Too Late For Regret: The Ghost Wife

The icy rain of Seaport City sliced through the air like thousands of tiny glass shards. Within seconds, the thin gray cleaner's jacket clung to Deanna's shivering body, soaked to the bone. She walked barefoot down the dark, flooded back alley behind the hospital. The rough, broken asphalt tore at the soles of her feet with every step. She couldn't feel the pain. Her body was running entirely on adrenaline and the burning need to escape Joseph's reach. A speeding car flew past the alley entrance, its tires hitting a massive pothole. A wave of filthy, freezing water splashed half a meter into the air, drenching Deanna from the waist down. She didn't even flinch. She just raised a numb hand, wiped the gritty mud from her eyes, and kept walking. Her brain was a chaotic mess of static. She had no money, no identity, and nowhere to go. But her muscle memory, driven by a desperate need for the only safe place she had ever known, pointed her toward the outskirts of the city. Toward the Conner family estate. She walked for what felt like hours. Her feet left faint, watery bloody footprints on the pavement that the rain instantly washed away. Finally, she reached the edge of the cliffs. She stood at the rusted, broken iron gates of her childhood home. Deanna looked through the rain. There was no house. Just a massive, blackened crater of charred support beams and collapsed stone. The beautiful marble fountain where she used to play was swallowed by overgrown, dead weeds. The reality of her parents' death crashed down on her. The grief was a physical weight, crushing her lungs. Deanna's knees gave out. She collapsed into the freezing mud. She dug her bleeding fingers deep into the ash-mixed dirt, letting out a suffocated, broken sob. She was so consumed by the agony that she didn't hear the footsteps approaching. Three men, reeking of cheap beer and stale cigarette smoke, stepped out from the shelter of a collapsed stone archway. They were local street thugs, using the ruins to stay dry. The leader, a heavy-set man with a scar across his cheek, let out a low, sleazy whistle. The three of them fanned out, forming a half-circle around Deanna, blocking her exit. The whistle triggered Deanna's combat-zone radar. Her head snapped up. Her eyes, red and hollow, locked onto the men with the hyper-vigilance of a hunted wolf. The leader kicked a piece of charred wood toward her. He looked down at her soaked clothes, his eyes lingering on the way the wet fabric clung to her chest. "What do we have here?" the man to the left sneered. "You looking for a good time out in the rain, sweetheart?" He reached down and violently yanked the gray jacket off her shoulders. The jacket fell away, revealing the hospital logo printed on her thin gown. The leader's eyes lit up with greedy realization. "She's a runaway crazy bitch from the rich hospital. Probably got jewelry or cash on her." He lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of Deanna's wet hair. He yanked her head back, exposing her throat. "Give us what you got, bitch, or we take it out of your hide." The blinding pain in her scalp snapped Deanna out of her grief. A lethal, cold focus washed over her. Her right hand slid through the mud, her fingers wrapping around a jagged, six-inch shard of broken window glass. The leader cursed when she didn't answer. He reached his free hand down, aiming for the collar of her gown. Deanna didn't hesitate. She tightened her grip on the glass and slashed upward with brutal force. The jagged edge sliced deep across the leader's forearm. The man screamed, dropping her hair and stumbling backward. He clutched his arm, dark blood spurting between his fingers and mixing with the rain. The other two thugs froze for a second, then their faces twisted in fury. "You dead bitch!" the man on the right roared. Both men dove at her. They tackled Deanna back into the mud, pinning her shoulders down. She thrashed wildly, kicking and biting, but her feverish, starved body was no match for the weight of two grown men. The man on top of her raised a heavy, dirt-caked fist, aiming directly for her face. Deanna squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the bone-crushing impact. It never came. Instead, a sickening, wet CRACK echoed through the rain, followed instantly by a blood-curdling scream. The weight vanished off Deanna's chest. She opened her eyes just in time to see the thug who had been pinning her fly through the air. He crashed into a charred brick wall ten feet away and slumped to the ground, completely unconscious. The remaining thug stood frozen in terror. Deanna looked up through the heavy rain. A massive, towering silhouette stood in the darkness. He looked like the Grim Reaper himself. The man wore a pitch-black tactical waterproof trench coat. His posture was perfectly straight, radiating an overwhelming, suffocating aura of violence. The rain bounced off his broad shoulders. The standing thug panicked. He whipped out a switchblade, screaming as he charged at the dark figure. The man in the coat didn't even flinch. He stood utterly still until the blade was inches away. Then, his left hand shot out like a striking viper. He clamped his hand around the thug's wrist and twisted. The sharp snap of breaking bone was louder than the thunder. The thug dropped the knife, howling in agony. The man caught the falling knife by the handle. In one fluid, merciless motion, he slammed the heavy metal butt of the knife into the base of the thug's skull. The man dropped face-first into the mud like a sack of rocks. The entire fight lasted less than ten seconds. It was a display of military-grade, lethal efficiency. The man dropped the knife. He turned slowly, his heavy combat boots squelching in the mud as he walked toward Deanna. A massive fork of lightning ripped across the sky, illuminating the ruins in a flash of blinding white light. For a split second, the light hit the man's face. Deanna saw his sharp jawline, his cold, unblinking eyes, and the small scar above his left eyebrow. Deanna's heart stopped dead in her chest.