II.

  The Basement

  My neck was killing me.

  I woke up with a knot in my neck and an overwhelming sense of dread.

  Not exactly a surprise, considering I fell asleep on a cold basement stair.

  A sliver of pain twisted down my back and into my leg, sharp enough to make me wince. I shifted, tried to stretch, and immediately regretted everything. My spine made a sound I didn’t know spines could make. If I had more faith in my academic future, I’d consult my anatomy textbook.

  I used to have a trick for this. Something stupid. Howard Stern has a mastiff on his neck? No—Sternocleidomastoid. That was it. Cool party fact I’ll never use, especially since it wasn’t a question used on our practical.

  Another spike of pain shot down my back and into my right leg. I groaned again. I shifted and sat up straighter, which, of course, just made everything worse. Then came the realization.

  But it wasn’t the physical pain that bothered me.

  It was the silence.

  Oh God. Did I fall asleep?

  I’d meant to stay awake. Meant to keep watch like some responsible guardian of… whatever this was. But somewhere between panic and exhaustion, I passed out on the stairs like an idiot.

  My body jolted, muscles rebelling. My eyes cracked open, still crusty at the corners, and locked on the far side of the room.

  He was awake.

  The man was still where I’d left him, more or less—tucked under layers of blankets, space heater humming near his feet—but now his eyes were open. And focused on me. Not in a threatening way. Not even curious. Just… watching.

  I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. If his stare had weight, I would’ve been pinned to the floor. Not because it was menacing—because it wasn’t. But because it was too much. Too heavy. Too still. Like he wasn’t just seeing me, but measuring me.

  I could’ve said something. Should’ve. Instead, I just sat there trying to piece together my own limbs.

  That’s when it happened.

  A sharp clatter echoed through the basement, bouncing off the walls and stabbing straight into my spine.

  I didn’t need to look. I already knew what it was.

  My pepper spray.

  Still clenched in my hand.

  Or rather, it had been. Now it rolled, harmless but loud, until it hit the wall and stopped. My fingers were stiff, frozen in the position they’d held all night like I’d dozed off mid-threat.

  His eyes followed the sound. Stayed on it.

  He didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

  “M–Morning,” I croaked.

  His gaze didn’t return to me immediately. Not until after a beat. Then he blinked, like waking up from a long thought, and said, “Mornin’.”

  Calm. Steady. Like nothing was strange about this at all.

  I couldn’t tell if it was a white flag or a red one. Couldn’t decide if it meant I was safe, or if he was quietly calculating just how fast I could get to that pepper spray again.

  My gut—which, historically, has the reliability of a used car with the check engine light permanently on—chose that moment to growl. Not out of hunger. Out of warning.

  I stood slowly. Each joint cracked like a firework. I kept my expression neutral, careful not to show anything that might look like fear, or hesitation, or whatever expression screams hey please don’t murder me in my parents’ basement.

  I didn’t say where I was going. I didn’t say I’d be back. I just… left.

  Climbed the stairs. Closed the door behind me.

  And then I broke.

  Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just—broke.

  A tear slid down my cheek. Then another. And then I was silently sobbing into the sleeve of my hoodie, slumped against the door like it could hold me together.

  I hated how it felt—this wild, unexplainable turmoil.

  And then, finally—finally—I gave into the dramatics.

  The scream came out before I could stop it. Raw. Ugly. Ripping through my chest and into the empty hallway. It wasn’t words. Not at first. Just sound. Rage. Confusion. Guilt. Fear. The kind of fear that doesn’t feel sharp but bloated, like it’s been sitting in you for days and finally burst.

  I didn’t care if he heard me.

  I couldn’t care.

  Because for the first time since this whole thing started, I let myself admit it out loud—just not with words.

  I’m not okay.

  I don’t know why I brought him home. I don’t know what I thought would happen. That I’d win a humanitarian award? That this wouldn’t haunt me for the rest of my life?

  That maybe, maybe, if I helped someone, it’d make me feel a little less broken?

  I stood there in the hallway, heart racing, throat raw, hands shaking—and then I laughed. Just a little. That dry, stupid kind of laugh that tastes like dust. Because now that the adrenaline had worn off, I remembered something even worse than guilt or fear.

  I looked like a mess.

  I stumbled into the bathroom and flipped on the light.

  Goodness gracious.

  My hair was a full-blown bird’s nest. My eyes were puffy. My nose was a crime scene. I looked like a girl who had been crying into a basement floor while holding a can of pepper spray all night—which, to be fair, was pretty accurate.

  “Cute,” I muttered, pulling a shower cap from the shelf and jamming it over the chaos on my head. It didn’t help.

  “One crisis at a time,” I told my reflection. I splashed warm water on my face, letting it sting against my cheeks. The heat soaked in. Calmed the static in my chest. The warmth helped, a little. Not enough to fix my life, but enough to stop me from completely collapsing into the sink.

  I didn’t have time to shower. Didn’t trust myself to leave him alone that long. But I needed something. A reset button. Anything.

  Then—of course—came the ringtone.

  I flinched.

  My phone buzzed again. I wiped my face on a towel and checked the screen.

  Mom.

  Great.

  I answered, trying to mask the sound of my soul collapsing.

  “Hello, my sea!” she sang, her smile nearly blinding through the screen. “I love you so—Noah, stop that! I’m on the phone!”

  “I love you more,” I replied, managing a smile.

  “Yeah, well I loved you first. Can’t beat that,” she said, victorious. Then she squinted at her screen. “Why can I only see your forehead? Noah, something’s wrong with this thing. Because last time I checked, this isn’t Forehead Time.”

  I sighed and angled the phone lower.

  Cue dramatic gasp.

  “Good God,” she gasped. “Christopher! Check on your daughter!”

  In the background, my little brother erupted with laughter. I rolled my eyes but didn’t fight it. Honestly, it was the first warm thing I’d felt all day.

  My dad appeared on screen next, concerned but calm. “What’s wrong?”

  “No, she’s hideous!” Noah called from off-camera.

  “I just miss you,” I said. A tear snuck out again. I wiped it quickly. “That’s all.”

  “We’ll be home soon,” Dad said. “And we’ve got a surprise for you. Hang in there, okay?”

  “I will,” I whispered.

  And then predictably, chaos resumed.

  “Noah, stop banging on the door!”

  “I love you, Marina!” Noah shouted. “I’m your biggest fan!”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The camera jostled. Mom reappeared, smiling, Noah pounding rhythmically on the door behind her. “See you soon, sweetheart— BOY, HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?”

  Then—click.

  Gone.

  I stared at the blank screen, heart softening. The warmth of that call lingered just long enough for my phone to buzz again.

  Text from Noah.

  A photo.

  I braced myself before I opened it.

  Oh no.

  It was a screenshot. Of me. Puffy face. Shower cap barely clinging on. Snot in mid-sniff.

  Underneath it: DJ Naz-T.

  I stared at it. Blinked.

  And then, I laughed. A real one this time. It hurt a little. But in a good way.

  And maybe—just maybe—it gave me enough courage to go back downstairs.

  The first thing I heard when I reached the top of the basement stairs was a sneeze. Then another followed—sharper this time, dragging a groan out of him.

  He’s sick.

  Of course he is.

  I tightened the shower cap like it was a helmet and forced my feet to move. Step by step, I descended into the cold, humming basement like I hadn’t tied a possibly dying man to my bed twenty-four hours ago.

  He didn’t look at me right away.

  He was curled under the blankets, knees drawn up, sniffling softly. His nose was red and leaking. His cheeks had that dull, feverish flush. One of his hands peeked out from the pile of fabric—still loosely tied to the bedframe.

  He turned his head slightly and blinked up at me.

  Watery eyes. Damp lashes. A cough that barely made it past his chest.

  “You’re sick.”

  It was a fact. His lips pressed into a thin line, like he didn’t want to admit it. Like the very idea of needing something was offensive.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked, voice small.

  He didn’t answer. Just shook his head. Barely.

  “Okay,” I nodded, eyes scanning the room for anything I’d missed. “You must be hungry. Let’s… let’s get you cleaned up too.”

  “Keep me tied,” he rasped suddenly.

  His voice was rough, broken by another round of coughs. “One less worry for you.”

  I paused.

  That should’ve made me feel better. Safer.

  It didn’t.

  It made my stomach twist into something worse—something sharp and sour and unnameable.

  “No. It’s okay,” I said gently.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. Inhaled deeply. My lungs burned from it.

  “I’m okay.”

  I don’t know if I meant it. But I needed to hear myself say it.

  I turned to leave, stepping carefully over the same spot where the pepper spray still lay—exactly where I dropped it. The moment was still echoing. Still alive between us. A moment that he made no attempt at reaching for.

  “I’ll be back,” I said quietly. “I’m going to get you some food, water, and medicine.”

  He didn’t stop me. Didn’t thank me either. He just lay there, a bundle of illness and silence, while I slipped back up the stairs and shut the door behind me.

  This time, I didn’t cry.

  I stood there in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, just breathing.

  Then I got to work.

  Soup. Tea. The good tissues—the ones with lotion in them. I hunted down the thermometer from the emergency kit under the sink. Found the last of the cough medicine. Even dug out a spare toothbrush in case he felt like being human again.

  When I brought it all back down—tray in my hands like a very nervous nurse—I noticed something strange.

  He hadn’t moved.

  But his hand was no longer clenched.

  It was just resting. Open. Palms up. Like he’d finally, briefly, surrendered.

  I placed the tray on the chair beside the bed and turned on the space heater a little higher.

  His eyes fluttered open. Barely.

  “You didn’t have to,” he murmured.

  “I know.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch him.

  “You said to keep you tied,” I said after a long moment. “But you’re sick. And I don’t think it’s right anymore.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but I held up a hand.

  “I’m not saying you’re free to roam the house and use my Netflix account,” I muttered. “Just… your wrists probably hurt.”

  I reached toward the rope.

  He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop me.

  I untied him slowly, hands shaking. The skin beneath the nylon was red, indented.

  “Are they okay?” I asked.

  He nodded, wordless. Then pointed toward his feet.

  “You still want those tied?”

  He nodded again. Quiet. Respectful. Like it wasn’t just about me trusting him. So I tied his ankles gently. Loose. Just enough.

  Then I picked up the bowl of soup, held the spoon like I didn’t have tremors in my soul, and offered it to him.

  He hesitated.

  Then opened his mouth.

  Like that—without words, without explanation—we slipped into something that felt horribly close to routine.

  And it scared me more than anything else so far. I hadn’t planned to still be here with him. Not five days later. Not still sharing air in the same basement that no longer felt like my bedroom.

  But here we were.

  He was still sick. Still weak. Still the same stranger curled up in my bed like a ghost who hadn’t figured out how to leave.

  And me?

  Still making soup.

  Still waking up tense, checking to make sure he was breathing. Still carrying the guilt like a second skin.

  I kept expecting something to shift. For my fear to catch up. For his mask to slip. For him to grab the belt and turn it on me.

  But instead, he just… coughed. And slept. And coughed again.

  Sometimes I wondered if I had hallucinated the whole thing. The snowstorm, the bar, the glass of water that shattered between us. But then he’d look at me—really look at me—and I’d feel that same cold spike in my spine.

  Not fear exactly.

  Something deeper.

  Today, I let him walk to the kitchen. He didn’t ask. I said nothing. Just watched as he shuffled barefoot down the hall. He moved like someone whose bones still remembered the cold.

  He didn’t touch anything. Didn’t open drawers or look through cabinets. Just stood there, staring at the counter like he’d forgotten what food even looked like.

  I made the sandwich.

  Turkey, no cheese. Too much mayo.

  He didn’t complain.

  “You okay?” I asked, sliding the plate toward him.

  He nodded. Took a bite. Chewed slowly like it hurt.

  And then—quietly, unexpectedly—he said, “Thank you.”

  I froze.

  It was the first thing he’d said to me that wasn’t a plea or a warning. Just two words. But they sat in the air between us like something sacred.

  I didn’t know what to say back. So I didn’t say anything.

  Instead, I slid an envelope across the counter.

  He stared at it.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “It’s not much,” I said. “A little cash. For later. Whenever you go.”

  “I’m not taking that.”

  “You are,” I said.

  His jaw tightened. “I don’t need pity.”

  “It’s not pity,” I said. “It’s… acknowledgment.”

  He blinked, confused.

  “I don’t know what you’ve been through,” I said, “but I know what it’s like to feel stuck. So if this helps you unstick, even a little…”

  I trailed off.

  He didn’t touch the envelope. Just looked at it like it might bite him.

  Then, finally, he whispered, “Okay.”

  I wanted to cry.

  Not because of the money. Not because of what it meant. But because it was the first time I saw him look like a person instead of a consequence.

  He finished the sandwich in silence.

  I stood awkwardly by the counter, hands clenched.

  “If you need anything,” I said, voice soft, “make yourself at home.”

  He looked up.

  Something in his face cracked. Not a smile. Not exactly.

  But a moment. A shift.

  Something like trust, maybe.

  And I didn’t know if that terrified me more than anything else.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep.

  I tried. God, I tried. I rolled over a dozen times, flipped the pillow, kicked off the blanket, pulled it back on, stared at the ceiling like it had answers tucked between the cracks.

  But all I could hear was him.

  Not loudly. Just enough.

  A cough. A shift in the sheets. The creak of the heater. The soft wheeze in his breathing that reminded me—he was still there.

  Still alive.

  Still in my basement.

  I sat up and grabbed my phone. No signal again. Of course. I tossed it aside.

  My brain wouldn’t shut up. It kept running through every version of how this could end badly. Headlines. Police tape. Me on the news, blinking into the camera with my tear-streaked face saying, “I don’t know why—he just looked like he needed help. I had his consent to be tied up in my basement!”

  I clutched my blanket tighter.

  He did look like he needed help.

  That part hadn’t changed.

  I crept downstairs sometime after midnight. Quietly. Not because I was hiding from him—but from myself. From the version of me that knew this wasn’t normal.

  The door creaked open.

  He was awake. Sitting up now. Blankets bunched around his legs.

  He didn’t say anything. Just looked at me, hollow-eyed and pale.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  He nodded slowly. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me neither.”

  I lingered at the edge of the room, arms crossed, not sure what I was doing.

  Not sure if this was kindness, or stupidity, or both.

  “Do you want to talk?” I asked. “I mean—if you don’t, that’s fine. But I’m here.”

  He looked away. Exhaled.

  Then, softly: “Not yet.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  I started to turn to go back upstairs, but stopped.

  “You don’t have to tell me everything,” I said, “but someday, I hope you do.”

  He didn’t answer.

  I didn’t expect him to.

  Instead, I went back upstairs, sat on the top step, and listened to the silence between us stretch long and thin.

  And for the first time since he showed up, I didn’t feel like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  I just felt like I was waiting.

  Did anything feel "off" to you—like it'll matter more later? If you were in Marina's shoes, would you have helped him?

  (I think I would've called the police to be honest...)

  Naniee.