The Exception.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Moving Foward.

Fatima sat at the edge of her bed, her journal open in her lap. The pen hovered over the page, but her hand shook too much to write. The words she wanted to spill—the anger, the fear, the ache—they all jammed in her throat like broken glass.

Dr. Jackson's voice echoed in her head: "That fear still owns you, Fatima. It still has a grip on your life."

She let out a shaky breath and closed the notebook. Her penthouse was dark except for the faint glow of the city bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Even the lights felt heavy tonight.

She reached for her phone, opening the reminder she'd set earlier: Tomorrow – 10 AM – Parking Garage. Earlier today at her therapy session Dr Jackson suggested Fatima to go back to the location of the shooting to confront her feelings.

Her stomach twisted at the words. Her fingers hovered over the delete button for a full thirty seconds before she forced herself to lock the screen.

"Don't run," she whispered to herself. "You're done running."

But the second she closed her eyes, the memories slammed into her.

The cold click of the gun. The echo of her name dripping with venom.
'Either you come home, or I won't hesitate to let this bitch sing.'
The smell of oil and concrete. Her hands sticky with blood.
BANG.
Her own scream—short, sharp, animalistic.
The way her phone buzzed next to her as the life drained from her.
Braylon can't wait to see you.
Jonathan's voice:
'I'd shoot again, but I'd rather you suffer.'
His footsteps walking away like the world hadn't just ended.

"Stop, stop, stop..." Fatima whispered, clutching her temples as her body shook. The phantom burn of the bullet was so real she found herself pressing her palm against her stomach.

She slid down to the floor, her back against the bed frame. Rocking slightly, just like that night when Ashanti had found her.

For a second, she almost reached for the bottle of wine on her nightstand—the one she swore she wouldn't open tonight. But she didn't. Instead, she reached for her phone and hit play on her "Calm" playlist—the same one Zac made her months ago.

His voice floated through her memory as the music started: "Just breathe, Ti. In and out. You got this."

She closed her eyes and forced herself to match the rhythm of the song.
Inhale. Exhale.
Over and over.

Finally, she whispered to herself:
"Tomorrow... I'm taking it back."

The Following Morning.

walls gold. Fatima stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection like it was a stranger.

Black jeans. White tee. Her favorite leather jacket. Nothing fancy—just armor.

Her hands shook slightly as she tied her hair up, and when she reached for her perfume, she froze. That same scent she wore the night of the shooting. She set it down. Not today.

Grabbing her keys, she glanced at the photo frame on her nightstand. A picture of her, Ashanti, and Zac from a brunch months ago. She lingered on Zac's smile, her chest tightening.

"Gravitational pull..." she whispered, remembering what she told Dr. Jackson. "He was the exception."

For a moment, she almost texted him. But instead, she locked her phone and slid it into her pocket.

The closer she got to the SYNC'd headquarters, the heavier the air felt. Every street sign looked like a warning. Every red light stretched into eternity.

By the time she turned into the parking structure, her fingers were digging into the steering wheel. Her breath grew shallow.

She parked on the same level where it happened. Level 3. For a long time, she couldn't move. Her hands stayed glued to the wheel, her chest rising and falling like she'd just sprinted a mile.