Fuck. I won’t survive it.
I shove to my feet, staring at the pin that burns like a warning. Rushing to the table, I grab the knife Dante gave me along with the lace strap. Sliding it up my thigh, I secure it in place before letting my mid-length pajamas fall over it.
I step into the corridor only to freeze at the sight of Dante’s jacket hanging on the hook. Chest tightening, I reach for it, pulling the fabric close, breathing him in—his scent grounding me with a fleeting, fragile drop of comfort inside the storm clawing through me.
Carefully draping the jacket over my shoulders, I unlock the door and step into the hall, eyes fixed on the glowing coordinates that have now become my only direction.
I’mbreathless by the time I reach the spot. My lungs burn, my pulse thrums, and I shove the phone into my pocket after checking the location yet again, as if the coordinates will somehow change. The moon hangs full above me, washing the street in silver, its light carving out a path where the darkness refuses to yield.
I follow it, grateful for every drop of natural illumination. Dante’s location has dragged me somewhere with no streetlamps at all, and my flashlight can only carve out a narrow tunnel through the black. The moon has been my second steady companion on this desperate march.
I tug at the collar of my dress, pulling it in every direction, trying to contain the panic clawing at my chest. The emotion swells, unfiltered, choking, turning me into an emotional fucking mess as I push forward.
It’s stupid. Irrational. Dante isn’t answering his phone, but he’s also not at the hotel. But I don’t care if I’m walking into a trap. I don’t care about the danger, the consequences, or the idiocy of this. Nothing matters but Dante. I didn’t realize when he became my lifeline, but he did, and now I can’t see anything beyond that truth.
I’ll do anything if it means getting him back.
When I lift my flashlight, the beam slices across the clearing—and I shudder as another roll of thunder trembles through the sky.
A downpour isn’t far behind.
At the edge of the woods, where the last threads of asphalt dissolve into roots and wet soil, the bunker waits—half-devoured by time. From afar, it could pass as a forgotten hill, a moss-covered mound where birch trees lean like tired sentries. Up close, however, there’s concrete—cracked and scarred, streaked with rust. Ivy clings to it like fingers, digging into the seams of a reinforced door that time couldn’t swallow.
I step closer. The entrance sinks into the earth, as if the forest had tried to bury it and failed. A warped metal door juts at an uneasy angle, its bolts chewed down by rain and years of silence. The air around it feels colder, heavier, tinged with metal and storm—as though the bunker is exhaling memories it never wanted to keep.
Up close, I can see attempts to seal the place shut—layers of welded steel bent inward by something stronger. Beneath moss and grime, faded markings linger, all of them nearly wiped away by decades of decay.
No path leads here anymore. And yet the bunker remains, hidden in plain sight, waiting for someone to remember what it was built to keep, or keep out.
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I reach for the shaggy, weather-worn handle and pull. The door opens with a soft, almost relieved click, the sound swallowed whole by the density of the woods.
A wave of warm air sweeps out to meet me. I step inside slowly, ready to reach for the knife strapped to my thigh. A warm light spills across the bunker, sweeping over every surface, and I switch off my flashlight. My eyes scan the space, searching for any sign of danger. It takes a moment to realize there’s nothing—but still, my muscles remain taut, coiled like springs, refusing even a fraction of relief.
I close the door behind me, and the silence deepens into something suffocating. I turn slowly, taking it in—tables cluttered with papers and computers, workstations littered with folders, files, abandoned coffee cups. A massive map dominates the central wall, streaked with red lines and pins, photographs layered over it like a desperate attempt to make sense of something sprawling and dangerous.
Unease crawls along my spine, but I move toward it anyway—curiosity tightening its hold, pulling me deeper.
I strain my ears, but all I hear is the kind of silence that feels carved from stone. No footsteps. No voices. No breath but my own. The realization that I’m alone settles over me, loosening the rigid coil in my muscles just enough for me to move forward.
The map pulls at my attention like gravity. I drift toward it, sliding my phone into the pocket of Dante’s jacket. His scent clings to the fabric, anchoring me, giving me the smallest push to keep going.
But when my eyes adjust and the details on the map sharpen, everything inside me halts. My heart stops mid-beat, and my brows curve upward, confusion curdling into something sharp.
It’s my life.
My movements.
My kills. Every single one.
Pinned and traced across continents, my photo centered like a grotesque sun. It’s the same picture from the prison file Cane crafted—the last image of me before everything went dark in Mexico.
My breath stumbles in my throat as my gaze follows a red line toward the upper corner of the map. Cane’s face waits there, surrounded by clipped pieces of information. My chest constricts, painfully tight, as I drag my eyes along the other lines and see more faces—informants from The Order, operatives I knew, strangers I killed.
Everyone. Everything.
Mapped. Catalogued. Dissected.
Instinct has me stepping back, but the motion is clumsy; my hip collides with the table, sending cups and papers rattling. The sharp noise snaps me out of my trance. My eyes drop to the files spread across the table—thick stacks of paper, neatly arranged, waiting like open wounds.
