The wind knifes down West 72nd Street, threading under her trench coat like it knows where to hurt.
Erica hunches deeper into the collar, one hand curled around the travel cup, chasing its warmth as if it could anchor her to the city she is about to leave behind.
She steps out onto the sidewalk, her footfalls echoing with a finality she hadn't anticipated.
The move to Scarsdale is done, the cleaning crew for the apartment gone, and all that remains in the spacious place is a hollow quiet - a sanctuary she doesn’t need to return to.
She hasn't decided whether to sell it or rent it out, maybe time will tell.
The street is holding its breath. A yellow cab idles half a block down, its engine a lazy purr, and across the asphalt a man tugs at a small dog’s leash - the only movement in this paused frame of the city.
Erica breathes in the familiar scent - a blend of exhaust fumes, damp concrete, and hot pretzels - and a small, knowing smile touches her lips.
She won't miss it.
The grit, the constant hum of life beneath the pavement, all of it pales in comparison to the quiet promise of Scarsdale, of 12 Taunton Road, her childhood home.
Erica glances at the luminous dial of the Rolex dive watch on her left wrist.
It’s time to hit the road and go home.
~~~
Footsteps to her right, not matching the rhythm of the street.
The short distance between the building and her black Volvo suddenly too dark, too tight.
“Excuse me, lady.”
The voice rasps at her shoulder - too close for comfort, too rough, like gravel rolled over glass.
A sound of a lifetime of cigarettes and bad intentions.
She starts to turn, her instincts kicking in.
But the world moves faster.
There's a blur of motion from the periphery, a flash of grimy sleeve, and before she can react, a fist slams into her face with the force of a wrecking ball.
The coffee cup flies from her hand, a small explosion of steel and dark liquid against the bricks of her building.
The back of her head cracks against the wall, a jolt of white-hot pain sends a supernova of stars dancing behind her eyes.
Her mouth opens to scream, but the sound that emerges is a weak, guttural groan, lost in the sudden, ringing silence of her own head.
Her legs buckle, and she slides down the cold brick, her vision narrowing into a dark, suffocating tunnel.
The attacker, a faceless shadow in her fractured sight, doesn't waste a second:
her handbag is slipped from her shoulder, the leather strap groaning in protest.
Then, a cold hand grips her left wrist.
She can feel the rough pads of his fingers, his thumb digging into her skin as he unclasps the Rolex dive watch.
The metallic click is a tiny, final sound before the symbol of her father's legacy is ripped from her.
"Give me that!"
He moves to her other hand, and a new, searing agony floods her senses as he yanks at her ring finger, twisting and pulling with sickening violence.
The gold university class ring, a physical anchor to her professional achievements, doesn't want to come loose.
Her knuckle screams as bone shifts with a brittle snap, the pain streaking up her arm like a live wire.
This can’t be happening…
Somewhere in the background of her mind, her father’s voice roars: Don’t let anyone make you feel weak.
“Help…” The word is a whisper, nothing more than a pathetic exhale.
For a moment there’s nothing - no sound, no breath - just the vacuum where her watch used to be.
Then the sound of her assailant's footsteps, a frantic, hurried rhythm, fades into the city's distant noise, muffled as if she’s submerged underwater.
A loud, shocked shout from the man with the dog is just another distant sound in her tunnel of pain.
She curls into herself, clutching her right hand to her chest, the pain a pulsing, living thing. Unconsciously, a single, broken sound escapes her lips.
It is not a word, but a howl of disbelief and loss.
“No…”
~~~
