❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ THE BAD MEN ❞

「𝜗𝜚 . ❝ they patrolled streets filled with danger, but it was the moments between the calls—the stolen glances, the unspoken words—that held the real risk ❜

𝑇𝐼𝑀 𝑃𝐴𝑅𝐾𝐸𝐷 the car with a sharp twist of the steering wheel, the engine rumbling briefly before falling into silence. The faint glow of a streetlamp outside cast long shadows across the dashboard, painting flickering patterns over Charlotte's tense features. She turned to him, watching as he reached for his seatbelt, the faint metallic click of the buckle piercing the quiet.

"Tim," she started, her voice laced with a mix of confusion and exhaustion. He paused mid-motion, his fingers stilling on the belt, and turned his head slightly, the sound of her voice rooting him in place.

"You're not coming inside with me," Charlotte said, her brows furrowing as she met his gaze. Her tone was firm but carried the tremor of someone who was stretched too thin.

Tim froze for a moment, his expression shifting from surprise to something darker—confusion mingled with the sting of rejection. "What do you mean I'm not coming in?" he asked, his voice steady but with a faint edge creeping in.

"You don't need to," Charlotte said, her words deliberate. She folded her arms tightly across her chest as if trying to shield herself from the conversation about to unfold. "I can handle my own brother."

Tim's eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw clenching as he absorbed her words. "You said he's a danger to himself," he countered, his voice low but insistent. "That makes him a danger to you. I'm not letting you go in there alone, Charlotte."

Charlotte shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips as she glanced toward the apartment building. "This isn't your fight, Tim. He's my brother. I've handled him before, and I'll handle him now."

His gaze didn't waver, and the tension in the car grew heavier with every passing second. "Maybe you have," he said, his voice tight, "but that doesn't mean you should have to. And it doesn't mean I'm going to sit in this car and hope you come out in one piece."

Her head snapped back to him, her eyes flashing with anger now. "You don't get to decide that for me," she shot back. "This is my family. My problem. Not yours."

Tim's knuckles turned white where his hand gripped the steering wheel, his jaw working as if he were biting back the words threatening to spill out. Finally, he let out a breath, sharp and audible, and turned to face her fully. "It's not about control, Charlotte. It's about keeping you safe. If something happens—"

"Nothing is going to happen!" she interrupted, her voice rising. "Do you think I don't know how to handle him? Do you think I don't know what I'm walking into?"

Her words hung in the air between them, jagged and raw. Tim leaned back slightly, his expression hardening. "You're so damn stubborn," he muttered, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "You act like letting someone help you is a weakness."

Charlotte's lips parted, stung by the accusation, and she shot him a glare that could have burned a hole through the windshield. "You don't understand," she said, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You don't know what it's like to love someone who's... broken. You don't know what it's like to carry that guilt, that responsibility."

Tim flinched, his eyes narrowing as the sting of her words sank in. He opened his mouth, but for a moment, nothing came out. Then, in a voice quieter but no less charged, he said, "You're right. I don't. But I know what it's like to lose someone because you thought you could save them all by yourself."

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of a distant car engine and the rustling of leaves outside. Charlotte looked away, her chest heaving as she tried to steady her breathing. Her nails dug into her palms, the frustration bubbling up and threatening to spill over.

"I didn't ask for your help," she said finally, her tone cold. "And I don't need it."

Tim stared at her, his jaw clenched so tight she thought she heard his teeth grind. Without another word, he reached for the door handle and pushed it open, letting her step out.

He paused, gripping the edge of the door as if debating whether to say something, but then shook his head and slammed it shut.

Charlotte jumped at the sound, watching as he rounded the car and got into the driver's seat without looking at her. The engine roared to life, the sound reverberating in her chest, and for a brief moment, she thought he might stay, might say something to bridge the widening gap between them.

But he didn't. He pulled away from the curb, the tires crunching softly against the pavement, leaving her standing there. Her fists unclenched as she stared after his taillights, a bitter mix of anger and regret tightening in her chest.

Turning toward the apartment building, Charlotte exhaled sharply, straightened her shoulders, and walked forward. She didn't look back.

The key felt impossibly small in Charlotte's trembling fingers, the sharp edges biting into her skin as she struggled to guide it toward the lock. Her breath hitched, shallow and quick, the sound loud in the stillness of the hallway.

Finally, the key slid into the lock with a soft click. She exhaled a shaky breath, gripping the doorknob tightly to ground herself. Her palm felt clammy against the cold, worn metal. For a second, she hesitated, her forehead lightly pressing against the door. What if...

Her thoughts spiraled—flashes of possibilities she wasn't ready to confront. Jordan sprawled on the floor, unmoving. Blood. Or worse, his eyes wild and unrecognizing, his body rigid with whatever demons had taken hold of him this time. A faint tremor ran through her body, and she forced herself to swallow the rising bile in her throat.

Breathe, Charlotte. Just breathe.

Charlotte twisted the knob with painstaking slowness, the sound of the latch releasing loud in the oppressive stillness. Her fingers were damp against the metal, her palm clammy with nerves.

She gave the door a gentle push, wincing as the hinges groaned, the sound cutting through the silence like a warning.

And then she saw him.

Jordan sat slouched on the couch. The sight made her freeze mid-step. His body was stiff, his shoulders squared defensively as if bracing himself for a blow.

He lifted his head at the sound of her entering, and their eyes met. The man before her was a stranger, and yet, in the sharpness of his gaze, she caught glimpses of the brother she remembered.

He was taller—so much taller than she had imagined. At least six feet, his frame broader than she'd last seen, but the muscle was wiry, his skin stretched tight over his bones in a way that spoke of exhaustion, of struggle.

His face was a map of wear and tear, his jaw shadowed with stubble, his cheek sporting a dark bruise that bloomed purple and green against his pale complexion. It looked fresh, likely from a fight. She swallowed hard, her throat tight with a cocktail of pity and fear.

Her eyes dropped to his arms, and her stomach turned at the sight. The skin was marked with telltale scars, faint lines and dots that ran in chaotic patterns up his forearms. Needle tracks.

She knew them too well, had seen the pictures in her academy training—lifeless images meant to educate, but none of those pictures had prepared her for this. Seeing them etched into her brother's skin was like a punch to the gut.

"Hi," he said, his voice low and rough, like it had been dragged through gravel. There was something darker about it, something that made her chest ache.

Charlotte blinked rapidly, trying to steady herself. Her lips parted, but for a moment, no sound came out. Finally, she managed, "Hi." Her voice wavered, breaking slightly on the word, and she hated how small it made her feel.

She sniffled, brushing at her face quickly, as though erasing any evidence of tears would somehow make her stronger in this moment. She wanted to step closer, to bridge the yawning distance between them, but her feet felt rooted to the floor.

There was something fragile about him, like a taut wire ready to snap, and she was terrified of what might happen if she moved too fast, said the wrong thing.

Jordan stood up slowly, his movements deliberate, almost wary. His posture was stiff, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides as if he didn't quite know what to do with them.

His height was more imposing up close, a reminder of how much time had passed, how much had changed. But there was no hostility in his body language, only a kind of guarded uncertainty. He wasn't pushing her away—not yet.

Her heart ached at the sight of him, but fear lingered, gnawing at the edges of her resolve. She kept her distance, her hands fidgeting at her sides as she tried to gauge the situation.

Every part of her wanted to rush forward, to pull him into a hug, to tell him she was here and she wasn't leaving. But the tension in the air was palpable, a fragile balance that she couldn't risk tipping.

"Jordan," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. The name felt foreign on her tongue, like it belonged to someone else entirely.

His eyes flickered toward her again, and for a split second, she thought she saw something familiar in them—a flicker of recognition, of vulnerability. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the same guarded expression he'd worn since she walked in.

"I didn't know if you'd come," he muttered, his tone flat but edged with something she couldn't quite place. His hands twitched at his sides, and she noticed the faint tremor in his fingers.

"I'm here," she replied, taking a cautious step forward. The floor creaked beneath her weight, and she stopped, her pulse racing as she waited to see how he'd react.

He didn't move, didn't speak. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, but Charlotte refused to look away. She wasn't sure what came next, but she knew one thing—she couldn't let him slip away again. Not this time.

Jordan shifted his weight, leaning slightly against the edge of the couch as his eyes darted around the room. It wasn't an intrusive gaze, more like he was searching for something—anything—to focus on other than her.

His fingers fidgeted against the seam of his jeans, and when his gaze finally settled on a picture frame resting on the console table, his lips twitched into a faint, almost bitter smile.

"You've got a nice place here," he said, his voice low and edged with something she couldn't quite place. His eyes flickered back to her, then away again as he added, almost as an afterthought, "Nice... boyfriend."

The word "boyfriend" hung awkwardly in the air, laced with a faint hint of sarcasm but not enough to be outright hostile. Charlotte's stomach twisted at the way he said it, like it was a jab disguised as a compliment.

She followed his line of sight to the photo he was looking at—a candid shot of her and Matthew, laughing at some long-forgotten joke, his arm slung casually over her shoulders.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and forced a small, tight smile. "Yeah," she said, her voice steady though her hands betrayed her, nervously brushing invisible lint off her sleeves. "Matthew's great."

The words came out smooth, but the tension in her chest tightened. It wasn't that she didn't believe them—Matthew was great—but saying it to Jordan, in this context, felt strange, like trying to fit a puzzle piece where it didn't quite belong.

Jordan nodded absently, his eyes dropping back to the floor. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she thought he might let the conversation die right there.

But then, almost hesitantly, he shifted again, his arms crossing loosely over his chest. "How... how are you?" she asked, her voice softer this time, almost tentative. The question felt monumental, as though the wrong tone might make him retreat back into himself.

He let out a short, humorless laugh, tilting his head to the side as if the question itself was absurd. "How am I?" he echoed, his fingers moving up to scratch at his forearm—a nervous habit she remembered all too well. He used to do it when he was a kid, whenever he had to give a book report in class or explain why he'd missed curfew.

Her chest tightened at the sight of it now, older and tinged with something far heavier than boyhood nerves. The skin he scratched was pale and slightly red, the needle scars stark against the surface. The motion was almost frantic, as though he were trying to scrape away the weight of the question.

"I'm... alive," he said finally, his tone flat but loaded with meaning. "So there's that."

Charlotte's breath hitched at the words, and she fought the urge to reach out, to close the distance between them. But the space felt too vast, and her feet remained rooted to the floor.

She nodded slowly instead, her fingers curling into fists at her sides as she tried to think of what to say, something that wouldn't make him shut down completely.

"That's... good," she said weakly, immediately regretting the inadequacy of the response. Her gaze lingered on him, trying to read the expression on his face, but he was like a closed book, his eyes guarded and distant. Jordan shifted again, his movements stiff and awkward as though his body didn't quite fit into the space around him.

The room seemed to shrink as Charlotte heard her name, spoken so softly it was almost a breath.

"Charlotte," Jordan whispered, his voice carrying an unfamiliar weight—quiet but fractured, as though it was holding back a tidal wave of emotion. It wasn't the same voice she had grown up hearing, the voice that once teased her over breakfast or made her laugh until her stomach hurt. This voice was darker, strained, like it belonged to someone teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

She froze, her eyes locking onto him as he shifted in his seat. The dull, muted light from the single lamp in the corner cast long shadows across his face, highlighting every line etched into his brow, every mark of pain that seemed to hang off him like a heavy coat. His gaze fell to the cushion beside him, and it was then she saw it.

The knife.

It wasn't large, but it was sharp, the kind of blade you might use in a kitchen. Its steel surface caught the faint light, gleaming ominously. Her breath caught in her throat as his fingers reached for it, moving slowly, almost reverently.

"Jordan..." she started, but her voice cracked, and the word came out barely above a whisper.

He lifted the knife, turning it in his hands as though inspecting it, his fingers trembling slightly. His face remained impassive, but his eyes told a different story. His pupils were huge, like he had gone manic.

They flickered with something raw and chaotic, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface. He wasn't looking at her anymore; his focus was entirely on the blade.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his words so soft they felt like they might shatter under the weight of the silence in the room.

Charlotte's stomach clenched. It wasn't just the words—I'm sorry—it was the way he said them. Like a confession. Like a goodbye.

He stood, the motion slow and deliberate, as though even gravity had to wrestle with the weight he was carrying. The couch creaked softly as he rose, but the sound was drowned out by the pounding of Charlotte's heart in her ears.

She instinctively stepped back, her feet shuffling against the wooden floor, the distant scent of leftover coffee and old takeout from the kitchen mixing with the metallic tang of her rising panic.

"Jordan, no," she said, her voice firmer this time, though her hands were trembling. She raised them slightly, palms facing him, as if she could stop him with just the gesture. "You don't have to do this. Whatever it is—whatever they're telling you—it's not real. You can stop it."

He shook his head, almost imperceptibly at first, then with more force. His expression twisted, a flash of anguish crossing his face before it was replaced by something cold, distant.

"I can't," he said, his voice cracking like dry branches underfoot. He looked up at her then, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "They're always there. Always talking, always... telling me what to do. I can't stop them."

The knife in his hand trembled, and Charlotte's stomach lurched as she realized he was gripping it tighter.

"Jordan, listen to me," she said, her tone urgent but calm, the way she had been trained at the academy to talk down someone on the brink. "You're stronger than this. I know you are. You've always been stronger than you think."

He took a step forward, and she instinctively stepped back again, her heel bumping against the leg of the coffee table.

"No, I'm not," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes locked onto hers, pleading yet resigned. "They won't stop until I do what they want. Until I—"

"Don't finish that sentence," Charlotte cut in, her voice sharp now, breaking through the rising tide of his despair. Her hands were still up, her entire body vibrating with a mix of fear and determination. "You're still here. You're still fighting them. That means you're stronger than they are."

For a moment, his expression wavered. His lips parted as though he wanted to say something, but the words didn't come. His eyes darted to the knife in his hand, and his breathing grew more uneven.

Charlotte's mind raced, her training and instincts colliding with the raw, personal reality of the situation.

This wasn't just anyone—this was her brother. The boy who used to sneak into her room after a nightmare, who used to laugh at the dumbest jokes, who used to be hers.

And now, he looked like a stranger wearing his face, a man consumed by something she couldn't see but could feel all too acutely.

"Jordan," she said again, her voice softer now, a desperate edge creeping in. "Please. Look at me. Just look at me."

He did, his gaze meeting hers fully for the first time. And for a split second, she thought she saw him—the real him—breaking through the storm.

Jordan's grip on the knife remained tight, his knuckles white as he held it like a lifeline—or maybe a curse. His jaw was locked, muscles twitching under the pale light of the room, and for a moment, Charlotte felt as though the weight of the world rested on the blade in his hand.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, the words raw and frayed. This time, his voice broke entirely, unraveling in a way that made her chest ache.

Charlotte's frown deepened, her heart pounding hard enough to echo in her ears. She took a step closer, the floor creaking softly beneath her weight, the sound almost swallowed by the thick tension in the room.

Her gaze softened, but her movements were deliberate, slow. This was no time to be Officer Von Liljah; she needed to be Charlotte. The big sister. The one who used to patch up his skinned knees and tell him everything would be okay.

"Jordy," she murmured, her voice trembling slightly, betraying the effort it took to stay composed.

He didn't move to stop her as she closed the distance between them, his shoulders sagging as though the fight inside him had deflated. His fingers still clutched the knife, but the once menacing posture now seemed defeated, broken.

Carefully, Charlotte reached up and cupped his face in her hands, her palms brushing against the rough stubble on his cheeks. His skin was warm but damp with sweat, and her thumbs gently swept over his cheekbones, catching the tears that streaked down his face.

"You're okay, Jordy," she whispered, her voice tender but steady. Her thumbs continued their soothing motion, grounding him. "You're okay. I'm here now."

Jordan's breath hitched, and his body quivered under her touch. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned into her palms, his eyes fluttering shut as if the gesture alone could shield him from whatever torment he carried. His lips parted, but all that came out was a choked sob.

"I'm so sorry," he said, his words trembling like the rest of him. "I'm so, so sorry." He repeated it like a mantra, the words spilling from him in a torrent.

Tears pricked at Charlotte's own eyes, and her throat tightened, but she refused to let her voice waver. Not now. Not when he needed her to be steady.

"I know," she said softly, her fingers pressing slightly against his face as if to anchor him further. "I know, Jordy."

"I missed you," she said, her voice breaking now, the words drenched in an emotion she couldn't suppress any longer.

Jordan's shoulders trembled, and his arms hung limply at his sides as though the weight of her words had knocked the fight out of him entirely. "I missed you too," he choked out between sobs. His voice was muffled and hoarse. "So much."

He sniffled, his breaths uneven as he buried his face deeper into her hands. "Why did you leave me?" he asked, his words barely audible.

"Why did you let them take me? Let the bad men..." His voice cracked, and he dissolved into more tears.

Charlotte's stomach churned with guilt so heavy it felt like it might pull her to the ground. Her vision blurred with tears that she didn't even try to blink away.

"Jordan," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Her hands slid slightly, cupping his jaw now as she leaned closer, resting her forehead against his.

The faint scent of sweat, tears, and something metallic—perhaps blood from the scabbed wounds on his arms—filled her senses. The room was stifling now, oppressive, as though it carried the weight of everything left unsaid between them.

"I never wanted to leave you," she continued, her voice cracking under the strain of her emotions. "If I could go back, I'd—"

"You'd stay?" Jordan interrupted, his voice sharp with longing, though his words wavered like he didn't truly believe them.

"Yes," she said, her voice firm despite the tears running freely down her face. "Yes, Jordy. I'd stay. I should've stayed."

Jordan's sobs quieted slightly, though his body still shook. One of his hands, trembling and uncertain, finally rose to grasp her wrist as if clinging to her touch would stop him from falling apart completely.

Jordan sniffled, his chest rising and falling unevenly as he pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her gaze. His eyes, bloodshot and glassy with tears, seemed to search hers for something—comfort, forgiveness, salvation. "I love you," he murmured, the words heavy with raw sincerity, his voice cracking like a fragile pane of glass under the strain of his emotions.

Charlotte's breath hitched, the weight of his words settling deep in her chest. Her hands lingered on his face, her thumbs brushing over his damp cheeks, and for a fleeting moment, the room felt still.

She opened her mouth to respond, to tell him she loved him too, to say the words that had been on the tip of her tongue since the moment she saw him again.

But she didn't get the chance.

it

has

started.

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❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ 11.12.24 ❞