Something inside me breaks, like a thin thread snapping.
I pivot and plunge into the crowd, threading between strollers, elbowing past bodies, moving fast enough that people shout after me. I’m no longer trying to look normal; I just need distance. The smells change as I move — from kettle corn to caramel to the burned tang of grill grease — but I barely register any of it. My vision tunnels, my hands shake.
A shout goes up behind me. I ignore it. I don’t look back. I duck beneath a streamer, side-step a teenager in a marching band hat, and nearly trip over a toddler in inflatable butterfly wings.
A gust of wind slaps a tent flap into my face, and I stumble, blinded for a second. When I peel the nylon away, I’m alone in a makeshift alley behind the vendor stalls, the noise mercifully muted. My shoulders drop half an inch in relief. I almost feel stupid. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a panic attack.
But then, from the corner of my eye, I see a shape move in the shadow of a dumpster. My heart stops, then restarts at triple-time. There’s no logic anymore, only motion, only survival.
I run.
My feet pound through wet gravel, the sound so loud I think it must be drawing attention, but when I risk a glance over myshoulder, the alley is empty. I take a hard left, then another, navigating by pure instinct. I don’t know where I’m going, only that I need to get there yesterday. The world narrows to a single goal: lose him.
I break out of the alley and into a quieter side street, lined with empty booths and folding chairs. A banner reading “Rotary Club Pie-Eating Contest” sags in the rain. I race past it, lungs burning, legs shaking. At the end of the street, a delivery truck blocks the view. I duck behind it, crouch low, press my back to the cold metal.
I force myself to count my breaths:one, two, three.I try to think: What would Breaker do? What would Breaker tell me to do? Stay calm, assess, find cover, don’t make yourself a target. I scan the area — no one in sight, nothing but rattling leaves and the distant echo of celebration.
I believe for a second that I outran it. That it really was just a memory, a phantom limb of fear. That I am alone and safe.
Then I hear it: the crunch of boots on gravel, slow and measured. Not rushed, not angry. Patient. Like he’s savoring each step.
He knows exactly where I am.
I press myself flatter against the truck, try to steady my hands, try to remember every self-defense trick Breaker ever taught me. My mind blanks. All I can do is listen as the footsteps draw closer, closer, until they stop just on the other side of the wheel well.
I squeeze my eyes shut, count to three, then to ten. I tell myself that I’ll be okay, that I made it this far, that I am not a victim anymore. I am not prey.
Ready, I open my eyes — a shadow stands right in front of me.
I turn to run, and something heavy slams into my face.
Hard.
The impact knocks me backward, and I lose my balance, arms flailing. My heart leaps into my throat. Strong hands catch my upper arms just before I go down. My breath stops. A shadow blocks the sunlight above me.
For a frozen, agonizing second, I can’t see the face; the sun is behind the figure, turning their features into a dark silhouette. But I see the outline: a straight, confident posture, something clipped at the hip that glints with menace in the light.
Icy terror detonates in my chest.
My vision blurs. My throat closes. I release a shaky, broken sob.
“Don’t worry, Riley,” the voice says. It is low, controlled, and familiar. I try to pull back, but the grip tightens, keeping me paralyzed. “I’ve got you.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Breaker
I wake slowly, as if I’m clawing up through sucking mud.
My tongue is a dead thing in my mouth, greasy with copper; I inhale, taste dust, glass, and the ghost of cigarettes as the world swims into focus. My hands are bound behind me, wrists throbbing and shoulders yanked so far back that my chest strains with every breath. It takes a second to register the dull pressure at my temples, the hot, sticky trail of blood painting my hairline. I’m sitting in the ruined back room of the old jeweler’s shop. There’s not much left except decapitated mannequins, splintered glass cases, and the suffocating decay that seeps into your bones. And me: tied to a wooden chair with rope thick as my wrist, knots cinched so tight I can already feel my pulse fighting to get past them.
This is bad.
But the man standing ten feet in front of me — polishing a hunting knife with casual delight — is worse. He smiles when he sees me awake.
“You’re tougher than you look,” he drawls. “Was surprised how hard he had to hit you to make you go down.”
I fight against the restraints, testing for give. Getting nothing for my efforts except a chuckle from the man polishing the knife. I take in his posture, the way his eyes never blink, the way his hands move with practiced precision. He’s ex-military — I can tell from his posture, the way he moves, the look in his eye. Thatmuch is obvious. The rest — what’s coming next — is a puzzle I don’t want to solve, but I have to. “Who the fuck are you?”
