I pat my mouth dry with the towel, then stop and idea forming in my head like a lightning strike.
There. That’s something. Thetowel. Soft cotton. Long. Could be twisted into a ligature. Could muffle sound. Could choke.
Not ideal. Or solid, really. But I’ve worked with less.
I fold it over once, twice in my hands, just to feel the weight. Then I hang it back exactly how I found it.
I don’t have enough yet. I don’t have timing or layout or guarantee of a door I can actually get to. That means I don’t go loud. Not yet.
Breath in. Breath out. Think.
Where am I?
London, obviously—still in city proper from the view, not suburbs. Old townhouse that’s been partially modernized. High ceilings, original plaster, sound-dampening in the walls. Wraith said “the townhouse,” like the, not a, so it’s theirs, not a rental. Personal. Private.
Which means I am not in a disposable space. I am leverage—valuable.
That is the only thing keeping me alive.
Use it.The thought comes unbidden, fast. I'll use it until I don’t need it anymore.
I go back into the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed, not because I’m tired, but because that angle gives me the full spread of the room without putting my back to either door. I pull my knees up, arms around them, chin resting lightly against the top. A posture that looks small, calm, contained on camera.
Inside, I’m counting.
One: the window is reinforced but old-frame. I can’t kick through it quiet, but I might be able to pry. I’ll need a lever. Closet rod, lamp base, drawer pull.
Two: the lock is modified, not industrial. I can work with that. If I can pop the faceplate off the interior handle, I can reach the mechanism. I’ll need something thin and strong. Hinge pin? Earring post? Nail file? Nothing like that in the drawers, but sometimes light fixtures aren’t sealed flush. I’ll check them when no one’s watching.
Three: the hallway. I haven’t seen it yet, but I can guess. A place like this? Stairwell mainline down the center, either straight to ground level or with a split landing to another floor. Probably alarmed at the main exit, maybe two men on rotation at night. But Wraith walked me in here, which means either he disabled the security to bring me through, or he is the security. If it’s the second one, that’s a problem. If it’s the first, that’s an opportunity.
Four: timing. They’ll come back.He’llcome back.
The one in the crown mask.
He spoke to me like I was an equation he hadn’t solved yet. Like I bothered him more than I scared him. Like I’d said something wrong.
You can lock me up all you want. It won’t change what you did.
I didn’t plan those words. They just… tore out.
But the way he looked at me afterward? Like I’d hit something I wasn’t supposed to know existed. “Good,” I whisper.
Because I need him rattled. I need him thinking about Owen. And I need him fucking wondering.
Because wondering gets men like him killed.
My throat tightens at the thought of my brother’s name, uninvited and raw as a wound. Owen’s face flashes in my mind—crooked smile, soft eyes, always getting himself into trouble and then sweet-talking his way out of it. He wasn’t clean, no, I know that. He moved things, he brokered things, he put himself in places good boys weren’t supposed to be. But he wasn’t a traitor.
Someone told me the Masked Riders killed him. Someone whispered it in my ear like a gift and a curse the night I identified his body.
They didn’t tell me the thing I longed for most…Why?
I swallow the burn in my throat and force it down, caging it where it belongs. Grief is a distraction. Rage is fuel.
I sit there in that curated, expensive room in a house I never should’ve been allowed to touch, and I let my fear pull tight and hard until it turns into something sharper. Something useful.
Survive tonight. Get eyes on the layout. Find leverage. Run when the odds break even. Make them pay when they don’t.
