Hope on a Bullet
summary: After assassinating a corrupt CEO, a man on the run turns to an unlikely allyâthe girl who worked at the hostel he stayed at before the crime. She shouldn't let him in. He shouldn't trust her. In a world that's already taken too much from them both, how far can hope go when itâs built on the edge of a bullet?
warnings & tags: slow burn, eventual smut, multiple pov, hurt/comfort, chronic pain (and dealing with it)
Read on AO3
Chapter Four
POV: Gabriella
Gabriella is halfway through a bowl of cereal when her phone buzzes. Itâs a text from Marcus, her manager.
Can you come in? ASAP.
She stares at the screen, spoon halfway to her mouth. Itâs her day off. Deep down, she knows she should ignore him, pretend she didnât see it, but something in her gut tells her this isnât a normal request.
He picks up immediately when she calls. âHey Gabby.â
âMarcus, itâs my day off. Did you forget?â
âItâs kind of an emergency.â Thereâs no preamble, no pleasantries. His tone is sharper than usual. âI really need you to come in, okay? Sooner, rather than later.â
The line clicks dead before she can argue.
Dread sets in her stomach like a stone. Something feels off. She grabs a coat, shoves her feet into sneakers and heads out. The rest of the cereal lies forgotten on the table, slowly turning to mush.
The wind claws at her face, while anxiety rips her apart from the inside. Itâs only when she rounds the corner to the hostel that she sees the crowd.
Reporters. A dozen or more of them crowd the sidewalk in front of the building, microphones in hand, cameras slung over their shoulders, trying to capture everything, anything, like theyâre hunting for blood.
Her stomach drops.
She hesitates, keeping her distance, trying to calculate the odds of them knowing who she is. They couldnât, right? She does not appear on the footage the police are showing, and surely the hostel management would keep her identity private. Right?
Gabriellaâs stomach drops. Someone is holding up their phoneâher own face is staring back at her from the screen.
They know.
She takes a step back, hesitant between turning around and trying to walk around them to the side entrance. But then someone spots her, and the choice is taken from her.
âThatâs her!â a voice shouts.
Suddenly theyâre moving, the group surging towards her like a wave. Her instincts scream at her to turn around and bolt. But she canât. Marcus called her in, and if she doesnât show up, sheâll hear about it later. Going through them is the only way.
âGabriella, whatâs your connection to the shooter?â
âDid you know him personally?â
âDo you feel responsible for what happened?â
Her pulse skyrockets. With a deep breath, she pulls up her hood and lowers her head, clutching the strap of her bag like itâs some kind of shield.
âNo comments,â she says, voice firmer than she feels, and starts pushing through the crush of bodies.
Theyâre relentless, shoving mics in her face, firing off questions she doesnât have answers to. Someone snaps a picture, and the flash would be blinding if she didnât have her head down.
Itâs mortifying. She feels exposed like a corpse on a cold metal table being pried open and dissected.
By the time she makes it to the employeeâs entrance, her heart is pounding so hard itâs dizzying. Her hands shake as she fumbles for the key card.
Inside, the lobby is eerily quiet, almost peaceful compared to the chaos outside. Marcus is standing behind the counter, his arms crossed over his chest, face drawn tight.
âYou forgot to tell me about the mob outside,â she says, yanking her hood down.
âYeah, well, I thought you wouldnât show up if I told you,â he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.
âWhat the hell is going on? Why are they out there?â
Marcus exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his cheek like heâs facing an internal dilemma, and the silence stretches without his reply. Then he finally gestures toward the office. âCome on. Letâs talk in here.â
In her stomach, dread spreads and burns like acid. The squeaking of her sneakers against the tile as she follows him into the office almost hurts her ears.
Itâs a cramped space, cluttered with old files that were supposed to have been sorted years ago but nobody ever bothers. On the far corner, thereâs a coffee machine that hasnât worked since before she was hired.
Once theyâre inside, he closes the door and leans against the desk, avoiding her eyes. That sinking feeling in Gabby's stomach worsens.
âMarcus?â
He sighs, and keeps rubbing the back of his neck like it has all the answers. âLook, Gabby⊠This isnât easy.â
A cold weight settles in her chest. She watches the way he wonât meet her eyes, the tension in his posture.
And, just like that, she knows.
âWhat isnât easy?â she asks, her voice sharp now. âYouâre firing me over this?â
âItâs not personal,â he says quickly, hands up like heâs trying to calm her down before she even reacts. âThis came from higher ups. Corporateââ
âCorporate?â Gabriella laughs bitterly, the sound hollow. âWhat the hell does corporate have to do with me? I didnât do anything wrong!â
âItâs not about right or wrong,â he says, finally finding his balls and meeting her gaze. âItâs about the press. The story, itâs⊠bad optics. Corporate doesnât want the headache.â
She blinks at him. âThe headache?â
âTheyâre saying itâs bad PR.â His tone is soft, but detached, like heâs reading from a script. âThe cops poking around, your name tied to⊠well, him. Itâs making people nervous. They think keeping you here makes us look⊠complicit.â
âComplicit?â She takes a step back, like the words physically hit her. âI checked him in, Marcus. Thatâs it. Thatâs literally eighty percent of my job description.â
âI know,â he says, and for a moment, his mask slips. He looks almost apologetic. Almost. âBut the board doesnât care. They just want it to go away.â
She stares at him, mind racing for something to say that will change his mind, something that can make all this go away. But nothing comes.
Thereâs nothing she can say.
âSo that's it?â She finally manages, and her voice cracks at the end of the sentence.
âItâs not personal,â he repeats, like that makes it better.
Gabby laughs, but itâs hollow and bitter. âNot personal? Iâve worked here for years, Marcus. Iâve covered shifts you didnât even ask me to. Iâveââ
âI know,â he cuts her off, and for a second, Gabriella thinks it's guilt she sees flashing across his face. âI know youâre good at your job, Gabby. But this isnât up to me.â
Her jaw clenches. âYou couldâve fought for me.â
âI did,â he says quietly. âBut my hands are tied.â
The silence between them is loud, thick and suffocating.
âWe'll pay you for the rest of the week,â Marcus adds, like he's doing her a huge favor.
âHow generous,â she scoffs, adjusting the bag on her shoulder and turning her back on him.
âGabbyââ
She shakes her head, cutting him off. âDonât. Just⊠donât.â
Before he can say anything else, she walks out of the office and slams the door shut behind her.
Her thoughts buzz louder than the fluorescent lights overhead as she makes her way to the small employee lounge tucked at the end of the hall. The reality of being firedâjust like thatâhasnât fully sunk in.
Inside, the lounge is depressingly familiar: a battered vending machine humming in the corner, a sagging couch no one wants to sit on, and a row of dented metal lockers. She heads straight for hers, to salvage the last remnants of her daily routine. The door squeaks when she yanks it open, and she starts shoving her things into her bagâreusable bottle, a paperback novel with the spine cracked, spare hoodie over her arm. Her fingers curl around a mug imprinted with the words Worldâs Okayest Employee in large black letters. It was a birthday gift from her coworkers, but she changes her mind and pushes it aside.
There are footsteps behind her just as sheâs picking up a half-eaten granola bar, and when she turns, her friend Marcy is there, eyes wide, clutching her phone like itâs a lifeline.
âGabby⊠Whatâs going on? I saw you come in, and there are reporters outsideâlike a ton of them.â
Gabriella exhales slowly, staring at the lockers, wishing the words were carved into the metal, so Marcy could just see themâso she wouldnât have to say them out loud and make them real.
âMarcus called me in just to fire me.â
Marcy blinks as if the words donât make sense. Her mouth parts in surprise. âFire you? Over what?â
âYeah. Itâs about the⊠You know.â Gabriella gestures around vaguely with the granola bar and shifts uncomfortably, gaze locked on the door like she expects the guy to jump out and yell âjust kidding!â. âCorporate thinks itâs bad press that Iâm somehow associated with the case. They donât want the headache.â
âThatâs ridiculous!â Marcy snaps, stepping closer. âYou didnât do anything! Everyone knows that.â
Gabriella huffs a bitter laugh, dragging a hand through her hair. âHah, yeah. That doesnât matter to them, does it?â
Marcy shakes her head, muttering a curse under her breath. âDid he at least offer you a reference? Severance?â
âA reference?â Gabriella scoffs. âFor what? Another dead-end job where Iâll get tossed the second I become inconvenient against my will?â
Weâll pay you for the rest of the week, Gabby. Her fingers tighten around the granola bar, knuckles whitening as the words echo in her head.
âAnd severance? Please. I was barely making enough to afford groceries, babe. You think theyâre paying me to leave?â Thereâs a hint of a sarcastic laugh simmering under every word.
The granola bar flies across the room, smacking the wall before hitting the floor in pieces. Marcy flinches but Gabriella barely notices. Under her skin, frustration crackles like bottled up lightning, louder than anything else.
And then she adds, in a mocking tone, âWeâll pay you for the rest of the week, Gabby.â Her nostrils flare with simmering anger. âThey donât give a shit.â
Marcyâs jaw clenches, fingers tightening around the phone. âThis is bullshit.â
Gabriella runs a hand through her forehead and doesnât disagree. When Marcy steps forward to pat her arm, she closes her eyes. âGab, Iâm so sorry. Is there anything you can do? Talk to HR or⊠I donât know.â
âDoubt it. I asked Marcus if he could fight for me, butâŠâ she shrugs, hand tightening around her bagâs handle. âYou know how it is here.â
Marcy swallows hard, eyes darting around the dreary lounge. âSeriously, IâI canât believe this. Youâve been here forever. If it werenât for you, half the guests wouldâve burned the place down by now.â
Her words spark a sad half-laugh out of Gabriella. âYeah, well, guess it doesnât matter if management thinks Iâm a liability.â
Thereâs a beat of silence. Then, Marcy asks, âSo⊠thatâs it, then?â
Gabriella nods, feeling the sting all over again. âYeah. Guess I get to sleep in for a few days.â
Marcy doesnât laugh. Instead, she pulls Gabriella into a tight hug. âIâm sorry,â she whispers. âI wish there was something I could do.â
Gabriellaâs throat tightens. Her arms twitch at her sides, not sure whether to return the hug or push away.
Instead, she does neither.
Gabriella steps back. Acts like itâs nothing. Like sheâs not nearly falling apart. âDonât worry. Iâll figure something out.â
Her friend gives a small, shaky smile. âI know you will. Youâre⊠you. If anyone can bounce back, itâs you.â She pauses. Then, âIâll stalk you if you stop calling me, Gabs, Iâm serious!â
Marcyâs eyes are assertive, and brimming with sympathy, but the moment feels suffocating. Gabriella just nods and forces herself to walk away before she loses her composure.
By the time she pushes out the side door and into the cold air, the reporters are still out front, unaware of her slipping away. A wave of relief mingles with the biting wind, but itâs fleeting. The shock hasnât fully worn off yet, but reality is starting to creep in, pressing at the edges of her mind.
Her cheeks burn, though not from the chill. Being fired wasnât just humiliatingâit was infuriating. She can still hear her managerâs gritty voice echoing in her head.
"Itâs not personal, Gabby."
Sheâs unemployed. Fired for actually doing her job. Itâs so unfair it physically hurts, like barbed wire squeezing her throat and stabbing into her skin.
That was her only job, the only thing paying her rent, keeping her fridge stocked, covering the bills already stretching her too thin.
She swallows hard, refusing to break. How long can she last without a paycheck? Two months, maybe. Three if she starts rationing groceries and lets a few bills stack up. But rent isnât forgiving, and neither is her landlord.
She canât even allow herself a momentâs rest. She needs to find another job. Fast.
As she crosses an intersection, her eyes land on a newspaper stand and a wire rack filled with neatly folded stacks of The Times and The Post.
For half a second, her brain reverts to some outdated survival instinct. A memory, an old one, comes back to her. Her mom sitting at the dining table, circling job listings in the paper with a ballpoint pen, calling every âHelp Wantedâ number she could find. Itâs almost comforting, the idea of doing somethingâanythingâreal, immediate, something she can touch, to fix her problem.
She steps closer, opens one and scans the front pages, looking for somethingâanything. But there's nothing. No âHelp Wantedâ ads. No listings. Just news.
A second later, it hits her. Nobody looks for jobs in newspapers anymore. That was a long time ago. Now itâs all LinkedIn, and networking, desperately refreshing email inboxes hoping for a reply that never comes.
Gabriella huffs a small, humorless laugh and keeps walking.
What is she even good at? Dealing with drunk backpackers? Smoothing over arguments about who stole the last yogurt from the communal kitchen?
Maybe sheâll find something nice eventually, but good jobs donât grow in trees and she needs something now.
Her fingers are cold-stiff inside her coat pockets, but her brain is racing, already planning. Already mentally preparing herself for the next few excruciating days of sitting at her laptop, scrolling through endless listings for baristas, retail clerks, receptionists. Maybe even those apps where people pay you to assemble their IKEA furniture or walk their dog. Anything that will pay just enough to keep her afloatâbut never enough to make her feel secure.
But even as she fights to stay optimistic, dread starts coiling in her stomach like a snake in the grass.
âCorporate doesnât want the headache.â
Her name is attached to his now. Her face. The girl who talked to him. Who laughed at something he said.
Whoâs gonna hire me now?
She takes a deep, shaky breath. It doesnât calm her down as she hoped. Rubbing her hands together isnât working to fight off the cold either.
Gabriella just keeps walking, one step in front of the other, letting her feet carry her home on their own. Sheâs overwhelmed, distracted, too busy trying not to lose herself to hopelessness to even pay attention to her surroundings.
She doesnât see the shadow keeping pace with her own.
---
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