Absolutely. Here’s a tightened, blog-ready version of your story, keeping your original voice, narrative 

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Forty Feet

The next morning I looked out the window at the dump across the street. The night before, a friend who didn’t show had been talking to a girl with kind, tired eyes—she worked endless nights. Walking toward the city, another friend waved with her boyfriend. Finally bored, I returned to my room, checking my phone: a “sorry I didn’t make it, can you come around?” text.

Her kitchen bench was littered with empty Cody cans. She was tight-lipped on the couch, jumpy, distracted. By morning, she seemed better, so I drove home. Around lunchtime, she rang for money. I transferred a hundred without asking why. Later, she was brighter, smiling as we walked downtown. Peaceful.

A car idled nearby. She recognized the drivers: her ex and his friend. “He’s been chasing me. Must be bored. Sad fuck,” she said. Walking together, holding hands, her palm was sweaty. We took the green path by the river, ending at the harbor. On the wharf, she embraced me—thin, a little shaky, warmth pressed lightly against my chest. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t tell her. She kept to herself… until she blurted it out: someone had photos of her, and they’d sell them or post them. My face burned. I wanted to kill them.

“No,” I said. “It won’t undo what happened. You’ll just end up in prison.” I didn’t care. They were going to pay. She insisted: “It happened to me, not you. I need time to think.” I didn’t push. She left voluntarily; I didn’t act. I wanted to reach her, but someone who doesn’t want it… only an imbecile would insist.

We left. I drove her home. She was quiet. Without thinking, I drove out west to her ex’s place. His pickup was in the driveway. I parked, sneaked through the bush, and saw him tied to a chair in the kitchen, mouth taped, bleeding, singlet soaked. Four guys surrounded him. They dragged him outside, forty feet away, and beat him. The bigger one stabbed him multiple times. He lay on the grass, unconscious, blood darkening the ground. I slipped away through the trees and gunned my car.

I drove to her. “No more ex problems,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say someone else took care of it. Finito.” She didn’t argue. “Stay here with me for a while,” I said. She went to her room; I sat at the table. Later, she emerged: “They rang me after you left. They had him. Last straw.”

I couldn’t dwell on it. I drove downtown to see old friends. A car followed me, left-hand drive, young driver. I tried to think coincidence. At lights, he kept moving his head. Paranoid. I reached my friend’s apartment—no lights, no answer. The car was still there. “Why are you following me?” I demanded.

The voice came back cold: “Don’t be stupid. We have a vested interest. You want to know why? Because we’re the cops. We know everything. So shut the fuck up.” I jumped in my car and drove to her. She was drunk and stoned, furious. “That was all bullshit about your boyfriend. Way different.”

“Play along. I like you.”

She explained the stakes: some were cops, some weren’t. “Don’t worry. Just do as you’re told.”

I drank. Partied. Hooked up. Tried to forget the chaos. My handler left for Australia. I went to Bali, Thailand. Came back to Auckland. Life carried on. I fell back into the scene. The ex? Dead. Others? Off the radar. I had to keep going.

Cold cases were soul-destroying. I partied to cope. My name was Shannon Hanlon. Three years ago, life was different. Devoted to my job. Now, hunted had become hunter. Feral cops, feral criminals. Who would kill whom first? I wasn’t going down.

Rustle at the door. They burst in. One headshot, another… finished. Bodies buried with lime. Six months, gone. Up north. Celebration. Lesson learned: don’t fuck with us.

Family history was complicated. My mother was young, father older, gone for months at a time. I had been motivated by the search for him. School days, adolescence, grit, determination. Back in town, it was the usual grind: parties, infiltrating, surviving. Slutty enough to fit in, sharp enough to stay alive.

One night, I spotted a target at a club. I played it my way: method acting, manipulation. Broke a glass on a guy’s nose. Blood, chaos—worked. No one trusted him afterward. My own confusion was protection.

The game was a mix of past and present: chasing leads, finding old allies, pressing old enemies. Information was power. One contact, a lifer, led me to my father. We drove through South Island nights, surf crashing in the distance, to finally confront the past. A meeting, a revelation: the man alive. Dangerous, yes—but family.

Back in Auckland, warrants executed, arrests made. Courts, convictions, a measure of justice. Visits to graves, reflection on collateral damage. Friends lost, enemies neutralized. My life? Reclaimed, but complicated. Dangerous. Impermanent.