He grins, sharp and mean. “None at all.”
That’s settled. The plan is ugly, but it’s ours.
And it’s the only way to burn down a lie this big.
I need air. Real air—not the iron-thick stench of rot and bleach that passes for oxygen in this flesh-eating basement. I shove the laptop away and mutter to Alejandro, “Bathroom.” He doesn’t argue, just gives me that unreadable look as I slip out.
Inside, I close the door and lean hard against it. I turn the tap, splash cool water over my face, letting it drip down my neck. The mirror is cracked at the corner, but I can still see my own eyes—tired, wired, too alive. I study the reflection, searching for cracks.
Where does Alejandro fit in all this? What’s his angle, really? He says he came back because the bounty on my head was too high to ignore, but I know him. There’s always more than one reason. Always another layer. He’s in deeper than he admits, and I’m going to make him tell me what the hell he’s after.
I towel my face dry, steady my breath, and step back into the main room.
He’s gone.
Alejandro—gone. Just vanished, no sound, no shadow on the wall. The absence slams into me harder than it should. Instead, Dr. Doom is hunched at the stove, flicking a kettle on, lost in his own world with headphones jammed deep.
I scan the space, heart racing. My eyes dart to the table. The laptop.
Relief cools me down when it’s there. Right where I left it. Still closed.
I force myself not to run, not to look like prey. “Frank,” I call, but he doesn’t even flinch, too lost in whatever carnage he’s brewing. “Do you know where Alejandro?—”
The kettle hisses. Dr. Doom shuffles away, deeper into his lair. I don’t follow. There’s no fucking way I’m walking back there to end up stuffed into a barrel of acid or something.
Instead, I grab the laptop and retreat down the hall to my room, shutting the door with a snap.
Sitting on the bed, I flip the laptop open. The screen wakes up in the same folder—pictures, blurred, black and white. My gaze drifts to the corner. My chest goes tight.
There were forty-six files when I left.
Now—there are only forty-four.
Alejandro is gone. And so are two pictures.
* Shadow
Saint’sin the bathroom when Frank scurries in—eyes wide, coke-bottle glasses magnifying the panic. He looks like a rodent who just saw the trap shut on his tail.
“Guildmembers sniffing around up top,” Frank whispers, voice shaky. “Two blocks north. They know she’s around here somewhere.”
I nod, already moving. There’s no time for questions. I slide open the closet by the door and pull out my long-range rifle case. Frank hovers behind me, twitchy as hell. “I’ll take care of it.”
He nods and unlocks the million latches on the basement door, his fingers a blur. The locks clack and rattle like bones. He glances over his shoulder, but I’m already moving.
My eyes land on the laptop—the lifeline holding our next move together. “Close that for me, amigo.”
Frank nods, headphones slipping back over his ears as he sinks into the static of a hundred radio frequencies, whispers, and whatever the hell else keeps him anchored to this hole.
Talking to his back, I say, “Tell Saint I went out to find a nest.”
She’ll know what that means.
I close the door behind me, and before I’ve taken twosteps I hear the bolts sliding home, chains drawn tight. Frank’s paranoia is the only thing keeping this place from getting raided twice a day. And why it’s one of the few places safe enough to bring Saint.
I sling the rifle case across my chest, hands in my pockets. Not rushing. Just another predator on the street, following the scent of trouble.
I head two blocks south—not north, they’d be expecting a fight if I came looking for them so directly. I find a fire escape, climb high, cross a roof slick with old rain and pigeon shit. The city’s open below me, loud and oblivious. This is the part I like best—height, distance, the illusion of safety.
