Chapter 4: Please Let the Murder Grandma Like Me
Turns out, there’s something deeply humbling about jogging through the forest in borrowed pants while being hunted by armed men. Every rustling branch became a sword, every owl hoot a death omen.
Alessio moved with quiet efficiency, guiding us up a narrow trail that wound between ancient pines and mossy rocks. I tried to keep pace, but let’s be real—I was three twigs and a sneeze away from passing out.
"How much further?" I panted.
"Just over that ridge," he said, not even out of breath. "We’re close."
"Define close. Is it the hopeful kind or the ’just a few more years of war’ kind?"
He gave me a look. "Close as in—we’ll be safe. If she lets us in."
"Oh good. Conditional safety it is."
We crested the ridge, and there it was: a little cottage nestled in a grove of silver-leafed trees, windows glowing faintly with warm candlelight.
It looked like the kind of place where storybook witches handed out cursed apples and life advice.
"She’s expecting us?" I asked.
"No."