Rhythm & Ruin 

 By Raven Raphaelle

Dedicated to anyone who’s ever had to take their power back. 

And to the 2020 version of me who was too broken to see this clearly. I wish I could hug you.

Trigger Warning: Rated Mature.

Scenes involving SA, mentions of alcohol, drugs, and drug use.

Some people survive by changing their names.
By fucking up, fucking off, and calling it reinvention.
Others run, stacking miles and lies like it might buy them peace.

But the past doesn’t scare easily. Not when your shadows smell like smoke.
It waits in dark rooms where the music’s too loud and the money’s too fast.
It knows exactly when to come back—when you’re broke, heart cracked, and hungry enough to say yes to the wrong thing.

And when it finally finds you, it doesn’t ask who you are.
It asks how much you’re willing to bleed, burn, and betray
to keep the people you love breathing.

Let Go

Milana sat at the desk of her second chance, the cursor pulsed in front of her like some borrowed heartbeat she wasn’t convinced she deserved. Her eyes drifted from her work screen to the black mirror of her phone. It stared back, hiding the story that’d been clawing at her insides all morning.
What started as a coping mechanism, those nights she sat up waiting for Philip to come home, turned into something else. A portal. A place to go when this one got too loud, or too quiet. Her fingers tapped numbers into spreadsheets, but her brain was still in the scene she wrote before work. Her characters tugged at her like ghosts.
“Milana.” Tyrese’s voice was low, almost a whisper.
She looked up, startled. Her boss stood over the cubicle wall in his baby blue button-down, bald head catching the light like a lens flare. He nodded toward his office. Phones rang in overlapping waves. Someone coughed obnoxiously three rows down. Another keyboard clacked like it was sprinting to a deadline. She grabbed her coffee and straightened her skirt, already bracing for whatever this was.
“Sit down, will ya?” The door slammed shut, muffling the noise. A teetering stack of cream-colored folders and crumpled papers stood nearly a foot high on the edge of his desk. He dropped into his chair with a sharp thud, exhaling deeply. “I’m just gonna cut to the chase.”
She recalled the submitted application for the assistant position, and wondered if that’s what—
“I gotta let you go.”
She inhaled too fast and choked, splattering coffee onto her blouse. “What?” She wiped her chin.
He sighed again and handed her a tissue. “It’s not just you. I’m gonna have to let go of half the staff.” He turned to face her fully now. His voice dipped into something gentle. “Do you understand the pressure I’m under right now?”
“Wh-what happened?” She felt the burn of hot coffee seeping through her shirt as she dabbed at the spreading stain on her chest.
“Fuckin’ budget cuts.” He jabbed a finger at the stack of papers on his cluttered desk. His eyes looked away, as if to avoid a conversation with the silent heap. “Can you believe it? I gotta set up virtual meetings with almost fifteen people this week,” he scoffed. “But I wanted to tell you face-to-face.”
A cup of engraved pens with his name on it sat between them.
His voice dropped to a whisper. “I begged them to let us keep you, Milana, but they’re only saving the ones with seniority or a 95% sales bite. I ain’t even getting my Christmas bonus. Shit’s not lookin’ good.”
She took a deep breath. “I’ve been underqualified for this job, so I’m not hurt. I’m surprised I lasted this long.” She bounced her knee as if to generate her thoughts.
“Milana…”
“For real. It helped me get my shit together.” She laughed to cut the tension. 
He reached across the desk, his rough hands extending toward hers—she grasped them without hesitation. “Aye, you know I gotchu. We been through it all since our wild college years, aight?”
A sarcastic chuckle escaped Milana. “You mean those parties we crashed even though we never set foot on a campus?”
He let go of her hands. His fingers brushed his lips as he tried to stifle a grin.
“I wonder if you’d still have your job if your bosses knew just how many blunts we rolled in all those abandoned buildings.” They burst into laughter, the sound filling the room before they settled into the quiet.
“You need somethin’ to hold you down in the meantime? I could hit up Markus-”
“I’m not going back to that life, I told you that.” Memories of when those years took dark turns flashed before her eyes. “I’m almost thirty-”
“Not as a dancer again. Maybe behind the scenes stuff. I still got Markus on social media. He’s in his rapper, producer bag now. Maybe you can get in on that. Either way, you bigger than this place, Milana. I’m actually kinda jealous of you right now.”
Milana shifted in her seat, looking at the corner of the room. “Are you done yet?”
“I’m just sayin’. I remember that time you flipped two dollars into two hundred. You gon’ be aight no matter what. It’s just gon’ be sad without you ‘round here. Hell, maybe I should leave too, and we can open up our own business or somethin’.” He leaned back in his chair. “We can’t start trappin’ again though.” He went on a tangent about the dreams and ideas he’d harbored since they were younger, visions he couldn’t afford to chase back then.
The Midnight Mirage.
Her gaze dropped to a nearly-empty bottle of Cognac on a table—what was left of it catching the light, golden and glinting an expensive color. Neon blues and blood reds washed over the club’s floor in waves as the DJ packed up, the buzz of the night fading into the hum of tired speakers and the scrape of metal cases. Then—bam. The main lights snapped on, harsh and sudden. Her ears rang. Her chest tightened. And there they were. Lurking by the bar like ghosts that never left. The same faces. The same shadows. She didn’t have to look twice to remember. The way the darkness used to wrap around them like smoke. How it clung to their laughter—sick, hollow, sharp. Now they stared straight through her. And their eyes—God. Their eyes still had that hunger.
She flinched at the warmth of Tyrese’s grip wrapping around her wrist. 
“Aye.” His brown eyes locked into hers. “Fuck Markus. I just know he knows people. We don’t have to have shit to do with him or any of them people.” Tyrese always had a coach-like way of speaking to Milana, his tone infused with encouragement and authority. He always seemed to catch on when she dissociated. He continued, speaking with his whole chest, “We don’t need ‘em. You already know you can hit my line, okay? I’m always gon’ look out for you.”
Her eyes followed his pupils. “Okay.” She smiled.
He released his grip, reaching for his coffee mug. “Aye, so what’s good with that yuppie boyfriend of yours? Can’t he getchu a job with his family’s business? I’m sure you’d make way more money there than you could anywhere else. His rich, white ass.”
She rolled her eyes. A smile creeped onto her face as she rose from her seat, turning toward the door.
“Milana…”
She glanced back to see him standing there, sincerity in his eyes.
“Don’t worry ‘bout clearin’ your stuff. Don’t want them kiki-in’. I can toss it all in a crate and drop it off, or maybe we can get some wings soon? Go watch the fight?”
She pictured her cubicle. What little there was for her to take home. They dapped each other up like they were still nineteen, the bond forged in the grime of their past shining through. 

“I’ll text you when I’m out, aight?”
She made her way back to her tiny section of the shared office, throwing one last glance at everyone—their faces dull and worn down, locked into the same loop: call, script, sell, or get hung up on. She grabbed her keys and purse with a mix of relief and anxiety rising in her throat. 

She’s free. 

She’s screwed. 

Though her yuppie boyfriend, as Tyrese called him, had generational wealth, she never wanted to rely on him for money. Maybe this was the time where she could, for once, be taken care of? Allow someone to take care of her?

The monitor blinked to life just before she logged out. 11:11. Make a wish, she thought. She remembered wishing to be here, actually. Right here. Which was funny, considering she technically just got fired. There were mornings she’d sneak into hotels at dawn, slipping past the concierge to raid the breakfast bar for muffins, bananas, and orange juice boxes like a ghost. Sleep only came in scraps, swallowed by trap-house walls, dealers pacing the hall, junkies nodding in the kitchen, girls drifting on half-deflated mattresses. Keep quiet, keep small, stay invisible. Blend in and you’ll be fine. 

But you’d never guess where she had been by looking at her. She talked her way into jobs she had no business having. She read people fast and flashed well-timed smiles. She showered at the gym, carried herself like she belonged. She could’ve kept some of those gigs too, if management wasn’t always breathing down her neck. If couches didn’t get reclaimed. If friends didn’t flake. Just keep going, she’d say. Go somewhere else. 

Be someone else.
And then came The Midnight Mirage. Hell disguised as a nightclub. Funny how the universe works: The more you run, the more you can’t hide. The further you go, the darker it gets. Where the voids live. The holes. The pits. The ruins. The places most people can’t follow. 

If your light’s not strong enough, you won’t make it out. She thought she was escaping something. Instead, she dropped straight into the worst one of all—the one ruled by Markus King. 

But then…Philip happened. And then the office job. And life started to resemble something close to stability. She became less and less armed in the quiet. In nine-to-fives and grocery store coffee creamers. In a boyfriend who barely talks, and a mattress with memory foam. Everyday was the same day. It was predictable. Safe. Even if Philip was a little distant… She couldn’t imagine wanting anything else. She wanted to tell him just that.
She lingered at the bus stop with her sandwich in hand. The cold air sharpened the mustard on her tongue. Roasted turkey with cheddar cheese. It’s the small things, she thinks.
Hey you, she texted Philip, I have some news.
She stared at their text thread. The screen illuminated with how little they interacted anymore. No more “Thinking about you, beautiful,” or playful selfies exchanged.
I could find another job where our hours align... maybe that would help us.
A loud ambulance rushed by. The wail of its siren pierced the air and the force of the wind whipped against her face. She struggled to separate her sandwich from her hair in her mouth.
Milana watched the messages, anticipating a typing bubble to appear. After a minute of nothing she locked her phone.
The bus stop was alive with a mix of characters: elderly folks wrapped in layers against the chill; a scruffy man who looked like he was deep in a bender, a man pacing on a call; and a single mother balancing a mesh backpack overflowing with laundry while cradling a small toddler in her arms.
Milana unlocked her phone and opened up Docks—a writing app containing her novel in the works.
She covered a secretive smile with her half-eaten sandwich, bringing her phone closer to her face. She looked over both shoulders, taking discreet steps away from the crowd, making sure no one was too close.

The castle is cloaked in an intimate hush.

“Let me worship you,” Hades murmurs in a deep, velvet voice, his fingers brushing against her throat with a possessive tenderness. Persephone exhales softly, a shiver of anticipation coursing through her as he tightens his grip, his short nails leaving delicate imprints on her skin. 

“Take me,” she whispers, her eyes brimming with longing.

“I intend to, darling,” he growls, the promise heavy in the air between them.

The bus squealed to a stop in front of Milana, snapping her out of the fantasy as she swallowed the last of her food in a rush. She found a seat, took a sip of coffee, and kept her phone close.

His hands explore every curve and crevice of her body, mapping her softness like a sculptor with clay. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes.

She reaches for him.

“Not yet,” his eyes glinted with mischief as the heat rose between them.

The characters were submerged in a dark, indoor pool in the underworld, the water shimmered with an otherworldly glow. He was a god, powerful and enigmatic, while she was merely mortal, caught in the magnetic pull between their worlds. 

He bites into her neck, whispering words of adoration. 

“You’re mine.” 

She pulls on his—

“Ma’am?” 

He picks her up by her hips as she straddles his shoulders, standing waist deep in the steaming, enchanting pool. The wet, stone walls flicker with light from floating lanterns. Her eyes roll back—

“Ma’am.” 

“Hm?” Milana jolted, her eyes wide, to find an elderly woman with a wholesome smile, looking down at her. She held onto a railing. “You alright?” 

Milana’s eyes moved to the crushed, cardboard cup under her clenched grip.

“Oh,” she chuckled, “yeah, just—” She glanced at her phone before meeting the old woman’s concerned face. “Lottery numbers.” 

“Oooh!” The old lady beamed. “I gotta check my numbers. Say—” She dug into her leather purse with shaky, wrinkled hands. “You wouldn’t happen to be able to tell me—” 

The bus slowed to a stop, the brakes squealing.

“Oh, this is me!” Milana bolted up, locking her phone with swiftness. “Good luck, though!” 

She was off the bus before it fully stopped. She tossed her coffee cup into the trash. Her palms slicked against her pencil skirt. The stories she’d been writing—the ones hijacking her workdays—yeah, they were smut. But Milana was no amateur. She’d been on the other side of the stage lights. She knew exactly what sells.

The 306 North Luxury Apartments loomed up ahead, just around the corner. Clean lines, mirrored windows, concierge in a stupid little vest. A place she never imagined herself walking into—unless it was for a Markus King afterparty, where the champagne was free but the price of being there was still steep. 

Today, she lives here. 

The words she wanted to say to Philip were already bubbling up in her chest, begging to be heard. She was going to tell him everything. That she was grateful. That he saved her, in his own quiet way. Even if she just got fired. Especially because she just got fired. She took the steps two at a time. Her phone buzzed. 

Hey, girl. I’m finally back in town. Let’s get food later? 

Chanel. The surprise made Milana smile. Let’s, she typed back. 

The elevator bell chimed as the doors parted. She took a deep breath before clearing her throat. 

I’ll find another job.

Unless… this is the time?

The one you always said you wanted—me home, you taking care of us? 

The wedding, the baby? 

You really mean it? You want… all of that?

She scoffed at how silly it sounded. She never imagined this either.  

Maybe it was time. 

She could finally… let go. 

She tapped the glossy key card against the receiver above the door knob and it flashed green.

The door swung open, and the first thing she saw was a foreign mess. Clothes that didn’t belong to her. The floor, a map of someone else’s plans.

Sounds of shared pleasure echoed from the bedroom. 

A hot knot formed in Milana’s throat and chest. Her face prickled like a mask made of thousands of needles. Her breathing shortened. A layer of warmth pressed outward, trying to escape her body. She could feel the sweat beading on her scalp as her heart began to race. 

What… the fuck.

She blacked out momentarily, before finding one of her heels in her hand. 

Discovering the door to the room cracked ajar, she eased it open, holding her breath. 

Her eyes widened as the bare back of a woman screaming Philip’s name loud, almost performatively, filled her ears. A blanket covered her hips, shielding the view from her. Her long, blonde hair bounced as his familiar groans layered with the squeaking of the mattress springs. 

The rhythm of the headboard slammed into the wall, matching the timpani of Milana’s beating heart—the crescendo rising in her ears with every passing millisecond. They didn’t even realize she was in the doorway. 

Do I snatch this bitch’s hair back and spit in her mouth for him, or should I just start packing? Her eyes glared, burning. 

Milana’s voice was calm over their noise. “This is a new low, even for you.”  

The blondie shrieked, and Philip scattered. They flailed their arms and legs to get under the blanket. 

“I’m sorry, did I intrude?” She feigned genuine concern. 

Philip’s attempt to laugh was pitiful. “Ah, Milana, haha, I—”

“Milana!” The woman caught her breath. “What are you doing here?” 

“I live here.” Milana pointed to the anniversary photos above the bed. “You know this. You like getting off to my face?” 

The woman pushed wet hair behind her ear, looking at Philip for some kind of cue. His head and chest have turned beet red as sweat drips from his temples. 

The silence was loud.

Milana’s brows furrowed. “So wassup, Gabby?” She tipped her chin up at her, smiling, like she was seeing an old friend. Because she was. “Your husband know you’re here? I mean, we just hosted you two last week.” 

“I...” Gabby stuttered, “we—we’re getting a divorce.” She nodded as if to convince herself. 

“Aww, I’m so sorry,” Milana quipped. She frowned, poking out her bottom lip. When her eyes met Phillip’s, her rage returned. “Fuck you, Philip.” 

He went still. Milana stepped into him, chest squared, close enough that he had to lean back or risk breathing her in. Her jaw tightened, shoulders set, like she was measuring the distance to his face. Philip held his breath with the dawning realization that she might actually swing.

No longer caring about the weight of her steps, Milana charged to retrieve her things. She pulled the closet open with strength she forgot she had. In less than a minute, she jammed what little she had into a duffle bag. The same duffle bag she came here with two years ago. As she pivoted toward the nightstand on “her” side of the bed, she caught Gabby flinching, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. The air thickened with tension, and for a fleeting moment time stood still—the silence cracking as they locked eyes.

“You know...” Milana’s voice dropped to a low murmur as she inched closer to Gabby, her eyes narrowing. “If you’re gonna fuck someone’s boyfriend, you should probably keep that same energy.” 

She didn’t wait for a reaction. She just opened the drawer, calm as a surgeon, sliding her laptop and charger out one by one. Gabby sucked in a breath, tugging the blanket up over her chest. The blanket didn’t hide guilt anyway. It just made her look smaller.

A ripped condom wrapper rested on top of the stand as she closed it shut. “Magnums? Really?” 

Philip lurched out of the bed, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat. 

“Milana—wait. I didn’t… I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“Clearly.” She glared at Gabby. “Might wanna take a Plan B, or check to see if that shit is swimming up there.” Gabby lowered her head to discreetly check between her legs. 

Philip began to reach for Milana’s arm, but she yanked it away, quickening her pace as she walked into the living room. The distance between them felt suffocating, every step echoing with his desperation. She refused to acknowledge him. His fingers brushed against her sleeve when she stopped in the kitchen. 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she snapped when she finally turned to him.

He raised both arms to block a punch she didn't even throw, “Alright, alright, sorry, I—” 

Milana grabbed a tote and started packing. Ramen, chips, bread, peanut butter, water bottles, oranges.

A sharp Smack! reverberated through the room as his palm slammed against the counter, pinning a wad of cash beneath it. He closed his wallet. 

“Here,” he exhaled. His voice was heavy with finality. 

Milana opened the fridge, deciding whether to look inside of it, or at him. After staring past the cabinet with her grip still on the handle, she finally met his eyes. 

Her voice was low and laced with venom. “Fuck off.”

“It’s the least I can do, I—” 

She stopped rummaging the fridge and looked at him with disgust. “Does Owen know?” 

Philip shook his head, raising his eyebrows, and stared at the floor next to her. 

“So... not only did you betray your girlfriend,” her voice rose with a sarcastic grin, “you betrayed your best friend.” Milana nodded her head, pursing her lips.  

“Philip?” Gabby called out from the room. 

“Your married best friend,” Milana emphasized, ignoring her. 

He opened his mouth to respond, but hesitated. Milana didn’t wait for clarity; she shut the fridge and grabbed a few packets of oatmeal, her movements quick and mechanical. He drifted back toward the bedroom when a brand new bottle of whiskey caught Milana’s eye, glowing like a beacon on the counter. Without a second thought, she dropped the tote. She unscrewed the lid in a swift motion, throwing the golden liquid back. The burn seared down her throat. The triggers started to crawl beneath her skin, old memories clawing their way to the surface. How quickly she could pack a bag. How efficiently she could raid a pantry. How fast someone could fuck her over. 

She picked up the tote wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and stuffed it with the bottle before heading towards the door. She scanned the apartment. Thoughts barely registered as she felt her dissociation growing. Her ears rang. Her eyes rolled as she took a deep breath to center herself. She wanted to scream. Her gaze drifted to her phone, the high pitch frequency loud in her head. Her thumb hovered over the incriminating photos she just took. She wondered, just for a moment, if she should send them to Owen—let him see the truth, let the fallout begin. But the idea slipped away as quickly as it came as her survival instincts shift into overdrive.
Where are we going to sleep tonight?

“Fuck all of this.” She scoffed, shaking her head as if to silence the voice. 

Milana glanced over at the folded bills sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter when she heard them whispering from the other room. 

“Fuck this and fuck you,” she muttered. She snatched the cash and stuffed it in her bra. She didn’t even count it. She slipped on her slides and ditched the office heels with her old apartment key card. Milana’s eyes caught the view of downtown Chicago. 

Its glittering skyline used to feel like a promise. 

Slimy bitch. How can you fuck your friend’s boyfriend with pictures of her, and your own husband, looking right at you? 

Milana took one last look at Philip through the bedroom door. He was sliding his legs into his pants while Gabby adjusted her blouse in the mirror. Milana turned her face from it, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and mercy. The door shut behind her with a loud click. She flicked the apartment door off as she descended into the hallway. The elevator chimed as the doors closed to descend. 

Her breath was shaky, but she was sure.

“Fuck you, Philip.”