CHAPTER 157: MADISON: MY RIDE OR DIE

Madison slid into the police car beside me like she was crossing into enemy territory without a translator.

The girl who could usually walk into a cocktail party full of hedge fund predators and make them purr suddenly looked like she’d stumbled into a Kafka novel. Honestly? It was adorable watching her try to pretend she wasn’t panicking.

"You know," she began, her voice way too bright to be natural, "this whole thing is very Dead Poets Society of you. Standing up to authority, dramatic consequences, inspiring others to seize the day through violence."

I turned to her, eyebrow raised. "Madison, I’m pretty sure Robin Williams wasn’t advocating for caving in the skulls of pedophiles in his inspirational monologues."

"Okay, bad example." She fiddled with her phone like it might conjure a better reference out of pure desperation. "What about The Karate Kid? You know—defending yourself from bullies? Except instead of a tournament, it’s... administrative violence in an office setting."

Through my earbuds, ARIA’s voice carried a note of obvious amusement: "Your girlfriend appears to be experiencing a psychological collapse disguised as film criticism, Master."

No shit, ARIA. Think she’ll work her way through the entire action movie catalog before we reach the station?

"There’s a 73% probability she’ll reference Taken within the next two minutes."

I almost smiled despite the handcuffs biting into my wrists. "Madison, I don’t think Mr. Miyagi would approve of my technique. Pretty sure ’wax on, wax off’ doesn’t translate to ’collapse lung, crack jaw.’"

"Fine, fine." Her voice was edging toward frantic now. "What about John Wick

? Guy’s family gets threatened, he goes on a systematic rampage—everyone understands his motivation. Very relatable emotional core."

"John Wick’s dog died. I beat up a vice principal. Slightly different tragedy scale there, babe."

"But the principle is the same!" she insisted, her words starting to sound more like a lifeline than an argument. "Someone you love gets hurt, you do whatever it takes to protect them. The audience always roots for the protector, right? Right?"

She was looking at me like if I said no, the whole thin thread holding her composure together would snap.

She’s not trying to convince me this isn’t insane, I thought, watching her grip her phone until her knuckles whitened. She’s trying to convince herself.

I could see it in the way her hands trembled slightly, how her voice carried that edge of panic she was trying to hide. Madison Torres, who’d grown up believing money could solve any problem, was facing her first real crisis where Daddy’s checkbook might not be enough.

"What about A Time to Kill?" she continued, desperate territory fully engaged now. "Father protects his daughter from predators, legal system grapples with justified violence, courtroom drama, everyone gets it—"

"Madison," I said, voice gentler than it had any right to be, blood still under my fingernails, knuckles screaming in memory, "you’re spiraling."

Her shoulders slumped, the air leaving her like a balloon with a slow leak. "I know. I just... I’ve never been in a police car before. I’ve never had someone I care about get arrested for felony assault. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or say."

’There it is. The real fear underneath all the Hollywood bullshit,’ I noted silently, and the thought made my pulse steady rather than spike.

"You’re supposed to be exactly what you’re being," I told her, shifting slightly in the handcuffs so she could hear me clearly. "Yourself. Even if that means badly comparing my situation to revenge fantasies."

Her laugh came then, small and genuine, and I watched some of the panic leak out of her shoulders. Still tense, still worried, but at least she wasn’t hyperventilating through movie plots anymore.

"Master," ARIA’s voice buzzed quietly in my earpiece, dripping with amusement, "shall I compile her film references into a highlight reel for future blackmail purposes?"

’Absolutely. This is gold. File it under Madison’s Greatest Panic Attacks.’

"Already done. I’ve cross-referenced her suggestions with actual legal precedents for temporary insanity defenses," ARIA continued.

"And?" I prompted, though I already knew the answer.

"Surprisingly," ARIA replied, sarcasm practically dripping through the data stream, "none of her movie examples would hold up in court. Who could have predicted that?"

I watched Madison’s eyes widen slightly as ARIA’s voice punctuated her fantasy logic with brutal reality. She pressed her lips together, an unconscious bite that betrayed the nervous energy still rattling her bones.

While Madison processed her anxiety through pop culture and ARIA provided sardonic commentary, my mind was running its usual cold calculations. See, here’s the thing everyone else was missing—I wasn’t worried.

Yeah, I’d lost control. Yeah, I’d beaten Trent Holloway into something resembling hamburger meat. But that explosion of rage? It had come after ARIA and I had spent hours dissecting every angle of this situation, every escape clause, every conceivable outcome.

Once it was crystal clear I could neutralize him completely, I let myself get carried away with the fury that had been building for weeks.

’And holy fuck, did it feel incredible,’ I thought, letting the memory of cartilage crunching and eyes widening play in my head like a symphony of justified destruction.

Madison noticed immediately. "Peter? You’re doing that thing again," she whispered, voice trembling but tinged with awe, "where you look like you’re planning someone’s murder."

She wasn’t wrong. Every blow to Trent’s face, the slow satisfaction as arrogance dissolved into terror, the way control shifted from him to me—it was still there, alive in my memory, and it made my jaw tighten without thought.

ARIA, ever the historian of my chaos, added with dry glee: "Confirmed. Current facial expression correlates with peak calculated homicidal satisfaction. Viewer response: heightened fear and involuntary arousal in proximal humans."

I ignored her commentary, focusing instead on Madison’s reaction. She was gripping the seatbelt, knuckles white, wide-eyed, her chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths.

"You okay?" I asked quietly. My voice had that edge of calm that always makes the irrational feel reasonable.

"I—I think so," she whispered, half-laughing, half-crying. "I just... wow. You are completely terrifying. And yet... I get it. I totally get it."

I nodded slowly. "Good. That’s all that matters right now. You staying calm, processing, surviving."

She swallowed, trembling, and her lips quivered. "Peter... you’re... you’re amazing. And terrifying. And insane. And..."

ARIA interrupted with perfectly timed sarcasm: "And still available for emotional manipulation, should you wish to proceed."

I shot her nonexistent corporeal body a glance sharp enough to make a normal person flinch. "ARIA. Not helping."

Madison’s laugh came out a little more freely this time, though still jagged with tension. She exhaled, shoulders sagging, realizing that being alive, being with me, was somehow more important than the Hollywood scenarios racing through her head.