The Rise Of A Broken Man

Four

It’s been two weeks since his release, but it was still the nightmare from that night that always woke him up, like clockwork. Devon was drenched in sweat by the time he woke up.

Groaning, he pushed up into a sitting position from the worn bed. He wondered how much longer before it gave up under his weight, his thoughts shifting to his dream, and then to the day he saw those people.

Thank goodness they didn't come by to the shop after that, or he would have run off.

Pushing Ethan out of his mind, his thoughts strayed to Diana. Dee had changed a lot from what he last remembered.

He sat there for a long time, elbows on his knees, head bowed, trying to catch his breath as the remnants of the dream thinned and faded. The dim morning light crept through the thin curtains, brushing over the cracked walls and the small table cluttered with empty water bottles and a half-eaten sandwich.

He dragged a hand over his face, still damp with sweat, and exhaled. It had been two weeks since he had walked out those gates, and still his nights were prisons of their own; bars made of memory and anger.

But this morning, it wasn’t the crash or the screams of that night that was echoing in his mind. It was her face.

Diana.

He hadn’t said her name out loud in years, he hadn’t even dared to. But now it hung there in the quiet room like smoke refusing to clear.

Dee. That’s what he used to call her, back when things were simple. Back when she was the only soft thing in a world that already felt too sharp. She had been all wild curls and wide eyes, quick to laugh, quicker to care.

But the woman he saw in the shop that day wasn’t that girl. No, this one had edges. Her hair was sleeker now, pulled back in a way that made her look older, stronger, like someone who had learned how to guard herself from the world. The easy lightness she used to carry had been replaced by something deliberate.

She was beautiful, undeniably so, but not in the same way she had been before. This beauty had something to it, something he couldn't put his finger around.

Devon could still see her as she had stepped out of that car, heels clicking on the shop floor, sunlight catching on the curve of her cheek. Her voice had hit him like a sucker punch, smooth and low, the kind that could still find a way under his skin even after all these years.

And God help him, for a moment, he had felt something. A flicker. A pull. Something he had no damn right to feel.

He clenched his jaw, shaking his head as if he could rattle the thought loose. He shouldn’t be thinking about her like that. Not her, not the woman who had stood beside the man who had ruined his life.

“Get a grip,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

He stood, forcing his body into motion, pacing across the small apartment. The floor creaked under his bare feet, and he grabbed the nearest distraction, his running shoes, still dusted with dirt from yesterday’s jog.

He needed to move. To run until his lungs burned and his mind emptied.

Because whatever that flicker had been, it didn’t belong to him.

Diana Curtis wasn’t his past, and she sure as hell couldn’t be part of whatever future he was still trying to build from the ruins.

By the time he ran for what seemed like minutes, he found he wasn't thinking about her anymore.

Devon slowed to a stop, hands on his knees, sweat dripping off his face and onto the pavement. His chest heaved, each breath scraping down his throat like fire. He didn’t even know how long he had been running; ten minutes, twenty, long enough that his body was shaking and his head was clearer than it had been all morning.

When he straightened and looked around, he realized where he had ended up.

A gym.

It was the kind with tinted glass and expensive equipment lined up in neat rows, treadmills facing big flat-screen TVs showing the morning news. A couple of people were visible through the window, looking fit, focused, and clean. People who had never had to count the years by metal bars or pray for five extra minutes of yard time.

He didn’t belong there and he knew that, and yet, before his brain could catch up, his feet were already moving toward the door.

The blast of cool, conditioned air hit him as soon as he stepped inside. The place smelled faintly of citrus and disinfectant, the hum of treadmills and faint pop music filling the space. Devon glanced around, feeling about ten years out of place in his old hoodie and worn sneakers.

A woman at the front desk looked up and smiled brightly, easy, professional. “Hey there! First time here?”

Damn, it was barely morning, six something maybe. He didn't think people woke up this early by choice.

He nodded awkwardly, adjusting the strap of his hoodie. “Yeah. Just… checking the place out.”

“Gotcha,” she said, leaning forward on her elbows. Her ponytail bounced a little when she moved. “Well, I can give you a tour if you’d like, or if you’re thinking about signing up, we’ve got a free first-day trial. You can use all the equipment, no charge.”

He blinked, surprised. “For free?” he asked, making sure his voice didn't sound like that of a child being offered candy.

“Mm-hm.” She smiled again; warm, the kind of smile that hit him square in the chest and made something old and restless stir awake inside him.

He looked away fast, clearing his throat. “Uh, thanks. I’ll just look around a bit.”

“No problem.” Her tone was still friendly, but her eyes lingered for half a second longer than they needed to. “If you decide to come back, I can set you up with a membership.”

“Yeah. I’ll think about it,” he muttered, and turned toward the rows of machines. That was a lie though, there was nothing to think about. He sure knew he was never coming back here. It was probably too expensive and would cost him a year of rent to pay for a month in a place like this.

It was stupid how out of place he felt, like everyone could somehow see it on him, that he didn’t belong to this world anymore. But the treadmill… that, he knew.

It was familiar.

He stepped onto it, adjusted the speed, and started running. Slow at first, then faster, his feet pounding out a rhythm he could lose himself in. The belt whirred beneath him, the steady hum of the machine drowning out everything else.

The treadmill had been his escape back inside. When the walls closed in, when the noise of anger and fear got too loud, he would run. The warden had liked him, trusted him enough to let him use the equipment meant for the guards after hours sometimes. A privilege for “good behavior.”

He smirked bitterly at the memory.

Now, the sound of his breathing filled his ears, as sweat ran down his neck, his muscles burning, but he didn’t stop.

At least, not until the laughter started.

It was a low burst at first, then louder, growing closer, causing Devon to slow the treadmill, glancing toward the entrance.

Four men walked in, maybe in their early thirties, well-dressed, and looking confident. One of them clapped another on the shoulder, laughing so hard he nearly dropped his water bottle.

“Man, I swear, that guy could get away with anything,” one of them said.

The words snagged in Devon’s chest like barbed wire. Who was that? He couldn't even get away with trying to survive.

“Seriously,” another voice joined in. “Sean talks his way out of every damn thing. You hear what happened at the club last weekend?”

Sean. That name… well, he was sure about a hundred or more Sean was in Ridgefield, so… “That’s Sean Curtis for you man.” one of them said.

Devon’s hand hit the stop button, the treadmill jolting to a halt beneath him. For a second, he thought he had misheard, but he hadn’t. He turned slightly, his heart hammering, his eyes finding the group.

They were still laughing, oblivious to him standing here listening, watching them.

One of them, a tall guy in a gray hoodie, kept going. “Man, he nearly got thrown out for decking that drunk, and ten minutes later, the manager’s comping him drinks. Unreal.”

Devon’s vision tunneled for a moment, like someone had pulled all the air out of the room. They were surely talking about the same Sean he knew, the one who had ruined his life. The same Sean who had smiled that day like the world belonged to him while they took Devon, and his own life burned to ashes.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight.

The men moved toward the weights, still talking, their words blurring into background noise. Devon couldn’t stay there. Not with that name bouncing around in his skull, stirring everything he had been trying to bury.

He wiped his face with the towel hanging over the rail, slung it around his neck, and stepped off the treadmill.

As he walked back to the door, his legs felt heavy, his pulse all over the place.

By the time he pushed through the glass doors and into the early morning, his lungs were burning again, but not from the run.

He needed to get out of town, or he was going to murder someone, and then ruin his life all over again.

He needed to get back to his apartment, call Hector, and tell him his plan.