Chapter Four
The room smelled likemold, cold coffee, and resignation.Drew Hawkins came awake before his eyes even opened, that deep, instinctive awareness that something wasn’t right seeping into his bones.The kind of awareness that didn’t come from nightmares.It came from years of staying alive.
He didn’t move.Didn’t twitch.Just breathed.Slow.Even.He listened.
There were two other sets of breaths in the room.
The studio apartment he’d rented for cover didn’t exactly lend itself to stealth.It was barely larger than a shipping container—peeling paint, a half-broken radiator, one flickering bulb, and a bathroom door that didn’t close properly.The couch sagged.The bed creaked.He shared the place with a mouse and three cockroaches he’d named out of pity—Huey, Dewey, and Louie.Newark glamour.
He’d spent years in worse, but not by much.
Drew kept still, muscles ready but loose.The knife under his pillow was gone.That told him two things—whoever had come in was good, and they didn’t want him dead.Yet.
He took one quiet breath, cataloguing the sounds.The first intruder was near the window—steady, patient, trained.The second was closer to the door, heavier on his feet, calm.Professional spacing.Two of them.He could take one, maybe both, but not without noise.And noise would mean attention he couldn’t afford.
He was just starting to shift his weight, preparing to move, when a voice cut through the dark.
“Don’t do it.”It was the voice he heard on most nights in his dreams.“I am not in the mood.And I told you we needed to talk.”
A click.
Light filled the room—dim, amber, harsh against the grime.
Kael “Surge” Makani stood near the door, hand resting on his sidearm, eyes sharp and cold.He looked older—six years written in the hard lines of his face—but not diminished.Hell, it all looked good on him.He wore a short sleeved tight black t-shirt and black tactical pants.His long, dark hair was tied back, his stance balanced and calm.His skin was a deep bronze, his arms inked from shoulder to wrist in intricate Polynesian patterns that spoke of lineage, loyalty, and loss.The tattoos caught the light, alive in the low glow, each mark a story carved in silence.
For a heartbeat, Drew didn’t breathe.
Kael.
The name landed like a punch to the chest.
He’d imagined this moment for years, but never like this.Not with Kael standing in his apartment like a ghost with a gun.
He was sure that for Kael, the sight was worse.Drew Hawkins—Wraith—the man he knew he’d mourned was alive.And now he was standing there, barefoot, alive, breathing the same air like nothing had ever happened.
The man near the window—Reef, he was pretty sure—let out a low whistle.“Well Wraith, I pictured you a little differently.I figured with how you can move without being seen, you must be native Hawaiian.”
Kael didn’t look at him.His voice was tight.“Out.”
Reef hesitated.“You sure you don’t want—”
“Out,” Kael repeated, sharper this time.The word carried command, the kind that wasn’t open to debate.Reef exhaled, muttered something about emotional reunions, and crouched by the window.He slipped through it, pushing upward toward the roofline with practiced ease.Drew caught a flicker of movement above—someone reaching down to pull him out.
Then, there were only the two of them.
Kael’s gaze locked on Drew.It was the kind of look that stripped everything away—pretense, distance, excuses.He didn’t speak, didn’t move.The silence was a living thing between them.
Drew sat up slowly, instinct and memory warring in his blood.“You gonna stand there all night and glare at me?If so, I think I’m going to need to put some coffee on.”
“Don’t move.”Kael’s voice was ice.
Drew froze mid-motion, eyes narrowing.“What the hell are you doing here, Kael?”
“Wanted to make sure the dead man walking and talking on my comms unit was real.”
Drew’s heart stuttered once.“You could’ve called.”
