The psychic turns my hand upward, her fingers gliding over my palm with deliberate slowness, as if reading not just the lines but the hidden currents beneath my skin. A golden ring catches the fading light on her middle finger, and her eyes narrow slightly, scanning the twists and turns like a map she has traveled countless times before.
My patience unravels. Beneath the table, my feet tap faster, jittering against the ground. My upper lip presses stubbornly between my teeth, and my pulse hammers with every line she traces, each movement sending a spark of tension racing through me.
“You’ve been walking through shadows,” she whispers, her words tinged in a shroud of mystery. “But it’s clearing. These lines,” her fingers trace again, soft and precise, “turn upward. Light. Movement. Somethingnewis growing.”
She lifts her gaze, her eyes catching the artificial glow of nearby bulbs. “You have a bright future,” she says. “Amarwill remake you.” Her head tilts, dark eyes locking onto mine. “It’s up to you whether you embrace it.”
She releases my hand slowly, and I take it back, staring at my palm, at the lines that suddenly feel unfamiliar. My chest tightens as I let her words sink in, realizing she just told me thatlovewill remake me.
“I’ll pass,” Dante says abruptly, and I snap my head to him.
“Hey, that’s not fair,” I complain, and he arches a brow at me. “Come on, Dante, this is the perfect conclusion to the day,” I add, forcing a fake hint of tearful pep into my voice.
He tries to look nonchalant again before his lips twitch into a weak smile. “Whatever makes you satisfied,” he mutters.
I inhale, feeling myself settle.That’show it should always be.
The psychic takes his hand gently, eyes narrowing with focus. Dante’s chest rises and falls steadily, skepticism coiling tight around him.
“There will be trials,” she whispers, almost to herself. “New ones. You think you’ve struggled already, but these,” she lifts her gaze to him, “these will test what you believe in. Whatever you do now,” she continues, “every choice, every turn—it leads you where you’re meant to go. Even the mistakes.”
She sets his hand down slowly, eyes still locked on him, and I catch myself craving the popcorn. If I didn’t have a job waiting, I’d sit here for hours, just watching, listening as she predicts the future.
Then she brings her hand close to his face, rubbing her fingertips together in silent demand for payment, and I can’t hold back the laughter that bursts from my chest.
“Sure,” Dante half-whispers, his voice tinged with disappointment. He fishes cash from his wallet, pulls it out, and hands it to her. Her face breaks into a wide, triumphant smile,wrinkles deepening around her eyes. She nods at us before turning and walking away.
“What was that smile?” I ask, curious.
“She didn’t say how much, but I think I tipped her,” he explains, shoving the wallet back into his pocket. “In case she cursed us. That smile? I think it means she’s willing to take it down.”
I throw my head back, laughter spilling freely from my chest. Levity seeps through me, a brief, warm reprieve lighting the edges of my being. My gaze drifts upward, drawn to the sky above—vast, endless, and catching me in its quiet immensity.
Somewhere, a bell rings, the sound cutting through my thoughts. I know it’s a signal. For me.
I straighten slowly, rising, aware of Dante’s gaze lingering on me. For now, I’ll leave him alone. I know he’ll find a way to reach me when the time comes, no matter what.
“I have to go. Have a nice rest of the evening, Dante,” I murmur, fingers curling around the bag handles as I lift them.
Finding the waitress won’t be difficult. Moving through a restricted area? Easy. My mind races, weighing every option, each one just as viable and just as satisfying as the next.
The thrill surges through me, a warm pulse of energy igniting my veins as I step forward. Dante’s stare lingers, a silent tether anchored to my back, and I let it trail me as I walk away, carrying both freedom and anticipation with every stride.
North Carolina, USA
“Nothing from Ezra?” Jason asks, bringing a glass of water to his lips. His eyes are swollen with exhaustion, bruised with red and violet veins, as if his skin can’t hold the weight of all those sleepless nights anymore.
Ezra Thompson. Our link to the outside. He’s been keeping track of everything—every mission, every contact, every kill. But it’s been a week since we’ve heard from him. Jason’s been restless, convinced something went wrong, and I should care as much. I want to care.
But all I can think about isher.
“The answer is still no, Jason,” I say finally, trying to inject a note of concern into my voice. It comes out hollow, like an empty shell of emotion that refuses to sound real. I scrub a hand down my face, more to hide that I’m somewhere else entirely than to ease the weariness.
It’s not the travel that’s killing me—not the endless flights, the coded messages, the paranoia of being followed—I’ve learned to survive that. What’s breaking me apart is howaliveI felt with Estella.
That day was supposed to be just another exercise in control. She was supposed to be a mission—a profile to study, understand, and complete.
But something fucking happened.
