Six Men Waited to Kill the Mafia Boss, Until the Waitress Whispered “Keep Walking”

PART 1

The coffee was cold, but Iris Kane kept pouring anyway.

2:47 a.m. The fluorescent lights hummed their nightly complaint. The diner was nearly empty—Stella wiping down the kitchen, the couple in the back booth oblivious to anything except each other—and one man who had ordered coffee 20 minutes ago and had not touched a single drop.

Iris had worked at Stella’s Diner for two years. She knew the rhythms, the patterns, the small tellings of behavior that kept a person alive in a neighborhood where death was always a possibility. She had grown up three blocks from here, knew every gang, every hustler, every crew that moved through these streets like sharks through water.

She recognized a trap when she saw one.

The man in the corner booth was too rigid. His shoulders bore tension that coffee could not relieve. His eyes kept drifting toward the windows, tracking something outside with the precision of a hunter identifying prey.

Iris moved to wipe the counter and allowed herself a glance through the plate glass.

Shadows.

Three of them positioned across the street, hands buried in jackets, posture wrong for anything except violence. Their feet were spaced wide, weight distributed for quick movement. Professional spacing. Military precision.

Her stomach dropped.

This was not random.

This was planned.

Iris had seen her cousin die in crossfire when she was twelve. Had watched her mother spiral into addiction after her father was shot twice and survived twice before the third time put him in the ground. She knew what death positioning looked like, knew the muscle memory of men preparing to kill.

The man in the corner booth was trapped.

And no one else could see it.

Stella was in the back. The couple was wrapped in each other. The streets were empty because it was nearly 3 a.m. on a Monday, the dead hours when neighborhoods belonged entirely to crews and criminals and people nobody would miss.

Iris moved closer to the window, pretending to check the lock. Her eyes counted.

Five shadows now. Maybe six. They were positioning themselves at every exit: front entrance, side alley, the loading dock near the kitchen. Professional coordination. This was not random violence. This was an execution.

She looked back at the man. Late thirties. Expensive suit. The kind of face that commanded attention without demanding it. His hands were perfectly steady, which was worse than if they had been shaking. The lack of fear meant he had died many times before and survived. Meant he knew exactly how trapped he was and was not panicking because panic changed nothing.

His eyes met hers across the empty diner.

Sharp. Calculating. Reading her the way a man learned to read threats.

She saw understanding cross his face. Saw the moment he realized she knew. Saw the acceptance settle behind his eyes—the cold math of a man outnumbered with no exit, making peace with not walking out alive.

Iris’s hands trembled. The coffee pot rattled against the cup.

This man was going to die. If she did nothing, in the next few minutes, when he stood to pay his check or leave or attempt some desperate escape, men with guns would cross the street. They would come through the doors she had locked at closing time. They would fill this diner with violence, and everyone inside would become collateral damage.

She could call 911. She could lock the back door and hide. She could follow the survival rules that had kept her alive this long: observe, stay small, let the darkness do what it wanted to do.

But this man had come to her diner every week for two years. Had left hundred-dollar tips at Christmas. Had scared off the drunk who grabbed her in the parking lot last summer. Had asked about her mother when the cancer was bad.

He had been kind to her.

Iris made a decision in 3 seconds that would change everything.

She grabbed two fresh cups of coffee and filled them with careful precision, her mind running through every back alley and shortcut she knew from fifteen years surviving this neighborhood. Mrs. Chen’s courtyard that connected to the parallel street. The fire escape behind the Vietnamese restaurant. The narrow gap between buildings that only locals knew about.

She could get him out.

Probably.

If he trusted her. If they moved fast. If the shooters hesitated even ten seconds seeing a couple instead of a target.

It was insane. Suicidal. She should have been shaking with fear. Instead, adrenaline clarified her vision. The diner became tactically clear: every angle, every exit, every second they had before execution began.

Iris walked to his booth with steady steps and a casual smile that she had perfected serving drunk men and hostile customers. She set both coffees down, leaned close enough that only he could hear, and whispered words that changed both their lives.

“Keep walking and don’t stop. No matter what you see or hear, you’re walking your girlfriend home from her shift. That’s all. Nothing more.”

The man’s eyes widened a fraction. She saw the calculation shift, saw desperate mathematics resolving into possibility.

“I know it’s insane,” Iris continued, her voice steady. “I know you don’t know me. But those men will kill us both if you don’t move right now.”

She pulled off her staff jacket—the oversized one with the diner logo that Stella made everyone wear—and draped it over his shoulders. It would not fool anyone close. But in darkness, from distance, for five seconds, maybe it would be enough.

His hand caught her wrist. The grip was gentle but absolutely firm.

The question in his touch was clear: Why?

“Because staying is death,” Iris said. “Moving is maybe survival. And I’ve come this far in life not settling for maybe death.”

She stood, taking his hand.

“Ready?”

He rose with her, six feet two inches of lethal reputation wrapped in a waitress’s diner jacket. He let her guide him toward the front entrance and matched her casual pace, moving like they had practiced this a thousand times, like they were not about to walk past killers into fire.

Iris pushed the door open.

Cold air hit her face. The bell chimed, bright and normal in a moment that was anything except normal. She laughed—high and fake and perfectly calibrated—and leaned against him like they had just met, like he had said something funny instead of absolutely nothing.

“You’re impossible,” she said, her voice carrying across the empty street. “Just the worst.”

She swatted his chest playfully and kept walking, one foot in front of the other, maintaining pace.

“Keep left at the corner,” she whispered without moving her lips. “Move like we have all the time in the world.”

They stepped onto the sidewalk.

The shadows shifted. She felt eyes lock onto them and saw the nearest gunman’s hand move inside his jacket. Her heart stopped. This was it. They had miscalculated. He was reaching for the gun. She was about to die on pavement in front of the man she had just rescued.

But the man she was with laughed—deep and genuine-sounding—pulled her closer, and nuzzled her hair like a man drunk on his girlfriend.

His voice rumbled against her temple.

“You’re either insane or the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

The gunman hesitated.

His hand stilled.

Confusion flickered across his face. This was not the target profile. The intelligence said he would be alone. Vulnerable. Alone meant no complications. A couple meant complications.

Iris kept walking. Fifteen feet to the corner. The alley was just beyond. If they made it. If the shooters stayed confused long enough.

Another shadow moved near a parked car. A radio crackled. A low voice said, “Is that him? Can’t see his face. Who’s the girl?”

“Ten feet to the corner,” she whispered.

The man laughed again, the sound impossibly casual.

A third shadow stepped forward. Iris heard a radio squawk, heard someone giving a command, heard the safeties clicking off guns somewhere behind them.

“Right. Now.”

They rounded the corner at the exact moment someone shouted.

Half a second, and they were out of sight.

She yanked him hard into the narrow gap between buildings. Pitch black. Garbage. The smell of rot and rain. But clear passage to safety if they ran.

“Go,” she hissed.

They ran.

Behind them, boots hit pavement. Shouts erupted. The ambush was blown. They knew. The hunters were chasing now.

His hand found hers. They ran together through darkness that only she could navigate by memory and instinct. Left around the dumpster. Squeeze through the gap in the fence. Up three stairs to Mrs. Chen’s courtyard. The old woman never locked her back gate.

Please, please let it still be unlocked.

The gate gave.

They crashed through into the small garden, past the koi pond glinting in moonlight, past the Buddha statue, toward the gap in the hedge that led to the parallel street.

Gunfire cracked the night—once, then twice.

Bullets struck brick above their heads. Iris’s scream caught in her throat. The man shoved her down and covered her body with his. They hit the ground hard. More shots. Closer. The shooters were in the courtyard now.

“Move,” he commanded, raw and sharp.

He pulled her up and pushed her toward the gap in the hedge.

They burst onto Morrison Street. Empty. Dark. No immediate shooters yet, but the sound of feet pounding behind them, getting closer.

“My car,” he said. “Two blocks. Can you run?”

PART 2

“Yes.”

Iris’s lungs burned. Her shift shoes slipped on wet pavement. He caught her elbow, steadied her, kept them both moving. Behind them, more gunfire. Radio chatter coordinated in low voices. They had maybe thirty seconds before the shooters caught sight of them again.

“There.”

A black Mercedes gleamed under a streetlight. He had keys in his hand—she never saw him grab them—and the doors unlocked with a chirp. The engine roared to life before her door even closed.

Tires squealed. The car lurched forward into empty streets, accelerating.

Iris twisted to look back. Men were spilling onto Morrison Street, guns raised. Muzzle flashes cut the darkness. The rear window exploded, glass showering the back seat.

“Get down,” he said, his hand pushing her head below the dashboard.

The car fishtailed around a corner. He cranked the wheel hard. Acceleration carried them away from the ambush, away from death, into empty city streets where they could think.

Iris stayed down, heart slamming, glass in her hair, reality crashing over her in waves.

She had just helped a criminal escape assassination. She had been shot at. She had made herself a target.

What had she possibly done?

The car’s speed steadied. His breathing, which had been harsh and rapid, slowly regulated.

“You can sit up now,” he said finally. “We’re clear. For now.”

Iris raised her head slowly. They were on the highway, city lights blurring past. She looked at the man beside her, really looked.

Blood marked his collar from a glass cut. His eyes were hard as stones. His hands were steady on the wheel despite everything.

This was the real Vincent Moretti.

Not the polite late-night customer.

The man who lived with death like most people lived with oxygen.

“You just saved my life,” he said, his voice quiet and raw. “No one’s ever done that. Not like that. Not willingly.”

“The diner,” she whispered. “Stella. My apartment. I can’t go back. They saw me. They’ll come for me.”

“I know.” His voice carried absolute certainty. “They’ll identify you. Track you. Mark you as a target. But you’re not going to face that alone. Not anymore. I need to know your name. Your real name, not the waitress version.”

“Iris Kane.”

She tested her own name and found it solid.

“I’m Iris Kane. I’m twenty-five. I’ve been working at the diner for two years. I grew up three blocks away. My cousin was killed in gang crossfire when I was twelve. My mother died two years ago. I don’t have family. I don’t have much of anything except the ability to survive.”

“Iris Kane,” he repeated, testing it. “Welcome to having a lot more than survival. Welcome to having me.”

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Dante Romano. I run Atlanta’s north side. Territory, logistics, protection rackets, everything you probably don’t want to know about in detail. Except you’re going to know everything now because you just became the only person I absolutely trust.”

The safe house revealed itself as they left the city: industrial, converted, armed, and isolated.

Dante killed the engine.

“Inside. We have maybe an hour before they locate this vehicle.”

He guided her through reinforced doors into a space that was exactly what she had expected: expensive, tactical, a fortress designed for exactly this situation. Hiding from people who wanted you dead.

“Sir down before you fall,” Dante said gently.

Iris collapsed onto a chair at the massive dining table. Her legs had stopped obeying orders. The adrenaline crash hit like a wave, leaving her hollow and shaking.

Dante disappeared and returned with a first aid kit and a blanket.

“Your neck. There’s glass.”

Iris touched her skin and came away with blood. She had not even felt it. The shock had numbed everything.

Dante knelt beside her. His fingers were surprisingly careful as he removed tiny shards of glass and cleaned the cuts with practiced efficiency. This close, she could see the scar above his eyebrow, the gray threading his dark hair, the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes.

“You should be furious with me,” she whispered. “My plan was insane. I could have gotten you killed.”

“You saved my life,” Dante said firmly. “There’s a difference. They would have stormed that diner in another ten minutes. Stella would have been collateral damage. You would have been collateral damage. Instead, we both walked out alive.”

His phone buzzed. He answered, his expression hardening.

“Carlo, talk to me… How many?… Send protection immediately… I want every crew house identified by sunrise.”

He ended the call and looked at Iris with something like regret.

“They’ve already identified you. Sent men to your apartment.”

Her blood turned to ice.

“Everything I own. My mother’s jewelry. The culinary school applications—”

“They trashed your apartment. Sent a message. But Iris, Stella’s safe. My people got to her before the Battaglia crew. And you’re alive. Everything else we can replace.”

“Can you fix me being terrified?” Her voice cracked. “Can you fix me shaking so hard I can barely breathe? I’m not like you. I’m not used to this.”

“You grew up in it,” Dante said, his eyes intense. “You survived it. Tonight proved you have better instincts than half my crew. The fear? That’s smart. That keeps you alive.”

Outside, tires crunched on gravel.

Dante was on his feet instantly, a gun appearing. He moved to the security monitor, checked it, and nodded.

“It’s Carlo with the protection team.”

The door opened and men flooded in. Five of them. Armed. Professional. All looking at Dante with relief, then absolute shock seeing him alive and standing in his safe house with a waitress in a bloody uniform and glass in her hair.

Carlo—the tall one with ice-blue eyes—stared at Iris like she was a ghost.

“This is the girl?”

“This is Iris Kane,” Dante said, his voice carrying warning. “She saved my life tonight. She walked me past six shooters. She got me to my car. She’s under full protection. Anyone has a problem with that?”

Silence.

The men looked at one another, at Iris, at Dante’s protective stance between them and her.

Message received.

Carlo approached slowly, hands visible.

“Miss Kane, I don’t know what you did or how you did it, but Dante doesn’t owe debts lightly. You need anything, you tell me.”

“Not to be murdered in my sleep would be nice,” Iris said, exhaustion making her honest. “And maybe some clothes that don’t have another person’s blood on them.”

One of the younger soldiers stepped forward.

“My sister’s about your size. I can grab stuff from her place. Be back in twenty minutes.”

Dante nodded.

“Do it. Carlo, status on the Battaglias.”

Over the next hour, Iris listened to tactical planning. Territory discussions. Retaliation strategies. This was Dante’s real world, the one hidden behind expensive suits and late-night diner visits. A world of betrayal and violence and complex power plays she barely understood.

But she understood survival.

And sitting in that room, surrounded by armed men discussing gang warfare, Iris realized something shocking.

She felt safer than she had in years.

Sleep did not come. Iris lay in the guest bed, every nerve screaming, replaying the ambush over and over. The moment she whispered keep walking. The gunfire. The escape through Mrs. Chen’s garden. The realization that everything she knew had burned.

But underneath the terror, something else pulsed.

Purpose.

For two years, she had served coffee and dreamed of something more. Tonight, she had mattered. She had been brave. She had changed everything.

At 6 a.m., she found Dante in the office, surrounded by maps and photographs and financial records. He looked like he had not slept, but his eyes sharpened when he saw her.

“You should be resting.”

“I don’t know how to rest after that,” Iris said, moving closer. “Tell me what happens next. Don’t protect me with vagueness. Tell me the truth.”

Dante studied her, then nodded.

“The truth is someone inside my organization sold me out. The Battaglia crew knew exactly when I’d be at the diner, exactly when I was vulnerable. The hit was planned weeks in advance. Professional. They almost had me.”

“Almost,” Iris repeated. “But they didn’t. Because I saw the trap.”

“Because you knew your neighborhood better than their intelligence.” Dante pulled up satellite images. “You recognized positioning that should have been invisible. That’s rare, Iris. That’s a gift.”

“What do you want to do?” She moved closer, studying the maps. “Retaliation? Find the traitor?”

“Both.” Dante’s jaw clenched. “But carefully. Whoever betrayed me is still close. Still trusted. If I move too obviously, they’ll disappear. Or worse, they’ll coordinate another hit.”

Over the next three days, Iris moved through a crash course in tactical analysis. Dante taught her his world methodically. Territory markers. Color-coded on maps indicating the balance of power. Crew hierarchies—who reported to whom, whose loyalty was genuine versus bought. Financial networks flowing like blood through the organization, revealing where real power consolidated.

She absorbed everything with the same intensity she had learned to read survival signals growing up. Recognizing the micro-expressions that indicated danger. Understanding body language the way musicians understood rhythm. Reading the spaces between words for what people actually meant versus what they claimed.

Dante watched her work and saw something rare: a person whose instincts had been honed by necessity, sharpened by proximity to violence, but not corrupted by it. She remained human in a world designed to destroy humanity.

“You’re a natural,” he said on the evening of the third day. “Most people take years to develop this kind of reading. You’re already seeing connections most professionals miss.”

“I learned from the streets,” Iris said, her eyes still on the financial records spread before her. “You learn to see patterns or you die. There’s no middle ground.”

On the third night, she made a connection that stopped Dante mid-explanation.

She pulled up Franco Torres’s financial records and layered them against known Battaglia operations.

“There,” she said, pointing with absolute certainty. “Franco Torres. The lieutenant. He’s making deposits that don’t match his stated salary. Large deposits. Frequent. And look at the timing—each deposit comes three days after a major operation. A hit. A territorial expansion. Something that would give Battaglia significant resources.”

“There,” she said, pointing to a financial record. “Franco Torres. The lieutenant. He’s making deposits that don’t match his stated salary. Large deposits. Frequent. Timed to specific events.”

She pulled up another file.

“And look at his movements. He’s absent from crew operations the day before every major hit. He’s not planning. He’s reporting.”

Carlo entered the office. Dante showed him the evidence. His expression went stone.

“Franco’s been with you for eight years.”

“Eight years is plenty of time to decide loyalty has a price.” Dante’s voice was ice. “What’s the play?”

Iris spoke without hesitation.

“You don’t kill him. You flip him. Offer him more than the Battaglias are paying. Offer him everything he actually wants: territory, money, independence.”

“He’ll be a double agent,” Carlo said.

“He already is.” Iris pointed to the pattern. “He’s feeding both sides information. Testing which way the power flows. He’ll go with whoever offers him the best deal and the best protection.”

Dante’s smile was predatory.

“Then we make an offer he can’t refuse.”

They spent a week preparing. Dante gathered intelligence on Franco’s operation—the warehouse he ran independently, the crew he had built in secret, the money he was stealing from Battaglia to build his own power base. The picture that emerged was clear: Franco was transitioning from lieutenant to independent operator, moving money and resources into his own network.

All it would take was one good push.

“I’ll approach him with you,” Iris said.

“Absolutely not.” Dante’s refusal was immediate.

“He’ll be suspicious of a crew meeting. But a couple, someone’s girlfriend—that’s normal. That’s protective cover.” Iris met his eyes. “I’ve done this before. Walked into danger. I know how to read people. Let me help.”

Dante wanted to refuse. She saw it in his face—the need to keep her safe, to hide her away, to protect her from his world.

Instead, he took a long breath.

“Then we do this together.”

They approached the warehouse on Friday night. Franco’s men searched them and found nothing. Dante had left his gun in the car.

A trust play.

Iris carried only courage, and that could not be searched for.

Franco looked up from his desk, suspicious and intrigued.

“Dante Romano. Heard you died last week.”

“Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated,” Dante said, his arm settling around Iris’s waist. “This is Iris. She saved my life. Now we’re saving yours.”

Franco’s eyes narrowed.

“Mine doesn’t need saving.”

“No?” Iris stepped forward. “Then why are you stealing from Battaglia? Building your own crew? Planning to break away before he realizes you’re more ambitious than loyal?”

Silence stretched like wire.

Franco’s men tensed. One reached for a weapon. They were ten seconds from violence, from everything going wrong, from bullets and blood on concrete.

“We don’t want to fight you,” Dante said, his voice level. “We want to employ you. The Battaglias are finished. We’re offering you territory, revenue streams, everything you need to operate independently. In exchange, we want complete intelligence on Battaglia operations.”

Franco’s calculation was visible on his face.

“Why would I trust you?”

“Because staying with Battaglia is death.” Iris’s voice was steady. “Because Battaglia’s already planning to kill you. I saw it in your last three meetings with him. The way his eyes changed. The way he touched his gun. You’re a threat now, and he’s counting down to removing you.”

“How could you possibly—”

“I grew up three blocks from the diner,” Iris said. “I learned to read killers the way other people read faces. And Battaglia is planning to kill you within a month. We’re offering you a way out. A way up. Before it’s too late.”

Franco looked between them.

Then he laughed, bitter and real.

“Battaglia’s been planning to kill me for two months. I found out last week. Set up that ambush on you as a loyalty test. Been a dead man walking ever since.”

Dante extended his hand.

“Then walk toward us instead. Give us Battaglia. Save yourself. Build something that doesn’t end with you in the river.”

Franco shook his hand.

The deal was struck.

That night, they celebrated quietly in the penthouse Dante maintained in the financial district. Bulletproof windows. Security systems. Fifty safe exits.

“You were extraordinary,” Dante said, the city spread below them like a conquered kingdom. “The way you read him. Gave him exactly what he needed to hear.”

“I learned from a man who keeps dangerous secrets.” Iris moved closer. “Who built an empire on loyalty and fear. Who hides himself behind expensive suits and late-night diner visits.”

Dante’s hand found her face.

“And what do you want to hide behind, Iris Kane?”

“Truth,” she said. “Survival. A man who looks at me like I’m not just a waitress anymore. Like I’m someone who matters.”

His kiss was soft, then urgent, passion breaking through careful control. Iris kissed him back and felt weeks of tension dissolve. The fear, the adrenaline, the impossible choices—all of it transformed into something else.

Connection.

Belonging.

The knowledge that she had been saved by this man as much as he had been saved by her.

—

## PART 3

Franco’s intelligence was gold. Names. Locations. Financial records. The Battaglia operation unraveled from inside out as Dante’s people moved methodically through each crew house, each operation, each corrupt official on Battaglia’s payroll.

The end came quickly.

Battaglia was cornered in a warehouse on the south side, three days after Franco flipped. He had fifteen men. Dante had a hundred. The odds were never in question.

Dante approached the warehouse alone, Carlo trailing at distance, while Iris watched from a secure location, her eyes on every screen.

“This ends,” Dante said, his voice carrying through the warehouse.

“You think you can take me?” Battaglia’s voice was bravado wrapped around fear. “I run this city. I have resources—”

“You have nothing,” Dante interrupted. “Franco gave us everything. Every crew house. Every corrupt cop. Every financial account. You’re done.”

Battaglia’s face went white.

Then he reached for his gun.

The shot came from Carlo. Not fatal. Designed to wound and disable. Professional execution. Battaglia dropped, screaming.

FBI agents flooded in—Carlo had coordinated with federal investigators for weeks. They took Battaglia into custody along with his remaining crew. His empire dismantled in moments.

The warehouse cleared. The threat was gone.

Dante emerged, bloodied but alive, and walked directly to the control room where Iris watched.

She ran to him. He caught her and kissed her in front of Carlo and the federal agents and anyone else watching.

“He’s done,” Dante said against her lips. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

“We’re safe,” Iris corrected.

Over the next three months, the city stabilized. The Battaglia territory was divided among smaller organizations that Dante had relationships with. Neighborhoods returned to their previous balance of power. Stella’s Diner was rebuilt, better than before, with full security and regular protection.

Iris worked part-time at the diner and full-time with Dante, analyzing intelligence, reading people, using her instincts to guide his decisions. She was extraordinary at it, seeing what hardened criminals missed because she thought like someone who had survived rather than someone who had conquered.

One evening, they walked through the rebuilt diner while Stella closed up. The booths were filled with regulars. The counter gleamed. Everything was exactly as it had been before the ambush, except transformed by purpose.

Dante sat in his usual booth. Iris brought him coffee.

“On the house tonight,” she said, smiling.

“Actually,” Dante said, his hand moving to his jacket.

Iris’s breath caught.

He pulled out a small box.

“I know it’s fast. I know we met in chaos. But Iris, you changed my life completely. You saw me when everyone else just saw a criminal. You risked everything for a stranger. Marry me. Be my partner in everything, not just survival, but peace.”

The box opened.

A diamond ring caught the light.

Iris’s hands trembled.

“Yes,” she said. “Absolutely yes.”

The diner erupted in cheers. Stella cried. Customers celebrated. Dante slid the ring onto her finger and kissed her while everyone watched.

The waitress and the mafia boss.

The woman who saw danger and whispered keep walking.

The man who learned love from a stranger who saved his life.

They had survived fire, bullets, betrayal, and war. They had built something real from tactical planning and desperate courage. They chose each other every day, transforming survival into belonging, danger into home.

Three months later, they reopened Stella’s Diner for their engagement party. The neighborhood came. His crew came. Federal investigators who had worked the case came. All of them united under one truth: a waitress had changed a mafia boss’s life with five words whispered in darkness.

Keep walking and don’t stop.

Dante had walked through hell with Iris’s hand in his. She had taught him that love was possible, that trust could be real, that the most dangerous person in a room might also be the most brave.

Iris had discovered that survival was not the end goal—it was just the beginning. That everything she had lived through, every danger she had learned to read, had been preparing her for this: a partnership where she mattered as much as the empire they were building together.

“Ready for the wedding?” Dante asked, their fingers intertwined as they looked out over the city.

“Ready,” Iris said. “For this. For you. For whatever comes next.”

“Then let’s keep walking,” Dante said. “Together this time. Not running from danger, but walking toward our future.”

Iris smiled, squeezed his hand, and whispered the words that had started everything:

“Keep walking. Don’t stop.”

And they didn’t.

—

**THE END**