This was wrong.

This was so so wrong and we--I--wasn't supposed to be here. I wasn't supposed to be here, right here.

The Berkeley Theater wasn't very big of a building, but it didn't look to be a small one either. There was a fucking queue lining up at the entrance, crowding up as I kept staring, and I could feel the excitement and anticipation for the show as people bristled with it. They were excited to be here. They were right where they were supposed to be.

I am not, the words repeated on a loop in my head, I am not supposed to be here.

It looked to be an old Victorian theatre, with dark banners and intricate stone carvings. There was a poster up there, large and bold, for tonight's Brahms Violin Concerto. It was magnificent. It was everything I'd wished for, back when there were dreams and wishes and heavy bands over my heart, and everything I needed to be away from right now.

"I don't think this is a good idea." I blurted out before my thoughts could've carried away any further.

It wasn't really a surprise that I had Ryder's jacket wrapped snuggly around me while he stood there in a long-sleeved tee, one that looked soft to the touch (and I was trying not to stare at the way the fabric hugged him so perfectly without any shame). Ryder wasn't dragging me to the theater entrance either, like I was expecting him to do any second now. He was only, rather calmly, staring at me in return. Waiting.

We'd been standing here for more than just a few minutes. I hadn't looked long enough at the tickets to see when the show would be starting, but I knew it'd be soon. It was just that I couldn't make my legs move. I think he too could feel the apprehension coming off of me.

"You do not want to see your father anymore." He stated although he didn't seem pissed that I might've just been wasting his time all along.

"I don't want to go in there."

"Why not?"

I flailed a hand at the entrance. "I can't go in there!"

Ryder only responded by leaning against the brick wall and taking out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. I watched him fiddle with one, take out the lighter, and flick it on and off and on again. I tensed a little, waiting for the smoke to very well choke me, but he didn't light the cigarette.

"This was a bad idea," I said it again, shaking my head vehemently. I felt cold. I was not going to go in there.

Another silent flick of the lighter. "Your father frequently visits such theaters for violin performances. Shows of a specific kind, a scouting kind. He's a music coach."

I stared at him, strangely feeling very horrified by each passing second.

"Your mother hated that about him, your parents divorced because of this, and, I've concluded that it must've been your mother's unexplainable hate again when you couldn't find your violin in your childhood bedroom that day."

It took me a while to digest all that he'd said. What came out of my mouth though, wasn't the same disbelief I felt so deep in my bones right then.

"That wasn't my childhood bedroom," I said.

Ryder frowned and flicked on the lighter again--a sound that seemed to echo sharply in the night. Maybe I shouldn't have said that. Maybe knowing he hadn't figured that very little part out correctly was the real cause of that frown.

And then I blanched. "Wait...Did you talk to my dad?"

His gaze narrowed and he put the pack of cigarettes away. "I didn't talk to anyone. I only made an old neighbor of yours speak."

"Ryder!"

"What."

I stepped towards him, eyes wide. "Why would you do that?" Which neighbor? I wanted to ask. Had he threatened them? Pulled out a gun at them? Sent his men after them?

"You told me to find your father."

"But why did you have to go around threatening my old neighbors?" I asked him, feeling the anxious incredulity bubbling inside me. "You could've just asked me."

He blinked and frowned again, but this time it was gone just as quickly. As if that too hadn't been something he'd put much thought on.

"I-I didn't know Dad's a music coach," I told him, hesitating, because just that was enough to make my head spin. I didn't remember him. I didn't remember anything about my real dad. There were no pictures of him. How was I supposed to remember him? "But I would've told you the rest eventually if you'd have just asked me."

You've seen me broken, paranoid, ripped open in the worst way possible, I thought, what would've been one more blatant imperfection of mine?

He stared at me. He stared at me for a long time. I watched, counted the ticks of my heart, and waited for him to say something. Say anything.

But then his eyes flickered to something--someone behind me, and I watched him pull away from the brick wall, eyes narrowed and alert once again. "There," he said lowly.

I hesitated, don't know why I did, before turning around to see who he was looking at.

The gaggle of people dispersed as they headed for the entrance. It took me a while as I looked around, not sure who we were supposed to be looking at. I had this terrible second of a feeling where I thought that maybe--maybe Santiago had followed us. I still hadn't said anything about seeing Santiago inside my university to Ryder. I still, if I were being really completely honest, hadn't accepted the fact that I'd had a violin in my hands, that I'd played it without feeling any...any real remorse. I didn't know how to accept it; the feeling of dread and awe as they twined together in my heart.

But then I saw him, a towering man getting out of a car, clicking the key fob after he closed the door and running the palm of his hand through his hair. He was tall, imposing, and looked to be the same age as my stepfather, Andy. The sweater he wore looked soft, and I don't know why that was the first thing I noticed--registered--accepted in a daze. I didn't know who he was. But there was no one else near him that Ryder could've been looking at.

The man turned, looked up at the theater banner with squinty eyes, and smiled wide. My thoughts, all of a sudden, stuttered to a halt.

Oh. I'd seen that before. Seen that smile before. The face, his face, in just those few seconds felt so familiar.

I took an unconscious step towards him, eyes tracking the dark mustard scarf around his neck--one that looked just as soft as his sweater.

I turned my head to look back at Ryder, my eyes wide and questioning--asking him to tell me when I wasn't sure enough myself.

He seemed to hear the silent question that I spoke from my eyes. I watched him stare at me, then back over my shoulder and at the man standing several feet behind me. "Yes," he murmured.

Yes. My heart lurched and I turned back around once again, once again looking at the strange man with that smile and that sweater and that scarf.

Dad, I thought as I stared at him. That's my dad.

•••••

It was easy--it seemed so easy, to just go in there then, walk inside and look for him, for Dad, look at that smile I'd recognized, touch that scarf that had felt like sunflowers, and ask him all those questions I'd always wanted to ask.

To just be there, it seemed so easy.

And it was.

There were no wasting of seconds and minutes of time anymore. We--I--didn't waste any more of Ryder's time, contemplating whether I should head inside the building's entrance like everyone else. I just let Ryder take hold of my hand, tugging me towards the entrance, the people, my dad, and then we were inside.

Cool air met my face and I shuddered at what waited ahead. Ryder walked up to the reception area and I waited for him by the entrance of the hallway. I looked around, searched, but couldn't see where the figure, the man, who was supposed to be my dad had gone off to.

I didn't even know what Ryder was doing by the reception desk, telling the girl behind the glass something--something with furrowed brows and direct words, but I could see.

Until it wasn't.

Because I could see the way the girl behind the reception desk, all immaculately dressed in the staff uniform, eyed Ryder with a look that wasn't professional, but was only appreciative--dark with longing. The way she leaned forward to speak to him, smiling, nodding along to what he said, and I almost winced. I didn't though, instead I only looked away.

It was the way my racing heart slowed with an almost sluggish beat--a hollowness. A knowing that I'd seen him--hadn't I seen him with Soren's roommate--hadn't they been together that night? He'd been there with her.

Don't be stupid, Alice, I reprimanded myself in my head, even though it was pure hurt and a foolish spark of anger I felt inside me that had caused me to think all those things in the first place.

I didn't want that girl to be looking at him like that. To be staring at my...my Ryder like that. But then I had to remind myself, I had to, that he wasn't my anything. He wasn't.

We were here, together, to look for my dad.

And what about the kiss outside the bar only an hour ago?

I looked away determinedly and stared at the stained glass artwork up near the narrow windows. It was just a kiss, I reminded myself. I've a history of many kisses and when have any of them ever meant anything?

There was a brush of fingers over my elbow. I looked up, startled to find Ryder so close, and only barely noticed him looking at me a little oddly, before he told me to, "come on."

The closer we reached the performance hall, the more of that year-old fear curled up inside me. It was irrational, I knew it was something just in my head, something that shouldn't even be real, but it was still like warning bells in my head, and I had to remind myself I wasn't here for myself--I wasn't here to enjoy and feel and be happy. I was here for Dad--which maybe, perhaps, would've been an even more awful reasoning if my mom was here.

I tried to gather myself as Ryder neared the doors to the hall, with me right behind him, and I told myself to breathe when Ryder's fingers curled around my wrist, tightened just a fraction, before tugging me along and turning past the doors without really going inside like I'd expected us to.

I followed him, bewildered, and only noticed where we were going until I saw the black doors, noticed the BACKSTAGE pinned over them, and realized.

I remained silent, didn't know why we were going backstage but followed him anyway. It was only until Ryder registered the two backstage passes to the electronic tab near the doors that I realized what he'd been doing at the reception desk.

How he'd managed to get access passes for the backstage area was something I didn't understand. I wanted to ask, so desperately, but then the reception girl's face flashed before my eyes and my throat clammed shut before I could've thought of any words to speak.

"Do you wish to see the show?" Ryder asked me as if he knew--as if he knew the thoughts warring inside me. Had my thoughts always been this obvious? If they had, why hadn't anyone ever been there for me then? Like this?

Been there for me like this to show that they cared? They hadn't. No one had.

I stared at his back and only shook my head when he glanced over his shoulder at me. I didn't wish for anything right now.

"We'll find him here then." He stopped near the corner and I stopped too, glancing over at the equipment rooms where most of the voices seemed to be coming from.

I looked back at Ryder then, beside me, and stared at his hand, fingers, still encircling my wrist beneath the jacket sleeve.

"How did you get those?" I asked him quietly.

He followed my gaze to the backstage passes in his hand and then looked back at me. "I asked."

"You what?"

"I didn't threaten anyone this time." He stated and then looked behind me, around me--us--as if waiting for a threat. That was, I realized, something we had in common then. But I clammed up in fear whenever I was even the littlest bit paranoid. He just grew alert and ready to, god forbid, fight anyone who came his way.

"That's...that's better?" I didn't mean to make it sound like a question. I meant to say it, say that that was good--better. But was it really? Why couldn't I erase the image of him and the reception girl from my mind?

Ryder turned to fully stare at me this time (a stare that was unnerving, fixating, on me), lifting my hand--our hands--only to yank me closer. I staggered forward and barely missed knocking my nose into his shoulder.

"You don't sound so sure saying it." He frowned, tightened his grip on my wrist just the tiniest of fractions, and his gaze seemed to darken. "Am I missing something, querida?"

I stared, heart racing, and shook my head. Glancing at the two brochures in his other hand, I took them from him as a means to distract myself, stared at them, and had to bite the inside of my cheek, a little too much when I felt the sting of blood, when I noticed the scribbled phone number on one of them.

I looked away from it almost instantly, my face burning, and gripped the brochure a little tighter. Why'd she, the girl behind that reception desk, give him her number?

Why wouldn't she? I asked myself.

"I'm just a little scared of facing Dad." I blurted out, which wasn't a lie but wasn't really the whole truth either. It was something I should be focusing more on though. What had happened between that reception girl and Ryder wasn't--couldn't be any of my business. "What if he doesn't want to see me or...talk to me?"

His scowl darkened. "He will."

It wasn't an appropriate time, wasn't even an appropriate situation, but something about his words, how he'd said them made a small, startled laugh escape my lips. "You'd threaten my dad."

He looked a little confused and a little well, stunned. "I will not just threaten him, Alice, if he proves out to be just like the rest of your fucking family."

A few men, dressed in identical staff uniforms walked by us, barely paying us any attention, and carrying what looked to be crates towards the equipment rooms. They were talking in hushed whispers and grunts, the voices of the crowd outside taking over the silence.

I stared intently at Ryder. "My family doesn't hate me." And then I glanced hesitatingly at the men as they placed the crates near the doors. They seemed to be discussing something. "They're not...bad people."

Ryder glowered menacingly. "They don't listen to you, you said. They've been ignorant. They hurt you."

I sighed. "We should--" I stopped abruptly, glanced at the crates once again, and noticed one of the men pulling it open with another grunt, and felt the air change. It was--I couldn't exactly pinpoint it, but something, I knew, wasn't right.

"I will fucking--" I snatched my hand away from Ryder, clumsily pressing my fingers over his lips. He stilled. I did too.

I swallowed, glanced back at the men, and tried to say it. But perhaps that wasn't necessary. Because Ryder must've seen it on my face, his eyes narrowly focusing on me and around me and I felt the moment he seized up, looking at something, someone, some object that I didn't see, and it was instant--abrupt--a second as his hands gripped my waist, shoving me around until I slammed back against the wall with his hands on me, with him--his whole body shielding me from--

There was a loud, shattering crash, pieces of stained glass and sharp debris flying all around us, around me, and Ryder pulled me closer, impossibly closer, until it seemed like I couldn't even hear the deafening shatters--just the loud thudding of my own heart and the warm press of his body shielding mine.

"Fuck." I heard Ryder swearing somewhere near my ear, my hair, hands brushing my hair away from my face and my shoulders, as he leaned down to look at me. "Fucking hell, are you all right?"

I nodded, mouth dry and numb and brain too slow to catch up to what was happening. It felt--I stared and watched a small trickle of blood down his eyebrow. I reached up, fingers trembling, and traced the shallow cut. He shielded you, a tiny, hysteric voice broke through the fog in my head. He protected you.

"R-Ryder," I whispered, and there were pieces of glass all around us, tiny shards on his shoulders, his hair, and there was this heavy lump lodged in my throat.

"Fuck." He whispered again, coiled with tension and alarm, yet I felt it, like a promise, when he pressed his forehead against mine, his shallow breathing matching my stuttered one.

"You're hurt?" I said--questioned.

"We have to go." He told me. His eyes found mine, blue as sharp as the broken glass. I wiped the pad of my thumb against the trickle of blood, gentle and cautious and knowing. He knew something I didn't. "You have to go."

I shook my head. "I can't--"

There was a yelled shout behind him, behind us, and I only caught a glimpse of a sharp glistening object aiming right at us, when Ryder turned around and grabbed it by the hilt, the man's wrist who was holding the knife, and slammed him back into the wall by his neck. There was a loud sickening thud, a crack of bone as he rammed the assailant's wrist again and again against the wall, the knife clumsily knocking out of his grasp.

I staggered away, eyes wide, as Ryder shoved him back against his windpipe, holding him up against the wall, almost on the verge of choking him judging by the grunts the man was making. And no, I realized in horror, he wasn't a man--he barely seemed to be a teenager--just a kid.

"Who the fuck sent you?" Ryder gritted out, sliding the discarded knife aside with his boot and towards me.

The kid was trembling, trying to get out of the grasp. I looked around, scared, but there wasn't anyone else waiting to attack. Except for the commotion and shouts coming from outside. The equipment rooms were thrown open but there was only darkness inside. What was happening?

Dad, I thought in sheer, paralyzing horror.

"Fucking tell me who sent you or I'll gut you with that very knife." Ryder snarled. I snapped my head back to them and watched the kid's face turn purple with the force of his struggle as he shook his head.

"¡N-No sé a qué te refieres! ¡No hablo inglés! ¡No lo comprendo!" He nearly would've shouted if there wasn't a vice-like grip holding him up by the neck.

I took another step back, glancing down at the knife and then back up at Ryder. Everything was wrong--everything was so, so wrong.

Ryder leaned close threateningly and I barely heard what he said. "¿Quién carajo te envió aquí?" The kid blanched, tried to lunge but another unnatural crack of bone, a broken finger, had him screaming and choking. "Empieza a hablar antes de que te arranque la maldita lengua."

Just a kid, I shuddered as I watched him ramble, trying to speak and answer Ryder, words tripping over one another in a language I couldn't decipher. In the end, Ryder shoved him aside and let him crawl to a corner, clutching his broken hand with ragged gasps.

He picked up the knife, glass crunching beneath his boots, and turned towards me. I glanced down at the kid but he was still there, not moving.

"Alice," Ryder said, although I could see him clenching and unclenching his fists, maybe because of what the kid had told him. "Come on. Stay with me."

I went to him, looking down at the kid worriedly. "What did he--he's just a--"

"He says he doesn't fucking know who sent him." Ryder gritted out. I watched him carefully put the knife away, tense like a string pulled taught to its very limit, and wrap an arm fully around me. "It's all right. Breathe. I'll get you out of here."

"But Dad's here. What's happening?"

"I know," he said, seemed like he was chewing on his own words, before he spoke into my hair softly. "The kid lied, querida. He knows who sent him. I do too. I need you to find your father and go away with him to his house."

"What?" I whispered, grabbed his sleeves, arms--him--and pulled back with wide, terrified eyes. "What?"

The boy on the floor groaned something and I jumped, Ryder carefully pulling me away. "There's--" he got cut off when we both started hearing loud booms that sounded a lot like frantic shouting and gunshots. "Cabrón. Fuck, get behind me."

I did get behind him, fingers once again finding him, his sleeve, as I glanced back over my shoulder. "What's happening?" I asked him, scared. This, all of this, wasn't right. It reminded me of--darkness, cellar, underground cellar, the lights going out, hands on me, so many hands on me, words, whispers, questions, mynamemynamemyname--

Ryder didn't answer me, although he did answer someone on his phone, "Rafael, what the fuck is going on?"

There was a hurried, almost panicked shouting on the other end of his phone. I squeezed my eyes shut because this was all so so wrong and I'd never heard Rafael like that. I glanced from over Ryder's shoulder and watched the darkness coming from the equipment rooms. The hallway was quiet and empty save for Ryder and me and the injured kid on the floor. More gunshots happened outside and I had to grit my teeth together, scared with the urge to scream.

"No, I fucking ordered them to stay put until I fucking gave them the word," he hissed over the phone. "What the fuck do you mean they are--fuck. Fucking hell." He swore out loud, I gripped his sleeve tighter and he tensed, stiffened, his hand reaching out to touch my side almost reassuringly. "I'm going to fucking rip them apart!"

"What's wrong?" I asked him as he hung up on the call, dragging his hands through his hair with barely restrained anger.

"My men," he gritted out, "who were supposed to be on the lookout aren't there anymore."

I stared at the kid, at the boy curled on the floor. I think he was unconscious. Bile threatened to rise up my throat. "Why...Where are they?"

Ryder stepped forward and harshly nudged one of the kid's feet, crouching down and feeling around for something before pulling out a sheathed silver blade, and then another, from each of his shoes. The boy didn't stir, not even a little.

He wiped one of the daggers on his shirt. "The gunshots you're hearing, that is them."

I felt the blood draining out of me. "What? Why? Is there someone out there they're trying to save us from or--"

"No." Ryder scowled and fixed his gaze at me. "They've turned on me."

He said it like it was a mere nuisance and nothing big. He said it like this wasn't the first time that was happening.

"We'll find your father." He stood up again and started heading for the way we'd just come from--away from the dark equipment doors. I could see, now that we weren't bathed in darkness, that the back of his shirt was ripped in places. The glass shards, I remembered as I looked up at the ceiling and the broken stained-glass artwork. "And you're leaving with him."

"What about--"

"I'll follow you once I've taken care of this, querida."

"But how will you fight your own men?" I asked, and only then noticed the hysteria in my voice. I gripped his arm and tried to stop him. "Ryder."

"I'll be fine. I only need to get you out of here and I'll be fine," he said, then added, "They know you're here, Alice. Every single one of them does. When they turn on me, they turn on everything that I will die protecting. Do you see what I'm trying to say here?"

I nodded, even though I didn't see what he was trying to say here, my mind still stuck on him saying when and not if. When. He'd known they would turn against him? How many times had that happened? Was this why he'd always been so alert, aware, calculating of his surroundings?

Before I could've said anything, the hallway led us back to the reception area and I winced at the sudden onslaught of panicked shouts, screams, people pushing past each other. Ryder pushed me behind him, towards a corner, looking around.

"There," he said, looking at me and towards the entrance of the building where I--yes, I could see a silhouette that looked familiar, flashing lights glancing over him and I realized that it was Dad. Although I couldn't see if he was fine or injured or hurt.

I swallowed heavily, feeling the sudden panic clawing inside me as I turned back to Ryder. "W-Will you be safe? Promise me you'll be safe? Please." My voice broke at the very end.

He clenched his jaw, stared at me, and nodded.

"Please be safe," I said it again, though I'm sure he didn't hear me this time since my voice got carried away with another deafening gunshot. Ryder tensed even more and so did I. We didn't have much time. "I'll...I'll wait for you."

He nodded again, carefully slipped a smaller knife into the pocket of his jacket that I was still wearing, and told me, "Anyone who comes near you that isn't your father, querida, you don't hesitate to use this. Okay?"

I nodded, even though I think we both knew I wouldn't use a knife--not to harm anyone--not like that.

I took a step back, and then another, and then I was turning around and running towards where I'd last seen my father, leaving Ryder behind in the chaos of the building.

I ran outside, stumbling as people shoved me by, and I barely didn't see the man--Dad standing near the hidden corner by the trees. It looked like--he looked unsteady, off balance, like he wasn't really alone out there.

My breath froze in my lungs, feet coming to an abrupt halt when I saw--nononono.

"I don't know what you want from me." It was Dad's voice, gruff and tense and bewildered, although it wasn't familiar. "I don't know who you're talking about."

I took a small step past the tree branches and saw him, saw a figure wearing that hideous, unmistakable gas mask, and everything inside me turned to ice.

He held a pistol in his hand, pointing it straight at...at Dad.

Santiago stepped forward towards Dad. So did I.

"I don't..." Dad looked around, his eyes caught mine and I watched the alarm on his face, a minute shake of his head, almost as if...as if warning me off even though I could see that he didn't even know me like I knew him. I was a stranger to him. "Back off. There are officers rounding up in the area, you can hear them. Why don't you put that gun down--"

Santiago didn't. He only raised it higher to his face. I felt my stomach lurching with a jolt.

I watched his gloved finger move towards the trigger. "No." My whisper was gone with the wind. "Santiago, no, don't."

Both their heads snapped in my direction, and all of a sudden, the gun was being pointed at me.

"Kid, what the hell are you doing?" The man, Dad, hissed at me, eyes wide and so--so brown, I noticed as I neared him. It was almost like I was looking in a mirror. "Get out of the way. Run."

But I couldn't run. Not when Ryder had sent me here. Find your father, he'd said. And Santiago was here, he was going to hurt him, and I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't. I wouldn't when he didn't even know--when Dad didn't even know who I was. Did he not know? Had he forgotten me too?

I shook my head at him. "I can't."

He stared at me, eyes widening, then looked back at Santiago and the gas mask and the gun in his hand. "Try to get behind me then." He whispered to me, pleading.

I can't, I wanted to say again. I can't lose you. And Santiago knows what you don't. Please.

I turned to Santiago. "Don't...don't do this please." You've done enough.

The dark holes of the gas mask bored into me, a silent dark promise, a knowing that chilled me to the bone.

"Kid, I don't know what you're doing but get the hell behind me," Dad softly hissed at me.

I shook my head at him even though, by now, I had moved enough in front of him that I had my back directly to him, standing between him and the deadly muzzle of the gun.

"Santiago," I said again, and the gun was once again pointed at my face. I flinched. "Please. Please, don't--"

He took a step towards me and I stumbled back into Dad. Santiago didn't stop there. He took another step, and another towards me, the gun nearing my face with every inch he crossed between us.

I placed a shaky hand behind me, towards Dad, pleading silently for him to get back and not say anything that might--that might worsen the situation.

"Santiago--" the gun neared my forehead, its cool surface a death note on my skin. I heard Dad say something behind me but the cold flush of fear inside me was too much. Too sudden. Too fast.

"You can't be saved." The words escaped the gas mask, a husky whisper. I wanted to squeeze my eyes close but I couldn't. "You can't escape. You won't."

I forced my tongue to work despite the heavy dread holding me in its clutches. "P-Please."

The gun dug into my forehead. My heart skittered.

"You see how easily I can turn his men on him." The gas mask said. I stared up at him, felt the cold flush on my skin when I realized who he was talking about. "You see how easily I know where you are. You see," the gun slid against my skin, dug into my hairline, and I held in another flinch, "that I'm holding myself back."

Please, please, please. It was the ticks of seconds and my heartbeat. A silent begging vanishing into thin air.

"His father, Alice Rhodes," he added, "loathes the sight of him more than he does mine. The scars on his back, I can make his men and his father do much worse than that."

"No." My chin trembled.

"I can, but I'm not." He whispered softly, and I could smell the musky leather scent of the gas mask and the stench of blinding fear. He pulled his finger away from the trigger. "You owe me."

"Santiago!" A voice shouted from a distance, a murderous voice, a voice that was so familiar.

My heart lurched and I saw Ryder, felt him, but he was too far away.

Santiago didn't turn, just raised the gun in the air and fired. I flinched violently.

"You." He was smiling--I felt the leather mask creak with it. "Owe me."