Gatehound: No Gate No Break

The city lights stretched and warped in Violet's vision as she ran. Her legs burned, lungs begged for air, and her heartbeat thundered like war drums in her chest. She didn't dare look back. The screams were gone now. The blood. The twisted voice. The inhuman thing that wore Rick's body like a costume. All of it was behind her.

She didn't want to remember.

But memory was cruel.

Every time her feet slammed the ground, she could see Abby's body collapsing. Hear the gunshots echoing like fireworks in a graveyard. Smell the coppery stink of blood coating the van's interior. Edward's face, wide-eyed, full of rage and confusion, frozen in his last moment.

And Rick. Or whatever that thing had been.

Violet didn't stop until her knees finally gave out beneath her. She collapsed near a broken fence in a forgotten part of the city, somewhere between two warehouses cloaked in silence and shadow. Trash rustled in the wind. The streetlights here didn't work. That was good. She needed the dark.

She curled against the base of the fence and clutched her arms around her legs. Her hoodie was soaked in sweat. Her hands trembled, raw and cut from the van door and the gravel she'd landed on. Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps.

The world didn't feel real anymore.

They were supposed to make it out.

That was the deal.

Edward said Rick would be waiting. Rick always waited. But when they climbed into that van, it wasn't Rick behind the wheel. It was something else. Something hungry. Something cold.

She buried her face in her arms, trying to block it out. But her brain wouldn't stop playing it all on repeat. The voice had said:

"You were warned."

Warned about what?

Violet grit her teeth and forced herself to breathe slower. In. Out. In. Out. She had to think. Had to make sense of it. If she didn't, she'd break down right here in the dirt and never get up.

It wasn't just a robbery gone wrong. It was something else. She could feel it in her bones.

Rick had changed. Not like a guy losing it under pressure—he transformed. His body moved too fast, too smooth. His eyes went black, and his voice… it didn't belong in this world. Not even close. It sounded old. Deep. Like it had crawled out of something ancient.

And then the words. The ones she couldn't stop thinking about.

"You shouldn't have opened the Gate."

The Gate.

She whispered it aloud.

"Gate."

It felt foreign on her tongue. Like it didn't belong in her mouth.

What the hell was that thing talking about?

She looked down at her palms. Bloody, scraped. But there, under the dirt, was a strange shimmer. Almost like a faint mark pulsing beneath the skin. She blinked. Gone.

Violet shivered and pushed herself up to her feet. She had to move. This alley wasn't safe. Nowhere was safe.

Not anymore.

She walked with her hood up, shoulders hunched. The city around her moved as if nothing had happened. Cars drove past. Neon signs flickered. Music echoed from some rooftop bar. The world kept turning while her own had been flipped upside down.

She passed a convenience store and caught her reflection in the glass. Pale. Shaky. Her eyes were too wide. She looked like someone who'd seen a ghost.

Or something worse.

She kept walking until she turned a sharp corner—and slammed straight into someone.

Violet stumbled back, ready to lash out, but paused when she saw the boy she'd collided with.

He looked about her age. Tall. Lean. A mess of curly hair, and eyes too bright for the hour. He wore a hoodie and jeans and had a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. A pair of wired earbuds dangled from his ears.

"Whoa," he said with a crooked grin. "If you're in a rush, you could've just asked me to get out of the way."

Violet blinked. He seemed so out of place. Too calm. Too ordinary.

She didn't answer. Just brushed past him and kept walking.

"Alright then," he called after her with a chuckle. "Be careful. You look like you just walked out of a horror movie."

She didn't look back.

She turned into a narrow alley, hoping for quiet. Instead, she found three figures waiting for her.

Older teens or young adults—the kind who cruised the streets for weak targets. One had a bat. Another wore brass knuckles. The third held a switchblade.

"Evenin', sweetheart," one of them said. "Little late for a stroll."

Violet glanced around quickly. Trash bins. A stack of old crates. A fire escape.

"Look, I really don't have time for this."

"Neither do we. So hand over the money you have and maybe you keep your teeth."

She tilted her head. "Three on one? Pretty cowardly."

That got them moving.

The guy with the bat swung first. She ducked, letting the bat slam into the wall behind her. As he recoiled, she kicked him square in the knee. He went down with a curse.

The brass knuckle thug charged. She sidestepped and tossed a loose crate lid into his face. It bought her just enough time to climb onto the trash bins and leap to the fire escape.

"She's running!"

She scaled the ladder fast. Halfway up, she kicked it loose behind her. It clanged hard and knocked the switchblade guy off balance.

She didn't wait to see what happened next. She pulled herself onto the ledge, crossed the roof, and dropped into the next alley.

By the time they regrouped, she was long gone.

Later, curled up in an abandoned stairwell, Violet took out the pick she always carried with her. The little black guitar pick she'd kept since she was twelve. Playing guitar used to be her peace. Her escape.

She closed her eyes and strummed invisible strings on her thigh, humming softly. Her fingertips still remembered the chords. Even now, with everything broken, that one rhythm made her feel almost human again.

She looked at her palm. The mark wasn't there now.