My nerves are shot. I try to work, but my mind races in a loop—Tom’s vanishing act, the car with the fake plates, the relentless trickle of coded messages. I’m sure now they’re not random.
Someone is watching me, pushing me, enjoying the chase. The messages feel too intimate, as if they’re designed for mealone. Whoever this is, they know me. They know how my mind works, how to keep me guessing.
By three o’clock, I can’t sit still. I pace the length of the kitchenette, pretending to wait for coffee, phone clenched in my hand.
Every time the elevator dings, I glance up, half expecting to see a stranger step out—someone with answers, or maybe just a threat. I want to ask Izzy to meet me for lunch, to talk about anything except work, except danger, except the feeling that my life is narrowing around me, each choice already made by someone else.
Instead, I force myself to focus. I reread the messages, looking for clues I missed. I open my private folder, staring at the screenshots, the bank trails, the web of names that all lead back to one: Sharov. Even the name makes my skin crawl.
For the rest of the afternoon, I move through the day like a ghost, every sound too sharp, every glance in my direction suspicious. When my phone finally buzzes, it’s the message I’ve been dreading:10 PM. Corner of 47th and 9th. Don’t be late.
I close my eyes, pressing my fists into my lap. Fear and curiosity wrestle in my chest. Part of me wants to destroy everything and run. The rest of me wants to see how deep this rabbit hole goes.
There’s no turning back.
When I step outside, the city air tastes sharp and metallic, thick with the threat of rain. I keep my head down as I walk, bag clutched so tight it leaves welts in my palm.
The weight of the dagger inside reassures me, the cool steel a small anchor against panic. I’m not even sure why I brought it, not really—I just needed to feel less helpless.
My eyes flick from every passing face to every alleyway, every step pressing against my nerves until they’re ready to snap. I can feel eyes on me. Or maybe it’s just the paranoia, blooming wild inside my chest.
The bus is late and crowded. I take a window seat, staring at my reflection in the dirty glass. My face looks strange, pinched, older, eyes too wide. Streetlights smear across my cheeks as we jolt through the city. I see my own lips moving, but the words inside my head make no sound.
All I hear is the phantom ring of that stranger’s voice, calm and distant, promising safety in exchange for my soul.
The city blurs past, colorless. My stop comes up before I’m ready. I stumble off, barely noticing the scrape of my shoe against the curb. The walk to my building feels longer than usual. Every step echoes in the pit of my stomach. My hand stays curled around the dagger, thumb pressed against the hilt.
A man with a dog passes me on the sidewalk and nods hello. I nearly flinch.
When my building finally appears, relief floods me, almost sweet enough to make me lightheaded. I dart inside, letting the glass door slam behind me, and rush up the stairs two at a time. Only when I reach my floor do I slow. My fingers tremble as I fit the key into the lock. I double-check behind me; the hallway is empty, silent except for the faint hum of someone’s television. Home, I tell myself. I’m safe.
I step inside and close the door with a decisive click. Three locks, chain on, bolt slid. Only then do I let out the breath I’ve been holding since I left the office. I rest my forehead against the door, the wood cool and solid. The apartment is dark and quiet. I drop my bag on the counter, shrug off my coat, my body aching for the familiar. I reach for the light switch.
The instant the room floods with light, I freeze.
He’s there.
Miron Sharov sits in my favorite chair, legs crossed, perfectly at ease. He’s dressed sharp in a dark jacket with an open collar, cuff links that glint like a warning. His posture says patience, confidence, something more dangerous beneath. His gaze finds me immediately.
Around him, two men stand at attention by the kitchen and window. Both are big, silent, eyes flat and cold. Their presence soaks the room in dread.
My heart stops, then starts again with a painful jolt. The world narrows. There is nowhere to run.
Miron watches me with an unsettling calm, head tilted just enough to suggest amusement. “Locking the door was a good instinct, Seraphina, but not enough.”
I swallow, back pressed to the door, pulse roaring in my ears. “How did you get in here?”
He ignores the question, unfolding from the chair like a cat stretching after a nap. “You’ve been busy. Digging in the dark. Talking to people you shouldn’t. Accepting invitations from men you don’t know.” His mouth quirks, a cold parody of a smile. “You’re clever, but you’re not careful enough.”
My fingers fumble in my bag, searching for the dagger. One of his men notices. He shifts, shaking his head as if to saydon’t even think about it.
My blood chills. I let my hand fall to my side.
Miron’s voice slides through the space between us. The accent is faint, but I recognize it now—the same timbre from the masked ball, the same low command from the coded messages.
“You remember me.”
It isn’t a question.
