Now it’s about her.
And that makes me the most dangerous thing in her orbit.
Because if Phoenix comes for her now, I won’t just neutralize the threat.
I’ll tear the world apart to keep them away from her.
And that kind of rage? That kind of focused, personal violence?
It gets people killed.
Including the people you’re trying to save.
I push off the wall. Re-check the stairwell door. Secure.
The hallway is quiet. Industrial carpet, flickering fluorescent lights, the distant hum of an ice machine. Normal hotel sounds. Normal hotel smells—cleaning products and stale air and the faint mustiness of a building that’s seen better decades.
Nothing out of place. No threats.
Except for the one waiting in room 514.
I head back to the room. Back to the cage. Back to her.
I don’t know if I’m walking into a sanctuary or a trap.
The keycard beeps green. I push open the door.
She’s exactly where I left her—curled in the armchair by the window, her legs tucked beneath her. The lamp beside her casts warm light across her face, catching the copper in her hair, the sharp line of her jaw.
She looks up when I enter.
Something shifts in her expression. Recognition. Awareness. The same tension I’ve been trying to outrun crackles back to life between us.
“Perimeter secure?” Her voice is casual. Too casual.
“Secure.”
“Stairwell clear?”
“Clear.”
“Vending machine free of assassins?”
“I didn’t check the vending machine.”
“Rookie mistake.” She watches me hover near the door like a man who’s forgotten how rooms work. “You going to come in, or are you planning to guard the hallway all night?”
I step inside. Let the door close behind me.
The room feels smaller than it did ten minutes ago. The air feels thicker. She’s watching me with those green eyes, and I can see the question forming—the one I don’t want to answer, the one about why I keep finding reasons to leave.
I move to the desk. Pretend to check my weapons. They don’t need checking. I checked them an hour ago.
“Diego.”
My hands still on the Glock.
“You’ve cleaned that gun three times.”
