Chapter 4 - The Breach
The phone line remained open on the floor tiles, the little green screen glowing brightly in the dim bathroom.
BOOM.
The lock housing tore completely free from the drywall. The bathroom door exploded inward, hanging off its bottom hinge by a single bent screw.
Mark stepped over the debris, breathing heavily, his face flushed red with bourbon and rage. He had a heavy brass wrench in his right hand—something he’d grabbed from the hall closet.
"Look at you," he sneered, tossing the wrench from hand to hand. "Hiding in the dark like a rat."
He kicked my purse out of the way, his boots heavy against the tile. He looked down at my broken arm, which was resting uselessly against my ribs, and a sick, satisfied smirk spread across his lips.
"Who were you talking to on the phone, Lena?" he asked, stepping closer. "Calling the cops? You think the precinct gives a damn about a domestic disturbance in Queens on a Friday night? They won't be here for an hour."
I remembered Vincent’s words: Do not look him in the eye. Do not fight back.
I tucked my head down toward my knees, using my good right shoulder to protect my head, keeping my jaw locked tight.
Mark dropped to one knee, grabbing a handful of my hair, forcing my head up. The physical contact sent a jolt of pure fire down into my broken limb, making me scream out in agony.
"Answer me!" he roared, shaking my head violently. "Who did you call?"
From the floor beside his boot, the small speaker of my phone emitted a faint, calm sound.
Six minutes remaining.
Mark paused, his brows knitting together as he looked down at the illuminated screen. He let go of my hair, reached down, and picked up the phone with his dirty, calloused fingers.
"Who the hell is this?" Mark demanded into the receiver, stepping back toward the broken doorway. "Hey! I'm talking to you! Who is this?"
He put the phone to his ear.
I couldn't hear what Vincent said—if he said anything at all. But I saw the exact second Mark’s confidence faltered. His brow furrowed. His grip on the phone tightened.
"Listen to me, asshole," Mark spat, trying to regain his dominant posture, though his voice lacked its previous iron conviction. "This is my house. This is my wife. You stay the hell out of my business or I'll—"
Mark stopped mid-sentence. He slowly pulled the phone an inch away from his ear, staring at the screen as if it had just bitten him, before jamming his thumb against the red button to end the call.
"Creep," Mark muttered, though his eyes were nervously darting toward the apartment's front door. "Some pranky phone service."
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He tossed my phone into the sink, where it landed with a loud clatter against the porcelain. He turned his attention back to me, raising his heavy work boot.
"Now," Mark said, his voice cold. "Where's the rest of your tip money?"
