Chapter 7: Justice or Nothing

A faded sign flickered outside, the kind you see off a lonely stretch of highway. The sheets smelled like bleach and cheap soap, and sunlight leaked in through dusty blinds.

They looked tired, worn out by life, but their eyes were kind. They moved around the room quietly, careful not to wake me.

I saw the marks on their faces—creases from sleeping upright, jackets bundled into makeshift pillows. They didn’t complain; they just did what needed doing.

Their kindness felt strange, almost too much. They hovered, anxious, not quite sure what to do with someone as broken as me.

I did the math—six months of waiting, living on hope and whatever scraps they could find.

Their voices tumbled over each other, eager and desperate. They crowded close, hungry for answers.

I didn’t trust myself to speak, didn’t want to disappoint them with the truth.

A hush fell over the room, as if I’d let the air out of their last balloon.

Their stories, I soon learned, were as heavy as my own.

Her voice shook, anger and grief tangled together. Her story was messy, complicated, too raw for polite company. She wanted answers, same as me.

Their voices were low, their faces hard. They spoke of friends lost in battle, of cities burned, of betrayal on a scale too big to imagine. Their pain was fresh, never far from the surface.

Nobody knew where she’d gone—she slipped through the world like a rumor, impossible to pin down.

Stories traveled faster than the wind—sightings, whispers, promises of justice just out of reach.

They’d come for closure, or vengeance, or maybe just to have someone listen to their pain.

Hope is a stubborn thing. Even when the world tells you to let go, you keep holding on.

I looked at them, and at myself, and knew: if you want justice, you have to take it. Even if you have to walk through hell to get it.