She swallows hard. I know this isn’t ideal. I don’t want to leave her alone, not here, not anywhere. But if there’s one place where she has a shot at defending herself, it’s this house. And I need to move while the trail’s still warm.
Him being out in the open, on a busy street with cameras around, that’s the first real chance I’ve had to go on the offensive instead of just reacting.
“I need to go, Sabie,” I say. “Plug in your phone, keep the gun close, and reply when I message you. Got it?”
“Got it,” she says, barely above a whisper.
She takes the gun with shaking fingers, holding it like it might go off if she breathes too hard. Then she looks up at me, eyes glassy, jaw clenched.
“Just… promise you’ll come back safe, okay?”
Something tightens in my chest. Grief or pride or both. I press a hand to her shoulder and give it a quick squeeze.
“Love you, sis,” I say. I want to promise I’ll be careful. That I’ll come back. But none of it feels true enough to say.
So I turn and walk. Down the hall, down the stairs, out the door. I check the locks one last time, just to be sure. Then I find the moped I stashed, grip the throttle, and ride into the city.
Grayson’s already waiting when I pull up. He’s leaning against his car, a nondescript navy sedan tucked into the far corner of the firehouse lot, half-hidden behind a dumpster and a rusted maintenance trailer. The lot is quiet except for the wind skimming over gravel and the occasional distant siren. It smells like engine oil and sunbaked asphalt.
He doesn’t wave or smile. Just lifts his chin like we’re already mid-conversation.
His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, forearms resting on the car’s hood. A laptop glows in front of him, its light pale in the growing dusk, casting sharp lines across his face. The blue glare flickers over his jaw like a warning. Like time’s slipping through our hands.
“You weren’t kidding,” he mutters, nodding at the battered moped behind me. “Nice ride.”
“Fast enough,” I say, voice rough. I kill the engine and kick down the stand. “She’s locked in. Gun. Phone. Panic plan.”
Grayson nods. Not approval. Just understanding.
“Good,” he says. “We’ve got movement.”
The words knock the breath from my lungs.
I’m already striding toward him before he finishes, gravel crunching under my boots. He angles the screen toward me, fingers ready on the keyboard.
“I’ve been pulling every feed within three blocks of Sabine’s work since you messaged. Got a few clips scrubbed already.”
Grayson taps the spacebar.
A grainy, black-and-white feed stutters to life, street cam, corner of Darrow and Third. A timestamp flickers in the corner. 10:42.
“That you?” he asks.
I nod. The shadow pacing the sidewalk is unmistakable—body coiled tight, head on a swivel. Like a panther in a cage. Watching. Waiting.
He scrubs forward. Twenty minutes blur past in muted tones and indifferent pedestrians.
“Here,” he says.
The image resets. Same street. Same angle.
Then he appears.
A man steps into frame.
Long coat. Hat pulled low. Stationary. Too still.
He plants himself beside the bus stop bench, but doesn’t sit. Doesn’t check his phone. Doesn’t glance at the road or shift his weight. He just stands there.
