Rise: Cook 2

You think you know death.

But you don't.

Not until you've seen it. Really seen it.

And it gets under your skin and lives inside you.

You also think you know life.

You stand on the edge of things and watch it go by, but you're not living it.

Not really.

You're just a tourist.

A ghost.

And then you see it. Really see it.

And it gets under your skin and lives inside you, and there's no escape.

There's nothing to be done, and you know what?

It's good. It's a good thing.

And that's all I've got to say about it.

-----------------

Snow pressed into the folds of his jacket, crusting in his hair, wet through his shirt. Cook sat still, fingers buried in the frozen ground like he needed something solid to hold onto.

It was done.

The field was silent now.

No more shouting, no more fists hitting bone. No more threats from Louie about what he'd do to Charlie. To him. To anyone.

Charlie was gone — she'd driven off. He told her to run. She didn't want to at first, but in the end, she listened. She'd survive. Emma... Emma wouldn't.

And Louie?

Louie lay sprawled a few metres away, groaning occasionally, but not the same smug bastard he'd been 30 minutes ago. Cook hadn't hit him enough to do lasting damage — just enough to stop him. Hold him. Keep him there while the world caught up.

He'd called the police. That was the first thing. Got Louie down. Took his phone out with shaking hands and dialled the number. Told them the truth, or at least enough of it.

His breath came out in clouds. The adrenaline had gone, leaving only the shakes behind. That wired, empty sort of exhaustion where your body doesn't quite know how to stop.

He could've killed him.

He could've smashed Louie's head into the ground until there was nothing left.

But he didn't.

Cook dropped his head forward, elbows resting on his knees.

It wasn't heroic. It wasn't even justice.

But that choice.That line he didn't cross it—Not this time.

For once, it meant something.

He didn't need to chase Louie anymore. Or hide. Or punish. He just needed it to end.

He tilted his head back, stared up at the pale-grey sky, flakes drifting down like the world was trying to bury them both before the cops could show up.

The sirens would come soon.

He didn't know what they'd do. Maybe they'd cuff him too. Maybe they'd ask questions he couldn't answer. There was blood. A lot of it. A dead girl behind them. His name tied to more than one bad decision in this city.

But he didn't care.

He was done running.

He knew this feeling all too well.

The quiet after something breaks.

The moment when your past catches up and you can't outrun it anymore.

He thought of Freddie. Of Foster. Of Tess, Of everything he'd buried and run from.

He didn't know what she'd say if she saw him now. If she ever would.

He didn't know if he deserved to ever see her again.

He didn't know anything.

Maybe he didn't deserve forgiveness. Or redemption. Maybe all he got was this. Blood in the snow, cold in his bones, and sirens in the distance.

Cook closed his eyes 

And waited.

-----

It was quiet.

Not peaceful. Just... still. The kind of quiet that buzzed in your ears after too much noise. A flickering light overhead, the faint echo of doors opening and closing somewhere down the corridor. Voices in the distance. Footsteps. A cough.

Cook sat on the edge of the bench. Elbows on knees. Hands hanging loose, like he hadn't worked out where to put them yet.

They'd taken his phone, his shoes, his jacket. Stripped him back to a grey set and cold skin. No blood on him now. They'd washed it off. Emma's. Louie's. His own. Didn't matter. He still felt it.

His fingers itched. He dug his nails into his palms and stared straight ahead.

He figured he'd get... what? Two years? Maybe more. That's what the state appointed lawyer had said anyway.

Technically he'd been on the run. Escaped custody a couple years ago. Left a trail of broken things behind him like he always had. He'd killed a man — Foster — but they were calling it self-defence now. That part? It might stick. Especially after everything they'd found out about Foster. All the stuff he'd done. What he'd tried to do.

Didn't mean they were gonna shake his hand for it, though.

Then there was the dealing. Manchester. All of that.

But... he'd handed Louie in.

Big-time scumbag. Known trafficker. The guy had bodies on him. Cook could've let him go. Could've killed him. But he didn't.

He'd stayed. Turned him in. Sat in the snow like a dog waiting for the boot to drop.

Cook tilted his head back against the cold cinderblock wall. His breath came out slow. The buzzing light above him blinked once, then settled.

He didn't feel angry.

That was new.

No one to shout at. No one to blame. He'd done what he'd done. And weirdly — it didn't feel so bad.

Maybe prison was waiting for him. Maybe years of counting ceiling tiles and avoiding fights and learning how to breathe in a cage.

But it didn't feel like it used to. The panic. The rage. That need to bolt the second things got too close.

He'd changed. Somewhere along the way, without even meaning to.

He'd been offered a call. One phone. One chance to tell someone where he was — what had happened. That he was here again.

But who was there to tell?

His dad was probably in a ditch or a cell, even a grave of his own by now — hadn't seen the bastard since 2009. And his mum? She wouldn't give two shits even if he walked through her front door dragging a corpse behind him. There was no family. No one to miss him. No one who'd be surprised.

No friends. Freddie was gone. Gone for good.

And Tess...

Well. She didn't even know he was breathing.

The last time he saw her, she was dead asleep. Peaceful. Beautiful. Unaware of what was coming — of what he'd already done. He didn't know what she'd think if she ever saw him again — but she sure as hell wouldn't be calling the prison for updates.

He'd been here before. Not here exactly — but cells like this. Nights like this.

Back then, there was always something waiting on the other side. A party. A fight. A girl. A mate. College, even. Some bullshit idea of a future.

Now?

He had nothing.

No best friend.No family.No education.No flat.No plans.

No Tess.

Just this.

A bench bolted to a wall. Four cold walls. And the buzzing of a light that flickered too much to ignore.

He'd been running since the day he left Bristol.

And now he wasn't.

Now he was here. In a cold, piss-smelling cell. Waiting for someone to tell him how much of his life he'd just lost.

But he was here.

Still breathing.

Still trying.

And if nothing else — that meant something.

Cook closed his eyes and let the silence wrap around him.

He didn't know what came next.

But for once, he wasn't trying to escape it.

He wasn't gonna run anymore.