"You need to breathe," Nathan said from across the hotel room.
I realized I'd been holding my breath, chest tight with possibility. "Run it again."
"Bunny—"
"Run. It. Again."
He sighed but pulled up the data on his laptop. I'd already memorized every detail, but I needed to see it again. Needed to be sure. The GPS coordinates painted a picture—Moscow for three months after his supposed death, then carefully orchestrated movement. Prague. Berlin. Montreal. And finally...
"Boston," I whispered. "He's in Boston."
"Was in Boston," Nathan corrected. "Three weeks ago. The trail goes cold after that."
Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours. He could be anywhere by now, but it didn't matter. This was the first real proof that Gabriel was alive. Not just alive—active. Running operations. Rebuilding.
My hands shook as I paced the room. Energy crawled under my skin like insects, making it impossible to be still. I'd barely slept in forty-eight hours, running on rage and possibility and whatever pills I'd stolen from the last warehouse.
"We need to go," I said. "Now. Tonight."
"You need to sleep."
"I can sleep when he's dead."
Nathan closed the laptop with deliberate calm. "You're not thinking clearly."
"I'm thinking perfectly clearly." The words came out too fast, tumbling over each other. "Boston's only six hours away. We could be there by dawn. Check the coordinates, canvas the area—"
"Bunny." He stood, moving into my path. "Look at me."
I tried to focus on his face, but my thoughts kept scattering like startled birds. Boston. Gabriel. The possibility of finally, finally ending this. My fingers tapped against my thighs in rhythm with my racing heartbeat.
"When's the last time you ate?" he asked.
"Doesn't matter."
"When's the last time you slept more than two hours?"
"That doesn't matter either." I tried to step around him, but he blocked me. "Move."
"No."
The word hung between us, simple and absolute. I could have fought him. Part of me wanted to—the part that had been breaking faces and peeling skin needed the outlet. But underneath the mania, some functioning piece of my brain recognized he was right. I was spiraling. Had been spiraling for days, maybe weeks.
"He's out there," I said, and hated how my voice cracked. "Right now, he's out there making more of me. More broken dolls. More experiments."
"I know."
"Then why aren't we moving?"
"Because you're no good to anyone like this." His hands found my shoulders, steady and grounding. "You're running on fumes and whatever cocktail of uppers you think I don't know about. When we find him—and we will find him—you need to be sharp. Focused. Not coming apart at the seams."
I wanted to argue, but exhaustion hit like a physical weight. The room tilted slightly, and I had to lock my knees to stay upright. When had I gotten so tired? The mania had been keeping it at bay, but now...
"Twelve hours," Nathan negotiated. "Sleep for twelve hours, then we plan properly. Use the Boston lead smart, not desperate."
"Six hours."
"Ten."
