We spend the day in uneasy silence, coexisting in the space. I cook breakfast. She cleans. She makes sandwiches for lunch. I clean. Somewhere around late afternoon, my phone buzzes.
I grab it and check the screen. The camera feeds I set up earlier show multiple angles of the building entrance, hallways, and stairwells.
“What’s that?” She asks.
“Security feeds.”
“What do they show?”
“Phoenix operatives.”
She goes rigid as she looks at the screen. “Jackson…”
I see it. Two uniformed officers are at the building entrance. But their stance is wrong. Weight distribution off. One keeps touching his hip—not where cops carry service weapons. The other scans windows, counting floors.
“Those aren’t real cops.” I’m already moving, the warmth of her replaced by cold air and adrenaline.
“How can you tell?”
“Body language. Gear placement. They’re trying too hard to look casual.” I switch feeds. There—civilian clothes, service entrance. “Three-man team. Professional sweep pattern.”
“Look at the way they move,” Talia whispers, pointing at the screen. “Synchronized. Perfectly spaced. Officer One steps, Officer Two mirrors him two seconds later. That’s not police training. That’s algorithmic coordination.”
She’s right. It’s too precise. Too mathematical.
Her face pales. “How did they find us?”
“Doesn’t matter.” I’m grabbing weapons and cash. “We leave. Now.”
She’s still processing—her brilliant mind is calculating probabilities and escape routes—but we don’t have time for analysis.
I catch her shoulders, firm enough to ground her. “No statistics. No analysis. You follow my lead, stay quiet, and move when I move. Understood?”
She nods, wide-eyed. That heat is there again, mixing with fear and adrenaline.
I check the feeds. They’re inside, heading for the elevator. “Five minutes. Maybe less.”
“Jackson—”
“Pack only essentials. Sixty seconds.”
She’s already moving, switching to survival mode.
“Here.” I hand her a tactical vest.
She fumbles with the straps. I step close, fixing the plates, adjusting the fit. My hands are efficient, but I notice everything—the warmth of her body, the slight tremor in her breathing, the way she leans into my touch.
“The statistical probability?—”
“Zero if you don’t stop talking.” I rack my weapon, eyes on the cameras. These aren’t amateurs. They’re here to kill her.
The lights cut out. Complete darkness.
Her breath catches. I find her hand in the dark—small, warm, trembling. My thumb brushes her palm, steadying us both.
“We move now. Stay close. Be silent.”
She squeezes my hand once. Agreement without words.
