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My pulse stutters.

If he wrote this—he’s alive.

Or someone wants me to believe he is.

Either way, this isn’t just a clue. It’s a trap.

And I’m walking straight into it.

I press a hand to the page. It trembles.

“I didn’t just inherit my father’s talent,” I murmur. “I inherited his unfinished war.”

I stand, catching my reflection in a shattered wall mirror.

It’s warped. Dirty. Dust blurs the edges, but my eyes are sharp.

I pull out my phone.

The call connects in two rings.

“Kieran,” I say.

He sounds half-asleep. “Yeah.”

“I need a dress and a gun.”

A pause. No questions.

“Where?”

“I’ll text you.”

“Backup?”

“No backup. No questions. Just get it done.”

He exhales like he wants to argue but knows better.

“I’ll handle it.”

I hang up.

No goodbyes.

I slide the sketchbook under one arm, the journal under the other.

Step back into the alley.

The Strip roars a few blocks away—bright, relentless, blinding.

But here, surrounded by peeling paint and cracked concrete, I make peace with the girl I used to be.

Art saved me once.

Now it’s going to end him.

Chapter 15 – Kieran