Araminta jolted awake to the relentless buzzing of her phone. She groaned, squinting at the screen.
Julia (16 Missed Calls).
"What the hell—" She barely swiped to answer before Julia's voice exploded through the speaker.
"Tazara got pistol-whipped by that big-headed nigga's daughter, and now they on the news talkin' about Troy trying to kill Samara!"
Araminta sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "What? What the hell are you talking about?"
Julia sucked her teeth. "You ain't seen the news? You must be mental. They got warrants out for Troy's arrest. Apparently, that professor lady beat him in the head so he wouldn't shoot Samara!"
Araminta blinked, her mind struggling to catch up. She hadn't talked to Samara since she'd warned her about Troy having a gun. She hadn't even thought to check the news.
"I didn't know," she admitted.
Julia scoffed. "And that's your damn problem. How the hell you ain't know? This is your fake baby daddy actin' crazy out here, and your daughter damn near got killed 'cause of it!"
Araminta's jaw tightened. "You think I don't know that? You think I ain't tried to control him? Tried to drop him when I had the chance? What the hell was I supposed to do?"
"Oh, I don't know, Araminta. Maybe make sure he ain't out here tryna murder your child?"
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
Then Julia let out a sharp breath. "Call your daughter."
The line went dead.
Araminta sighed, pressing her phone to her forehead before scrolling to Samara's contact. Her fingers hesitated over the call button for just a second before she pressed it.
It rang twice before Samara picked up. "I'm guessing you saw the news."
Araminta exhaled. "Yeah. Are you and Tazara alright?"
"We're fine," Samara said, her voice careful, distant. "Had to buy a new phone, though. Troy stole my old one."
Araminta frowned. "At least you're not hurt."
A beat of silence. Then, a weak, "Yeah."
Another pause.
Samara cleared her throat. "I've got a lot to do today. I need to head out, but I'll call you later, assuming Troy doesn't steal my phone again."
They shared a small, forced chuckle.
"Alright," Araminta murmured. "Be safe."
"You too."
The call ended.
Araminta stared at the screen for a long time before setting the phone down beside her. She leaned back against the headboard, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Would there ever be a day when talking to her daughter didn't feel like this? Like walking on shattered glass, trying not to bleed?
She sighed.
Maybe one day.
But today wasn't that day.
She just wished it would come fast.
—
Samara groaned as her phone buzzed again. She turned over, squinting at the screen. Unknown Caller. Again.
With an annoyed sigh, she swiped to answer.
"Hello?" Silence. She frowned, sitting up. "Hello?"
Nothing. Samara sucked her teeth and ended the call, only for her phone to start buzzing again instantly.
She picked up and snapped, "What the hell do you want?"
This time, a voice answered. Low. Cold. Familiar. "Don't call the police. Open the damn door."
Her heart skipped. "What door?"
A slow chuckle. "I'm outside your dorm door."
Samara stiffened. "Troy—"
"Don't call the cops," he cut in. "Or I'll start shooting people." A pause. "I ain't gonna shoot you or that other girl. Not yet. I just wanna talk. Maybe smoke."
Samara scoffed, glancing at Tazara, who was already wide-eyed and mouthing hell no.
"You really think I'm about to open this damn door?"
In the background, Tazara whispered, "I'm jumping out the window or something."
Before Samara could respond, Troy's voice rose. "She can have fun with that. I ain't want nobody else around anyway when I talk to my daughter."
The call dropped. Then—a knock at the door.
Samara and Tazara froze.
Tazara shot up, her breath coming fast. "Hell no. Nope." She rushed to her bed, yanking her sheets and blankets off, knotting them together in a makeshift rope. She pulled on a jacket, shoved her feet into her sneakers, and swung open the window.
Samara glanced between her and the door, her pulse hammering.
Tazara threw one leg over the windowsill, gripping the rope.
"If I break my damn leg, you better make sure I get the good pain meds," she muttered before beginning to climb down.
Samara leaned out the window, watching as Tazara carefully lowered herself. She got halfway down—
Then the blankets gave out.
Tazara crashed to the ground with a thud.
Samara's breath caught. "You okay?"
Tazara groaned before waving her off. "I'm going to Kamala's!" she shouted, pushing herself up with a limp and hobbling to her car.
Samara barely had a second to react before—
BANG!
She ducked, hitting the ground as the gunshot tore through the door, shattering the window across the room.
Troy's voice boomed through the door.
"I meant what the fuck I said about shooting people if you don't open this damn door!"
BANG!
A scream followed. A girl's voice, high-pitched, raw with terror and pain.
Troy barked, "What's your fucking name, bitch?"
The girl sobbed. "K-Kendra!"
Samara clenched her jaw.
Her hands shook. Her mind screamed at her to stay put. To wait for someone to call the cops. But then another choked sob came through the door. Before she could stop herself, she shot to her feet and wrenched the door open.
Troy was leaning against the doorway, a smug smile stretching across his face.
At his feet, Kendra lay on the ground, clutching her bleeding side, her eyes wide with agony.
Troy stepped past Samara like he belonged there, shutting the door behind him. He walked to her bed, sat down, and lazily placed his gun beside him.
"Sit," he said, nodding to her desk.
Samara hesitated.
His fingers tapped against the gun.
She sat.
Troy leaned back, stretching like he had all the time in the world. "Get us something to smoke."
Samara nodded, moving slowly to her drawer. She pulled out a lighter and a blunt, her pulse hammering.
She sat back down, lighting it with steady hands, took a small puff, just enough to make the smoke visible, and passed it to him.
Troy took a long drag, exhaling a thick cloud before handing it back.
"We're gonna be in here a while," he murmured.
Samara took the blunt, forced a weak smile, and inhaled.
—
Kamala jolted awake to the sound of someone pounding on her front door.
Her eyes snapped open. She didn't move right away, just listened, her breath shallow. The banging came again, loud, urgent.
She slipped out of bed, grabbed her robe, and tucked her gun under her arm. As she padded toward the door, she sent up a silent prayer that she wouldn't have to shoot anybody this morning.
Looking through the peephole, she exhaled sharply.
Tazara.
The girl was flustered, breathless, like she'd sprinted here—though Kamala could see her car parked haphazardly in the driveway. Kamala unlocked the door and swung it open. "Why the hell are you at my house this early?"
Tazara didn't waste a second. "Troy came to our dorm."
Kamala's stomach twisted.
Tazara barreled on. "I jumped out the window, and now I'm here because I need you to come shoot him—because he's basically holding Samara hostage, and—"
Her phone suddenly blared with an alert, cutting her off.
Both of them froze as the Howard Student App flashed across the screen.
LOCKDOWN WARNING
There is an armed and dangerous man in the dormitory, reports stating the person is TROY HARPER. All students are advised to safely evacuate Dormitory 3 if possible or shelter in place and wait for law enforcement.
Tazara's breath caught in her throat. She scrolled down, reading the next line aloud in a whisper.
"There has been one report of a—" She didn't finish. Didn't need to.
Her voice faltered as realization dawned. He's already started shooting people.
Kamala's jaw tightened. She turned on her heel. "Start the car. I'll be right back."
Tazara barely had time to process before the door slammed shut.
She hesitated, but then, above her, she heard rapid footsteps. Rummaging sounds from the second floor.
Tazara took that as her cue. She rushed back to her car, started the engine, and gripped the steering wheel tightly, bouncing her leg as she waited.
Minutes later, Kamala emerged.
She was dressed, hoodie, sweats, running shoes. But what caught Tazara's attention was her purse.
It was flat. Too flat.
Kamala slid into the passenger seat, buckled up. When she tossed her purse onto the dash, the unmistakable weight inside shifted with a thud.
Tazara smirked as she pulled off.
'Yeah.' She knew exactly what was inside it.
—
Samara sat motionless in her dorm room, barely breathing, barely blinking. Troy sat on the bed, finishing off what was left of the blunt, the smoke curling in the air like it had nowhere to go. He had been rambling for over ten minutes now, his voice low, sometimes rising in agitation, then dipping back down into something eerily soft.
He was saying things that didn't make sense. Words twisted with resentment, accusations laced with desperation, none of it true in the lightest.
He couldn't let her go.
He couldn't let her get away with this.
Samara's—her mother's fault.
She had barely moved. Her hands were folded in her lap, her nails digging into her palm to ground herself. Then, suddenly—"Why the fuck aren't you talking?!" His voice shattered the air.
She flinched but didn't cower. Slowly, she looked at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Troy's nostrils flared. "You keep saying I know all this stuff that you did," she continued, her voice level but sharp.
"I was six the last time I saw your ass. I barely remember what I got for my birthday when I was six, let alone whatever the hell you're talking about."
His face twisted. "You're fucking lying." He moved so fast she barely had time to register it, he jumped up, grabbed the gun, and was in her face before she could react. Samara flinched again, instinctively trying to push back, but the chair didn't budge. His hands were gripping the arms of the chair now, caging her in.
"You're the fucking reason I went to jail," he gritted his teeth, his breath hot against her face.
She swallowed, but her voice didn't shake. "That sounds like a you problem."
His teeth clenched. "You didn't accept me. If you had, if you had just accepted me as your father, none of this shit would've happened!"
"I was six, my mom was lying to me I-" she interjected
"I wouldn't even be here right now! We'd be one big happy motherfucking family!"
Samara let out a humorless laugh, anger bubbling up for the first time. "You were never my father. You killed my father."
Troy's face twisted.
"No, I fucking didn't."
He stepped back, tapping his temple, rubbing his forehead like he was trying to stop himself from snapping. "Your mom did," he hissed. "She's the one who got him killed, she pulled the trigger. Because she played in my motherfucking face. She fucked around and found out."
Samara's eyes narrowed.
"No," she said, her voice gaining steel. "You hit her."
Troy stilled.
"I know you did." She didn't stop there. She couldn't.
"No wonder she kept letting your ass come back to our house. I saw your motherfucking criminal record. You got a longer track record than Diddy."
Troy let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he turned away. He tapped his temples again, breathing heavily, his whole body vibrating with rage. Then—He spun back around, the gun aimed straight at her.
"Say it."
Samara's breath hitched, but she didn't let him see her fear. "Say what?"
"Say it," he growled.
She squared her shoulders. "I don't know what you want me to say."
His hand twitched. "I want you to say that I'm your father. Right motherfucking now."
His voice cracked. "I went to jail for twenty years. I tried to be a good father. A good man. To your mom. And what did I fucking get? Life?"
His face contorted, desperate, furious, unhinged.
"You were supposed to represent me. You fucking didn't. Why?! Had that light skin bitch doing it..." His voice was shaking now, his hands white-knuckling the gun.
"Tell me I'm your father. And tell me why the fuck you didn't come defend me."
Samara inhaled deeply, her eyes locked onto his. Then, slowly, she shook her head.
"You are not my father." His jaw clenched so tight, she thought his teeth might break.
"And you really think I was gonna defend some murderer?" She let out a dry laugh. "I'm not even a lawyer yet. I haven't even finished my first year of law school."
Her voice dripped with rage now.
"Do you not understand how that would look for me? If, hell, my first employer somehow found out I was tied to you? And testified at your parole hearing? Saying you were a good man?"
She scoffed. "You aren't."
Troy's grip on the gun tightened.
"Because here you are. In my dorm. Threatening me. With a gun."
"Someone you supposedly wanted to be your daughter."
Troy's breathing was ragged now, his face flushed with fury.
"On school campus, with a gun."
Samara tilted her head, her eyes burning.
"And your bitch-ass daughter actually assaulted me. SEXUALLY!"
Troy flinched. For the first time showing some type of reaction other than indifference, pride, entitlement.
"So I'm glad I'm not related to you." Her words were a blade now, cutting deep. "I'm glad my mother got away from your ass." She leaned forward slightly, voice like ice. "And hopefully you enjoy fucking prison again."
Troy stared at her, chest heaving. His finger twitched on the trigger. Troy's face contorted with rage, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps.
Then—CRACK.
His hand flew across Samara's face, the back of it landing with brutal force.
The impact sent her toppling out of the chair. Her head spun as she hit the cold floor, a sharp pain blooming in her cheek. For a moment, she didn't move. The taste of iron coated her tongue, and her vision blurred.
Then, slowly, she lifted her head. Troy loomed over her, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the gun still clenched in his hand. But even with the pain searing her skin, even with the trembling in her limbs, her voice, though shaky, cut through the air like a knife.
"You are not my father."
Troy's jaw clenched.
"You ain't shit but a criminal."
That did it.
He turned abruptly, pacing back and forth between the door and the window. Door. Window. Door. Window. His movements were erratic, his mind unraveling with every step.
Then, he stopped. His eyes flickered downward. Through the window, he saw them.
Campus police.
No real cops. Yet.
He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head before turning back to Samara. "They ain't coming to help your ass," he sneered. "Campus police? With some fucking batons and a taser?" He scoffed. "What the fuck is that gonna do?"
His expression darkened as he stalked toward her.
Before she could react, he grabbed her by the front of her shirt and yanked her up to her feet. Samara winced, her hands gripping his wrists instinctively, but his hold was ironclad. He pulled her close, so close she could smell the smoke on his breath.
"I'm gonna kill your ass," he murmured, his voice low and deadly.
Samara's breath hitched.
"Because you're the one motherfucking person who knows that I ain't done shit in my life but chase after a family I could never fucking have." His eyes burned into hers, wild and unhinged.
"I don't like when I can't have something."
Samara's fingers dug into his wrists, her pulse pounding.
"So I hope your mama don't miss you too much," he whispered, his lips curling into something almost resembling a smirk.
"'Cause you ain't coming home for Christmas."
Then—BANG.
A sharp, searing pain tore through Samara's side. Her breath hitched violently, a strangled whimper escaping her lips as the force of the gunshot sent her stumbling. Her mouth fell open, but no sound came out. Her hands trembled as they instinctively pressed to her side, but it didn't stop the warmth from spreading, didn't stop the red from seeping between her fingers. Her knees buckled. Her vision swam. She went down. The cold floor met her once again, but this time, she couldn't move. Her head lolled to the side as her breathing grew shallow, her body weakening by the second.
Troy just stood there. Watching.
His gaze flicked to the growing pool of blood beneath her, then back to her face.
Her wide, glassy eyes stared up at him, struggling to stay open, struggling to hold onto life.
But he didn't care. With a casual huff, he turned away, stepping over her like she was nothing more than a stain on the floor.
He walked to the dresser, the same one where Samara had grabbed the blunt from earlier.
Pulled another one out.
Sat down on the bed.
Lit it.
Took a long, slow drag.
Exhaled.
Then, he glanced back at her.
And smirked.
"Shit," he muttered, watching as her body trembled, as the light in her eyes flickered.
"I spent twenty fucking years watching bitches come and go." He leaned back, blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Might as well watch another bitch go before I head back to the hole."
A short time passes and the blunt was half gone, Troy leaned back on the bed, exhaling another long cloud of smoke. His eyes were bloodshot now, his limbs loose as the high settled deep in his bones. "You know, I used to sit in that damn cell and think, Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should've done things different." He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head.
"But then I remember—nah, fuck that. I ain't never been wrong. Just unlucky."
Samara barely heard him. Her hands weakly pressed into her side, slowing the blood, but not enough. Not nearly enough. Her fingers were sticky, coated in red, her body trembling from the cold that crept up her spine. Her breaths came shallow, uneven.
And still—no sirens. No footsteps. No voices, police should have been there by now but... No one.
She was going to die here. No. No, she couldn't think like that.
She clenched her jaw, blinking past the haze clouding her vision. She had to hold on. Someone would come. Someone had to come.
Then—A sharp, shrill ringing.
Her phone. It was close, but turning her head, reaching for it—that was too much. The pain was too much. So she just listened as Troy sighed, plucked the phone up, and answered.
"Hello?"
Then, he grinned. A laugh rumbled from his throat, low and cruel. Samara's stomach dropped. Even before he spoke again, she knew.
"Damn, Araminta," he drawled, shaking his head mockingly. "Ain't you ever teach your kid not to leave her phone lying around?"
Silence.
Then, her mother's voice, sharp, panicked. "Why do you have my daughter's phone?"
Troy smirked. "Just doing a visit. She stepped out. Left her phone. Careless, huh?" he looked down at her
"Where is she?" Araminta's voice rose, frantic. "Where's my baby? Samara! Samara, are you there?! Answer me!"
Samara squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping down her face. She wanted to scream, to cry, to beg her mother to save her. But she couldn't, she had said too much. Too many hurtful things. Too many bitter words. And now, if she never got to see her again—
No. No, she couldn't think like that.
A broken sob tore from her lips, and she forced herself to make a sound—anything, anything.
"M-a-ma—"
The word came out strangled, choked. A whisper.
But it was enough.
A sharp gasp echoed through the phone.
"Baby?" Araminta's voice cracked. "Baby, I'm coming. I swear to God, I'm coming for you—"
Troy snorted. Then, without warning, he slammed his boot into Samara's wounded side. She screamed—hoarse, raw, pain splitting through her body like lightning. She rolled a bit.
Araminta shrieked on the other end.
Troy lifted the phone again, smirking. "She ain't got long," he said. "I could put the phone back down, let y'all say your goodbyes. Or—"
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Silence.
Troy narrowed his eyes, turning toward the door. His grip tightened on the gun, but he didn't see cops through the bullet hole.
Just one person. He frowned.
Then, scowling, he hung up on Araminta and hurled the phone at Samara's stomach. She barely flinched, barely could feel it anymore.
Troy turned, stalking to the door. He swung it open, gun at his side—
And froze.
Because standing there, waiting, was Kamala.
Her gun was already raised, locked on his chest.
Her eyes, blazing, wild, dared him to raise his weapon. He didn't get the chance.
Kamala moved. She shoved forward, forcing him back into the room before he could react. Her gaze flicked down, and she saw Samara.
The girl lay there, her body limp, her skin pale, her eyes, wide, pleading, bloodshot, teary.
Kamala snapped.
Something inside her shattered, violent and feral.
She looked back at Troy. Her pupils dilated. Her breathing turned shallow. She didn't say a word.
She pulled the trigger.
BANG.
—
Tazara's hands clenched the wheel as she sped through the campus parking lot, tires screeching.
Kamala barely registered the cones blocking the entrance, only that they were in the way.
"Drive over them," she ordered.
Tazara hesitated for only a second before doing exactly that, the car jolting as it plowed through. The moment they pulled up, the vehicle barely had time to settle before Kamala threw the door open.
Police were already stationed out front, huddled in a group with SWAT, strategizing, not inside, doing a damn thing trying to save the hostage, Samara. A few campus officers were near the entrance, trying to keep things locked down. One of them waved aggressively at her, motioning for her to leave.
"Ma'am, you need to get back!" one of them barked, stepping forward. "No one is allowed in there! We have an armed suspect inside, and all civilians need to clear the area."
"We've already evacuated the building," another officer added. "One person was injured but has been taken to safety. If you're a friend or family of the victim or the hostage, you need to leave."
Kamala's breath hitched. One person injured. Not Samara. One person hostage. Samara.
"There has been another gunshot heard inside ma'ma and officers are accessing their next steps so if you ple-"
Kamala's hands clenched. "I'm not leaving," she snapped. "I work here. I'm staff. And she—" she jerked a thumb at Tazara, "is my assistant." she waved awkwardly from the car window.
"You still can't go inside," the officer said, moving to block her. "We're handling it."
"Handling it, my ass" Kamala didn't have time for this. Her palm shot out.
CRACK.
The officer stumbled back, clutching his face, stunned.
And Kamala kept going.
She stormed through the entrance, shoving the dormitory doors open and sprinting up the steps. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she followed the twisting hallways, her feet barely touching the ground.
The building was empty. Silent.
Too silent.
Her stomach twisted.
blood.
Smears of it lined the walls. A dark pool of it stained the floor further down. Kamala swallowed hard. It wasn't Samara's. Not Samara's.
But still, dread slithered through her veins. She reached the room.
Paused.
Knock. knock. knock
For a moment, all she heard was the faint sound of muttering low, incoherent.
silence.
The door creaked open. And there stood Troy. Their eyes met.
— Present
Troy's body crumpled to the ground, blood spreading beneath him. The gun slipped from Kamala's shaking hands, clattering onto the floor.
She stood there, breath heaving, her vision blurring.
And when she looked down—All she saw was Kendra. All she heard was Claire's voice.
'Pull the trigger, Kamala.'
Her stomach churned. Her knees threatened to buckle.
But then, a soft, ragged gasp.
She turned. Samara.
Her body was still. Too still. Her chest barely rose, her lips pale.
Kamala moved before she even thought, dropping to her knees.
Her hands covered Samara's own, pressing down on the wound, replacing the weak pressure with her own strength.
Rocking slightly, she whispered, "Hold on, baby. You're gonna be okay. Just—just stay with me."
Samara's lips moved, but all that came out was a garbled mess—gibberish, thick with blood and exhaustion.
Kamala swallowed her sob. "Try to talk to me. Please."
Samara blinked sluggishly. Her lips trembled.
"Fa-a...ther" she said as her hand reached weakly out towards the ceiling, eyes fixed on a distant sight Kamala wouldn't dare try to entertain, to understand, or acknowledge
Kamala clenched her jaw, pressing down harder on the wound, desperate to keep her here, to keep her alive.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Kamala's head snapped up.
"The man is dead!" she yelled. "I shot him! He was going to shoot her again, going to shoot me! But she's dying! She doesn't need a cop—she needs a fucking ambulance!"
A blur of movement. Officers stormed in. Then, paramedics. They rushed to Samara's side, quickly pushing Kamala out of the way.
Kamala resisted. "I have to go with her!" she pleaded, her voice cracking.
"You're not family," one of the EMTs said, firm but not unkind. "You have to stay for questioning."
Kamala watched, helpless, as they lifted Samara onto the stretcher.
She was barely conscious now, her eyes rolling slightly before they fluttered shut.
Kamala's heart broke. Then, she was gone.
Taken. Wheeled out.
Kamala's body trembled as an officer stepped in front of her. "We need to ask you a few questions."
She barely heard him. Her gaze was locked on Troy's body, the way his chest was still, the way blood soaked into the floor.
She had shot him.
Killed him.
Again. She'd taken a life.
"Ma'am?" Her head snapped up.
They wanted her statement. Her carry permit. Her license. She gave them everything. Answered every question. And finally, after what felt like forever, they let her go.
Kamala stepped outside, inhaling the cool night air.
And then, her gaze met Tazara's. The younger woman looked wrecked, her eyes glistening, her hands shaking at her sides.
She must have seen Samara...
Kamala moved first, closing the distance between them, pulling her into a tight hug.
"You did the right thing," Kamala murmured. "You got me. You saved her."
Tazara hiccupped, barely holding back a sob.
Kamala pulled back slightly, squeezing her arms. "Go to the hospital," she said. "I'll handle things here. I'll call her mother."
Tazara nodded, hesitating only a second before running toward the parking lot.
Kamala exhaled, glancing back at the chaos behind her.
Then, slowly, she pulled out her phone. Slowly wandering away from the commotion of the building and called Araminta.
But as the phone rang, all she could remember was her eyes rolling back, then shutting.