Page 108 of This Life of Mine

The house is quiet. Too quiet.

I move into the hallway, bare feet silent against the floor, senses stretched thin. The air feels…rotten. Like something has disturbed it. A presence that doesn’t belong.

I reach the kitchen and pause, listening.

There. Just enough to confirm it. Someone is inside the house.

I open a drawer and wrap my fingers around a knife, familiar weight in my palm. It’s not panic that steadies me; it’s pure focus. Years of listening to this exact instinct, never ignoring it.

I don’t search the house. I don’t chase shadows; I am the fucking shadow.

I position myself, blending into the dark, becoming part of it. Just like I do asThe Wraith.

Whoever is here isn’t here for me. They’re moving with intent. Toward her. Lina.

I slow my breathing, every muscle coiled and ready.

No one touchesmyLina.

When the intruder makes their move, believing they’re unseen, I’m already there. Waiting.

A shape detaches from the dark at the far end of the hall—black on black, deliberate but not silent enough. He freezes when he sees me; surprise flashes across his face.

The gun comes up, but I’m already moving.

There’s no panic, simply compression. Time narrows, sound dulls, the world snapping into a clean, brutal focus. The gun never gets the chance it wants. The struggle is fast and violent, breath and muscle colliding, the weapon knocked free and skittering across the floor.

The intruder swears, desperate now.

Steel flashes. A knife.

A smirk plays on my mouth.

He lunges with it, sloppy and angry, relying on momentum instead of technique. I meet him head-on, blade to blade, the clash crisp and ringing in the quiet house. He’s strong but not quite as disciplined, swinging too wide, telegraphing every move.

I move with short, precise, relentless swings. Every step calculated, every breath steady. This is what training looks like when it matters. This is what preparation buys you.

He’s losing before he realizes it.

The fight grinds across the room. Furniture scrapes, something shatters against the wall behind the intruder. He stumbles, overcommits, and that’s all it takes. I drive him face-first into the floor, strip the weapon from his hand, and trap his arm behind his back. My forearm pins his wrist while my other hand controls his elbow. One sharp twist is all it would take to break it.

He thrashes once. Then stops.

“I would relent or I fucking break,” I warn.

That’s when light floods the bedroom to my right.

“Alex?”

Lina’s voice. Soft, confused.

The overhead light snaps on above me.

She stands frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, taking in the destruction. The overturned chair, the broken glass, the man in black beneath me, restrained and furious and very real.

Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

My attention never leaves the intruder, but my voice changes instantly.