Page 24 of Ruin My Life
The systems aren’t revolutionary. Not really. But they serve a greater purpose.
They giveusaccess. A front-row seat to everything that happens behind locked doors.
If my team flags something—domestic violence, criminal abuse, anything that puts innocent people at risk—we don’t call the cops.
We pay them a visit.
My circle is tight. Connor, my second-in-command. Monroe and Chavez on security. Lee handles intel and the digital side of things. Together, we use King’s Eye to take down the worst of the worst.
We watch them. Correct them. And cut them down when necessary.
Some of our visits end with a warning. Sometimes with a hefty, guilt-ridden donation to a local shelter or clinic—whatever it takes to offset the damage they’ve done.
But the worst of them?
The ones cutting up their wives. Beating their children. Selling bodies. Lives. Souls.
They don’t get warnings.
They don’t get second chances.
I believe in redemption. But not everyone deserves it.
While King’s Eye protects the elite, my bar—The Speakeasy—takes care of everyone else. Funded by King’s Eye, hidden in plain sight, it’s a safe haven where people can come when they’re ready to escape.
Victims of misuse, abuse, fear. It’s a place where they can breathe. Where they can find a way out—anyway out—and make sure what happened to them doesn’t happen to anyone else.
That’s the job I’ve wanted since I was a Songbird.
Since I watched good people suffer for no reason—punished just for being dealt a losing hand in life.
I know what it’s like to feel trapped. To hang onto hope like it’s your last heartbeat, praying for something to finallychange.
My goal is to make that hope real.
Monroe holds the door to the rental office open, and the overhead bell gives a half-hearted chime as we step inside. The woman behind the front desk straightens, blinking up at us with tired eyes.
The air in here is cold. Both in terms of vibe and temperature. Sterile white walls, grey tile floors—like the waiting room of a budget dental clinic.
But the filth says otherwise.
Grime-streaked baseboards. A slumped leather couch sits in the corner, probably older than all of us. Ceiling tiles are stained yellow with water damage, cracked in various places like bones after a bad fall.
The space heater under her desk glows faint orange. Her hands hover above it, fingers red at the tips.
I step up to the tall counter and rest my forearms along the edge. My voice is smooth. Calm. Measured.
“Hi, Lilly,” I say, reading her name tag. “I need a favour.”
She blinks at me, a little startled.
“Can you tell me what room Oswald Pietro is staying in?”
Her gaze flits to Monroe by the door, stoic as a statue, scanning every shadow with sharp brown eyes.
Then to Connor—leaning casually against the far wall, arms crossed, his mirrored aviators hiding the gleaming russet beneath.
With that shaved head and square jaw, he looks like a tanned John Travolta—recent movie era, not from his prime.
