I squeeze Amara’s hand. Her pulse is wild, arrhythmic. Her other hand trembles, though her face is still blank, eyes locked on the retreating figures of our friends. I lean in, nose to her ear.
“We’re not going with them,” I say.
She doesn’t move, but I feel her stiffen, the tension shivering through our joined hands. She’s in freefall, and she doesn’t even know it.
I press my lips to the curve of her jaw, tasting sweat, soot, the ghost of her father’s blood.
She turns to me, at last. “Why not?”
“They’ll be fine.” I jerk my chin toward the others,, Isolde swearing like a drill sergeant as Rhett manhandles her into the truck. “We have better places to be.”
I pull my phone from my pocket and dial a number I memorized when I was twelve years old. It rings once, twice.
“Mr. Roth.” The voice on the other end is precise, bored. My father’s assistant, old regime, still loyal to the end.
“I need a car. Two passengers, South Gate, immediate pickup. Unmarked. And a go-bag, pack for both of us, including the burners.”
“Understood,” the voice says, and hangs up.
Amara watches me. “Is it safe where we’re going?”
I run my thumb along the ridges of her knuckles. “Nothing is safe. But it’s over.”
She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t do anything, really. The night has hollowed her out. I can see it in the way she stands, the way her chest barely rises with breath.
We walk.
There is no need for stealth now. The world is on fire, and we move through it like wraiths. Every shadow is running from us.
At the South Gate, a car idles—a black S-Class, windows tinted to opacity, engine vibrating quietly. The driver stands beside the door, gloved hands folded over his crotch, gaze fixed on a point somewhere above my head.
He doesn’t look at our clothes, or the splashes of red and brown dried on us. He doesn’t even look at the burning building in the back. He bows at the exact angle required by protocol, and opens the rear door.
I usher Amara in first. She slides across the seat, legs unsteady as she tucks them under herself. I follow, slamming the door behind us. The interior smells like cold air and leather and nothing else. I relax.
The driver gets in, glances back in the mirror. “Destination?”
“The Conrad, downtown. Penthouse, if it’s available. Run the card for damages.”
He nods, and we glide away from the curb, from Westpoint, from the smoldering wreck of every legacy that ever tried to claim us.
I look at Amara.
She’s still facing the window, still staring. The campus is a shrinking pyre in the distance, glass and stone crumpling into itself like a dying star. The lights of emergency vehicles flicker blue and red on her face, but she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink.
I reach for her hand. Her fingers are stiff, almost frozen. I squeeze until I feel her pulse jump again.
She doesn’t speak. Not for the first ten minutes, not as we cross the bridge into the city, not as the sun paints the towers orange and gold.
She is somewhere else.
I wait.
When we hit the business district, the driver’s phone buzzes. He answers it in a low murmur, then glances at me in the mirror. “Anything else, sir?”
“Yes. Stop at the mall, or wherever’s open. Get us clothing. Wipe the inside of the car when we’re out.”
He nods, unbothered.
