No telling him what I am.
Agent.
That word finally sits all the way in my head, and I feel, for the first time since his hand left my face, like I can breathe. Owen and I weren’t street kids who got lucky. We weren’t just survivors.
We were placed, and trained. We had purpose.
They thought we were disposable. They thought he died and I’d go quietly. They thoughtwrong.
I take one last breath, slow and deep. Let it out.
My heartbeat steadies. My hands go still. I square my shoulders, walk back out into the bedroom, and sit on the edge of the bed — not curled, not small, not crushed. Upright. Waiting. Composed.
Let the Masked Riders think they rattled me. Let Caelum think I cracked. Let Mateo think I’m still shaking for him. Let Wraith think I’m something to guard. Let Saint think I’m something to save. Let Ash think he’s already mapped me.
None of them are prepared for what Ireallyam.
And none of them are ready for what happens if they aim wrong.
Chapter 11
Ash
There are a thousand eyes in this house andallof them belong tome.
The townhouse is old brick and London damp and secondhand nobility, but the bones have been rewired. You’d never know from the street. That’s the point. From out there it’s just another preserved terrace with polished railings and flower boxes and the kind of window panes that whisper “generational money.”
Inside? It hums. Inside it answers tome.
My room sits under street level, half-basement, half den, where the air runs cooler and the plaster walls make sound behave. The windows are narrow and high, street-facing, iron-latticed. The light that slips through them turns greenish against the monitors and kills depth perception. Most people hate it down here.
I like it. It’s quiet. It smells like old concrete, gun oil, and server heat.
On the desk is four monitors, triangled in. One laptop, open and pushed to the side. Two burners. A glass with three fingers of whiskey I haven’t touched in an hour. Wires everywhere.
A tangle. A pulse.
Three live camera feeds on the top-left monitor, set in quadrant: foyer, kitchen, Ember’s room.
Her feed takes up more than its quadrant. I told the system to enlarge her subframe. It wasn’t an accident.
I tell myself it’s for threat assessment.
Caelum would ask me if I’m lying.
He wouldn’t like the answer.
On screen: her room from the top corner angle. The bed. The wardrobe. The door. The window and that small wash of London light. She’s in frame, front three-quarters. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, shoulders squared, chin lifted.
She’s composed herself again.
Impressive.
Ten minutes ago, she was shaking.
Not theatrically. Not performative distress. Real. Fine-motor tremor along tendons, shoulders tight, breathing too fast, pupils blown. A stress pattern I usually only see in two places. New recruits after their first body disposal, and my own face in a mirror seven years ago when I pulled my sister out of a fire by what was left of her hair. She didn’t make it.
Ember didn’t scream, though.
