hardened.
Everything happened too fast after that.
A hand grabbed Evan’s arm. Evan screamed, a raw, sharp sound that split the air.
Nyla lunged, clawing, kicking, her grip tightening until her arm ached. She felt fingers in her hair, pain exploding across her scalp as she was yanked backward.
She didn’t let go.
“Let him go!” she shouted.
Something struck her face.
The impact was blunt and unforgiving. Her vision flashed white, then fractured. She tasted blood immediately.
She staggered, still holding Evan, still refusing.
Another blow landed, harder.
The world tilted.
She hit the ground.
The pavement was cold against her cheek. Her breath came in sharp, broken gasps. She tried to push herself up, but her arms shook violently beneath her.
Evan was screaming her name.
Hands pried him from her grasp.
“No,” she croaked, reaching for him. Her fingers brushed fabric, then air.
She forced herself up on one elbow. Her vision swam, shadows doubling and blurring. She saw Evan being dragged backward, his small body fighting with a ferocity that broke her heart.
“Stop!” she screamed. “Please—!”
A foot pressed into her shoulder, forcing her back down.
“Stay,” someone said coldly.
Evan twisted, kicking, crying, his voice cracking with terror.
“Don’t touch me!” he shouted. “She’s my person!”
The words sliced through Nyla more painfully than the blows.
She tried again. Her body refused.
The men moved quickly now. Efficient. Evan’s cries echoed down the street, then faded as they turned the corner.
Silence rushed in, loud and suffocating.
Nyla lay there, chest heaving, tears streaking into the dust. Her hands clenched and unclenched uselessly.
She had failed.
Sirens sounded somewhere distant—maybe approaching, maybe passing by. Footsteps gathered. Voices murmured.
But none of it mattered.
The safe world Evan had built—brick by brick, choice by choice—had been shattered in a single, brutal moment.