Stranger

Ellen’s pulse surged. Someone was there. Someone who wasn’t afraid.

“The alley behind Jack’s Bar,” the stranger’s voice came again, crisp and clear. “That’s right, on 5th.”

Chief’s composure cracked. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you little prick?” he snarled, his voice low and venomous.

The stranger didn’t falter. “I don’t have time to explain all the details,” he continued smoothly, still calm, still controlled, “but it does involve two WPD officers. If you’re quick, you might be able to ask them yourselves.”

The footsteps grew louder. Closer now.

“I could arrest your ass,” Chief spat. “Don’t do anything stupid.” His tone dipped into dangerous territory.

The stranger’s footsteps halted. “And what a fantastic photograph that would make,” he said evenly. “Maybe I’ll make the front page.”

The alley seemed to hold its breath.

Then came a burst of static.

The crackling sound from Chief’s radio cut through the moment, sharp and intrusive. A voice broke through the frequency, rough and urgent.

“Chief Anderson, we’ve got a 10-66 over on 7th. I need you and Officer Rodriguez to assist.”

Chief snatched the radio from his belt, fingers tight around it, voice clipped.

“Anderson. Copy. This 10-66… is this the Sunny Meadow incident?”

Rodriguez visibly stiffened. The reaction was immediate. Whatever that name meant, it meant something.

Ellen felt the shift. The silent understanding that passed between them.

The radio crackled again. “Yes, Anderson. I can confirm that.”

For the first time since he’d started this game, Chief hesitated. The baton hung loosely at his side now, grip still firm, but wavering. For a long moment he seemed caught between rage and obligation.

Then he snapped.

“C’mon, Rodriguez,” he barked. “You heard that. We need to get our asses over to 7th.”

Rodriguez hesitated, gaze flicking to Ellen. Sympathy flashed there. A quiet, fleeting acknowledgement. An apology he couldn’t say out loud.

It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

With a small nod, he turned and followed Chief. Their boots crunched against the pavement, fading into darkness.

Ellen exhaled, shaky and shallow, like she’d been holding her breath for a lifetime.

But it wasn’t over.

Chief stopped just before vanishing around the bend. He turned back. His eyes locked onto her, his expression curling into something ugly.

“You both had better hope we don’t cross paths again. This isn’t finished.”

Ellen’s pulse stuttered.

He meant it.

She could see it in his eyes. The promise of it.

But the stranger behind her didn’t seem concerned. His voice came calmly, like someone closing a book that had run out of pages.

“Goodbye, Chief Anderson. Officer Rodriguez.”

Chief hesitated at the sound of his name in the stranger’s mouth. One last glance over his shoulder.

Then he was gone.

The alley swallowed them whole.

Silence.

Ellen’s legs trembled as the adrenaline drained all at once, leaving her hollow and weightless. She barely noticed the soft crunch of approaching footsteps. Barely registered the presence behind her.

Until a gentle hand rested on her shoulder.

Warm.

Steady.

Not forceful.

“Turn around.”

His voice was low, patient, careful.

Ellen’s breath hitched.

Then the dam broke.

A sob tore out of her, raw and guttural, ripping from deep in her chest. Her body buckled, shaking, collapsing in on itself. Her hands flew to her face, but it was pointless. There was no hiding it. No holding it in. The weight of everything crashed down, relentless and crushing.

The stink of the alley pressed in. Wet pavement. Rotten food. Oil. Piss. It clung to her skin, her clothes, her ribs where the baton had struck. Her breath came in ragged gasps, hitching between sobs that felt like they might split her open.

Why me?

What have I done to deserve this?

The same questions she had asked as a child, cowering beneath a table. The sharp crack of a belt against leathered skin filling the air.

The same question she had asked at eighteen, stuffing what little she owned into a stolen duffel bag and fleeing into the night. Because the pain of leaving had been the only thing less terrifying than the pain of staying.

It had never stopped.

The running.
The hiding.
The endless cycle of barely surviving.

And now this.

The stranger’s voice came again, soft but firm.

“Please—” Not a command. A coaxing. A reassurance. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, patient and unshaken. “They’re gone now.”

Ellen turned slowly, head hanging low, body convulsing with each sob. Cold air stung her tear-streaked face. Snot mixed with tears, dripping from her chin.

She didn’t care.

She had no dignity left to protect.

Hope was dangerous.

It was easier to believe this was just more bad luck. Easier to accept that this was how things would always be. Because letting herself hope, letting herself believe for even a second that things could change, was a risk she couldn’t afford.

Through a blur of salty tears, she registered the shape of feet.

Not hers.

Then a warm hand touched her chin.

Ellen froze. Her breath hitched, erratic. The contact was gentle, barely there, but firm enough to ground her. His fingers smelled of soap. Something clean. Something real.

Not cigars.#Not sweat.

For a moment she didn’t move.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, she allowed the pressure of his hand to lift her head.

Her vision was blurry, swollen from crying. The stranger’s face came into focus. Tall. Strong. But not unkind. His expression wasn’t pitying. It wasn’t disgusted by the mess of her face, the tears, the snot, the raw, breaking thing she had become. His eyes searched hers, like he was looking for something deeper. Something past all of it.

And then, softly, barely above a whisper, he said, “Everything is going to be okay.”

Like a secret.

Like a promise.

Ellen shook her head violently, swiping at her face with her soaked sleeve, but the tears kept coming. They weren’t just for tonight. The dam had finally broken, and she doubted it would ever stop.

“No,” she choked out, voice fractured between sobs. “It’s not going to be okay. It never ends. It’s never going to end.” Her breath shuddered. “I accept that now.”

The stranger’s expression shifted.

Darkened.

Then his voice rose, raw and sudden.

“No!”

Ellen’s eyes snapped up, startled. His face twisted, like he was fighting something unseen. Some unspeakable fury.

“No,” he repeated, voice thick with something she couldn’t quite place.

Then, like a vow, he said it.

“It ends now.” His jaw clenched. “It ends today. Do you hear me?”

Ellen shrank slightly under his intensity, fingers fumbling as she tried, uselessly, to wipe her face.

“Tell me,” he said, voice softer now, but firm. “Tell me things are going to be okay. I want to hear you say it.”

Her head dipped again, but his hand was there, lifting her chin. Holding her gaze steady with his own. The warmth of his palm was unexpected. Real. Grounding.

“Say it,” he urged. Not demanding. Waiting. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Ellen stared into his eyes. So piercing they seemed to strip her bare, yet filled with a kindness she hadn’t felt in a long time.

For a moment, she thought maybe he believed it.

If he could, then maybe she could too.

Her lips trembled. Her voice faltered. “It’s… it’s—”

Her throat tightened. Her chest constricted, as if the words were caught somewhere deep inside her.

“Okay,” he whispered, patient.

Ellen squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep, unsteady breath.

“It’s going to be—”

She exhaled.

“…Okay.”

A small, flickering smile tugged at her lips. A brief wash of relief passed through her. She’d said it. She’d found control, even if only for a moment. The tears slowed, leaving her cheeks damp but no longer streaming.

“That’s it,” the stranger said, voice warm and reassuring. “That’s great. You’re doing great.”

Ellen nodded. Her body still trembled, but something inside her felt lighter.

“Now,” he continued, tone shifting into something almost practical, almost light, as if the world hadn’t just threatened to collapse around her, “let’s get you and those bags inside. You look like you could use a nice hot drink.”

He paused. A playful grin tugged at his cheeks.

“Between me and you, I have biscuits.”

A startled laugh spluttered out of her. The sound felt foreign. Like it belonged to someone else. She nodded, swiping at her face again, wet skin dragging across wet skin as she tried to compose herself.

It was pointless. She only smeared the mess further across her cheeks.

She was making it worse.

She hesitated, self-conscious, face burning.

The stranger chuckled softly. “Here. Hold this for me.”

She blinked as he handed her his phone. Ellen took it automatically, the faint murmur of a voice on the other end reminding her of the ongoing call.

The Washington Post.

The thought barely registered before she felt movement.

A brief brush of dry fabric against her cheek.

She flinched. Startled.

Before she could react, the sleeve of his sweater swept across her face in swift, confident strokes, wiping away the damp mess without hesitation. The action was casual. Practised. As if he’d done it a thousand times before.

Like she was nothing more than someone who needed cleaning up.

Ellen stood frozen, gripping his phone in one hand, her bra still crumpled in the other. Utterly dumbfounded.

The stranger gathered her scattered belongings, calm and efficient. No hesitation. When everything was packed, he lifted the three bags with ease and headed toward the back of the bar. A trash bag leaned against the door, propping it open.

“C’mon,” he called over his shoulder.

The alley smelled of rain and stale beer. Of cigarette butts ground into pavement. Of old, wet trash. The scent clung to the brick walls like something alive. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared. A sharp, indifferent note. A reminder that the city was still moving.

Unaware that her world had just tipped sideways.

At the door, the stranger paused, nudging the bulging black trash bag with the toe of his boot. “Sorry, do you mind throwing this in the can? I was actually in the middle of taking it out when I saw you.”

He gave the bag another light kick. “I’ll stash your stuff in the boiler room inside. It’ll dry out in no time.”

The words didn’t fit.

The casual normalcy of them. Trash bags. Boiler rooms.

Like they hadn’t just clawed their way out of something raw and unspeakable.

The alley still carried the echoes of it. The scrape of a baton on wet pavement. The suffocating scent of cigars and sweat. The cold press of metal against her skin.

The memory sat heavy in her chest.

But the stranger stood there, unfazed. Talking about damp clothes and trash like none of it had happened.

Like it hadn’t been real.

“Wait!” she called out, sharper than she intended.

He stopped and turned to face her.

The word hung between them.

Ellen swallowed, forcing her thoughts into something solid. Something that made sense. “Who are you?” she asked, voice steadier than she expected.

His expression flickered. Just for a second. As if the question had pulled him out of somewhere else.

Then he smiled.

It wasn’t easy or effortless. There was something behind it. A weight. A pause. As though he were deciding how much of himself to give.

“Sorry,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I have a strange habit of—”

He trailed off. His gaze slipped, unfocused for a beat, before snapping back to her. Locking on with quiet intensity.

When he spoke again, his voice had shifted. Slower. More careful. The words laid down like stepping stones over ice.

“I have a habit of… talking to certain people. Strangers. In a way that might suggest I’ve known them longer than a moment.”

The alley had changed.

What had been a cage of shadows and suffocating fear minutes ago felt different now. The puddles that had swallowed Chief’s footsteps shimmered instead, fractured light dancing across brick walls. The air was still damp, but the weight had lifted.

She could breathe again.

“My name is Seth,” he added.

His smile faltered. Just briefly. A flicker of something unreadable, quickly tucked away.

“I’ve just started working at Jack’s bar. Today’s my first day. Jack…” He hesitated. “…the owner. He’s my dad.”

Ellen’s brow furrowed. Then, slowly, her expression softened.

“Hello, Seth,” she said. “I’m Ellen. I work at the bar too. Usually the night shift.”

Seth nodded. “Nice to meet you, Ellen.”

Without another word, he turned and walked through the open door, disappearing inside with her bags.

Ellen approached the trash bag.

Then she stopped.

Her hands were full. And suddenly she remembered.

Seth’s phone.

She still had it.

Ellen turned the device over in her hand, as if it might explain something. Anything.

Then a sound crackled from the speaker.

A faint, scratchy voice.

The call was still connected.

The Washington Post.

Had they been listening this whole time?

She hesitated, then lifted the phone to her ear.

“On the sound of the third beep,” the voice intoned, mechanical and distant, “the time will be eight… seventeen and thirty seconds.

“Beep.

“Beep.

“Beeeeep.”

Ellen ended the call.

She stared down at the phone in her hand. Her arm dropped limply to her side. Her mouth fell open.

Not the Washington Post.

The Talking Clock.

Understanding hit her all at once.

Seth had been bluffing.