“Copy.” My phone burns in my pocket like a grenade. I lace, unlace, re-lace. Julia sidles close, whispering, “Sayblackoutback to me.”
“Blackout,” I echo. Then, quieter, “for now.”
Her brow lifts. “Definefor nowso I can plan my heart attack.”
“I’ll wear the boring hoodie, use your paper, say your words. But I’m not staying silent forever.”
She sighs. “Just pick your moments.”
“Tonight’s mine,” I tell her, and the certainty calms me. “I’m going to her.”
Julia exhales. “Then go quiet till you’re at her door. Side exit. Hood up. If a lens finds you, it’s because it learned to climb.”
The blackout lasts twenty-three minutes.
I make it through a shower, a chalky protein shake, and one shoe before my phone buzzes through Do Not Disturb.
DM (requests):Riley’s hiding something. Urgent.
No handle, no avatar—just a gray egg. I don’t open it, but the seed of doubt still finds a crack. I delete it before it roots. Trust isn’t blind; it’s a decision I’ll keep making until it’s muscle memory.
Side exit. Hood up. Julia’s voice echoes in my head:eyes down, don’t be interesting.The alley smells like wet cardboard. A click-whirr bites the air—a camera. I don’t look up. Rain becomes my curtain.
By the time I hit the street, traffic is a low growl. I grip the wheel too tight, breathing to the wipers’ rhythm.I saw something I shouldn’t have seenisn’t the opener I want.Are you okay?is the only one that matters.
A sedan lingers two cars back, bumper dent familiar from practice lots. Maybe nothing. Maybe a freelancer with rent due. I change lanes; it hesitates, peels off. The knot in my chest stays.
Riley’s block rises out of the gray. I park a street over—hood up, hands deep, anonymity my best defense. If a lens catches me, fine. They don’t get her.
The building’s awning sighs under rain. I take the stairs—never the elevator when I need control. Second flight, third. My breath evens. My pulse doesn’t.
At her floor, I slow. Low voices echo down the stairwell—too smooth, too patient. Then I see the telltale foam of a boom mic dip low.
My phone buzzes.UNKNOWN:We’re live in 5.
I keep walking.
The corridor outside her door smells like damp carpet and somebody’s over-zealous diffuser. Light spills under the door, a narrow line like a heartbeat. I raise my hand, pause. Once I knock, I can’t take it back.
A shadow shifts at the far end of the hall—sneakers, a boom mic’s tail. They’re tucked by the stairwell, waiting to sell our next breath to people who don’t know us.
My phone buzzes again:UNKNOWN:We’re live in 5.Same outlet, same vulture rhythm.
I don’t retreat. I turn my shoulders, blocking the lens’s line of sight. If they want a picture, they get me, not her.
I knock.
The sound carries farther than it should, looping down the hall. I imagine it hitting the boom like a cue.
“Riley,” I say, low enough that only the door can hear. “It’s me.”
Nothing. Then the mic dips lower. The air waits. I knock again, softer. “We can tell them to leave,” I add. “Or wait them out. Or I’ll go. Just—answer, and you decide.”
The knob doesn’t move. The light stays steady. The shadow at the stairs shifts, hungry.
My phone buzzes once more:UNKNOWN:We’re live in 3. Comment or we run what we have.I plant my feet on the carpet that smells like lemon and rain and make myself into a wall.
Chapter 23
