Until then, I stand my ground at the bar, searching the crowd for the one man who believes he’s invisible. And reminding myself that monsters always underestimate the person who looks the least like a threat.
By midnight, my feet are screaming and my patience is gone.
I’ve been jostled through a dozen strangers—sweat-slick arms, borrowed laughter, bodies brushing past like none of it matters—and not one of them is the man I’m looking for. I circle back to the bar out of habit more than hope and check my phone.
Nothing.
I swallow the last of my water like it’s an admission of defeat. Then I make the call.
I’m done.
The bouncers by the door give me a sideways glance as I leave, curiosity flickering across their faces. I don’t know whether they’re clocking the costume or the fact that I’ve survived three nights without cracking. Either way, they don’t stop me.
Outside, the cold hits hard enough to sting. I fold my arms around myself and start down the steps. The club sits in a hollowed-out pocket of the city, a place where the noise cuts off abruptly and the night closes in, thick and watchful.
That’s when I see it.
A car idles a few feet away, headlights dim, engine purring low. Waiting.
There’s a man in the driver’s seat.
He’s wearing a bunny mask.
Pink ears. Plush and absurd. Ridiculous—and somehow obscene—against the dark. A dull ache blooms beneath my ribsand I have to lock my knees to keep myself moving. Cold floods my hands, sharp and sudden. The realization crashes in all at once: how easily girls disappear. It could happen without so much as a scream or a chase. Just a door opening. Then closing. Quietly.
He doesn’t motion for me. Doesn’t roll down the window. He just watches. Head tilted slightly, as if he’s assessing something. As if he’s letting the fear do its work for him, climb my skin in static waves.
I take a step toward the car. Then another.
If this is the man I’m hunting, I’m two strides away from answers. From proof. From the crack in Marcus Delaney’s armor.
If it’s not, I’m two beats away from becoming a cautionary tale—a headline written in the past tense.
I hate that I can’t tell the difference. And I hate even more that I keep walking towards him anyway.
“Hey!” a voice snaps behind me.
I pivot instinctively, eyes back to the club. One of the bouncers has left his post, jogging toward me, broad and uncompromising. Behind him—the man in the silver-and-black mask from yesterday, descending the steps like judgment in a suit. He moves fast. Purposeful. Not a man leaving a club. A man intercepting a problem.
I turn back to the street.
Mr. Bunny guns the engine.
The car spits gravel and surges away from the curb. Tires scream, then fade. The ears disappear into the night without a glance backward.
“Hey!” the bouncer calls again, closer now. “You good?”
I amnotgood. My pulse is a hummingbird in a jar.
“Fine,” I manage to squeak, which is a lie and we all know it.
Silver and black stops a few feet away, close enough that he’sangled to place himself between me and whatever the night has decided to unleash next.
Something stirs at the back of my mind.
A tug. A whisper of recognition I can’t quite grab hold of.
Up close, his presence is heavier, and it’s not just physical. He seems like he’s the kind of man who doesn’t waste movement or space. The silver in his mask catches the streetlight and throws it back at me in cold, fractured shards, forcing my eyes to narrow.
