He makes a beeline for our booth, sliding into the seat across from me with all the grace of someone who thinks he’s welcome. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, unbothered. “Traffic was a bitch.”
“I’ve been waiting twenty fucking minutes,” I snap, not bothering to mask the razor-edge in my voice. Jason stares, his eyes widening. He’s not used to me sounding like this.
“Relax, man. You’re all tense,” he mutters, unzipping his backpack and rifling through it for something.
Paranoia coils tight in my gut. My gaze flicks around the small, polished café—quiet people, soft chatter, the same waitress avoiding looking in my direction after her failed attempt earlier. Nothing dangerous. Nothing suspicious.
And yet the guilt gnaws at me.
Because I shouldn’t be here.
Because I’m hiding this from Estella.
It feels wrong, as if each secret I swallow leaves a splinter lodged under my skin. We’ve spent weeks spilling our truth into each other’s hands, offering every ugly piece… and here I am, carving out an exception.
Jason finally pulls out a battered yellow folder, opening it and tapping the first page with two fingers. “Remember this guy?”
I lean forward. The image stares back at me—a man in his mid-forties, fatigue etched into the wrinkles around his eyes. I read the name, and memories flicker like a light bulb struggling back to life.
“One of the informants,” I say slowly. “Why?”
“He’s dead,” Jason answers, his tone dropping lower. “They did a damn good job burying it. But I cracked their system and found the autopsy report. Someone poisoned him.”
I shrug, my brain still trying to catch up. “Was it one of the assassins?”
He shakes his head immediately. “No. They’ve been on edge ever since Ezra died. And Estella’s been the one they send on the sensitive missions. They don’t seem to trust anyone else withpoison work. But you’ve been keeping an eye on her, right?” he presses.
Oh, yes. I’ve kept more than an eye on her.
“Yes,” I say, voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. “It’s not her.”
Jason lets out a quiet, satisfied breath before sliding the paper back into the folder and snapping it shut. “Ezra’s death pulled the string,” he says, voice dropping like he’s delivering a prophecy. “Someone’s gnawing at the system from the inside. I think we’ve got an ally.”
His words hang between us, heavy and electric. I sit there, letting them sink in, letting my mind claw through the implications.
This all started after we went underground, which means someone inside The Order didn’t just notice the shift—they decided to act.
To help us. Or, at the very least, to make it look like they’re helping.
Or maybe it’s all a coincidence. A flimsy, pathetic explanation, but still a possibility.
The Order has existed for decades—they’re masters of choosing the right people and discarding the wrong ones. If I really think about it, this feels less like assistance and more like a cleanup job. A way to sanitize their mess by killing off the people who know too much.
It proves what we always suspected: everyone inside is disposable.
One thing I know for sure: Cane has started acting strangely. After the attack on Estella, he promised to deal with it, but there has been no news. He gave us an assignment here and the one for Halloween in advance, but he didn’t show up as he usually does. He called Estella and told her to meet his trusted man. When I asked her why he was doing this, she brushed it off,saying that sometimes he can trust someone else to handle the job.
Very rarely, but possible.
Still, it does nothing to stop the unease that crawls under my skin, like a relentless buzz that refuses to be silenced.
My gaze drifts to the man in the photograph: Harry Brown. I remember him from our early research days—a reliable informant, loyal, deep in the system for years.
And now he’s a ghost. The Order is burying him so thoroughly that the world is meant to believe he never breathed at all.
“You don’t look so happy,” Jason mocks lightly, tilting his head, trying to read me. “And now that I’ve given you the main news, we need to talk.”
I push my spine straighter, sinking into the booth with a sharper posture. “I’m all ears,” I reply, tone dry enough to grate.
