Page 169 of Surfer's Paradise

Isaac’s pulse surged, his breath ragged. “Coco,” he rasped, his voice shredded.

She turned to him. Her blue eyes locked on his. Wet with fear. Wide with pleading.

“Isaac—please,” she whispered.

He struggled, the chair groaning under him. “Fight, Coco. You hear me? Fight. Claw his fucking eyes out. Don’t let him—”

Her lip was split. Her hair matted. Her arms covered in old, haunting bruises he’d seen before. Ones she never explained.

Ones he should have asked about.

The dream shifted. Reality with it.

Suddenly, he was back there—twelve years old, Rosie walking into school with sleeves too long and a silence too sharp. And he hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t asked.

Now, he was paying for it.

He thrashed harder, the chair tipping sideways. The wood cracked on impact. He twisted, dragging his hands against the jagged edge.

Friction.

Burn.

Snap.

He was free.

The faceless man turned. Rosie scrambled back again, chest heaving, cornered now, nowhere to go.

Isaac exploded forward.

His fists connected with flesh. The man crumpled.

But Isaac didn’t stop.

Over and over, he hit him. Until the man was just a blur of red and sound and rage.

And then—he was pulling her into his arms. Shaking. Breathless.

She clung to him.

“Why didn’t you stop him?” she whispered, broken against his chest.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered back. “I didn’t know.”

And just before he woke up, she looked up at him. Calm. Quiet. Her voice full of something he hadn’t expected.

“You were supposed to protect me, Isaac. You promised.”

Isaac jolted upright, breath ragged, sweat clinging to his skin. The sheets were tangled around his waist, the pillow damp beneath his back. The room was dark except for the moonlight slicing through the blinds, casting fractured shadows across the walls. His chest heaved as he rubbed a hand over his face, trying to push the images out of his skull.

Warehouse. Screaming. Rosie. Her eyes.

Fuck.

Rosie was asleep beside him—curled on her side, peaceful.

Real.

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