It’s about what I archived.
What I preserved.
What I refused to destroy because some part of me believed the truth should survive.
And now?
Truth is wearing my name like a tag.
And Aaron—
Aaron is the only reason I’m still breathing long enough to regret it.
3
Aaron
Location: Lisbon, Portugal
She sits like she’s trying not to take up space.
Hands folded tight in her lap. Shoulders squared. Eyes forward, tracking reflections in the windshield like she’s already learned the first rule of surviving predators:
Don’t give them your fear for free.
I drive like we’re nothing.
Two locals leaving a late dinner. No urgency. No sharp turns. No sudden acceleration that would flag us to anyone watching for panic.
And someone is watching.
They always watch the exit.
Lisbon slides by in soft gold and shadow—tile façades, steep streets, the river somewhere to our left like a dark mouth. I let three cars pass. I stop fully at a light I could roll through. I merge early, signal on, obedient.
The worst thing you can do when you’re hunted is look hunted.
In my earpiece, Lena is a steady hum behind the noise of the city.
“You’re clear for now,” she says. “But you’re not invisible.”
“I know,” I murmur. My eyes cut to the rearview mirror. One, two, three vehicles behind us. All normal. All potential.
Ronan’s voice comes in next, low. “Route?”
“Taking the long loop.”
“You want to walk them?”
“I want to see if they’re there.”
Lark shifts slightly in the passenger seat at the sound of voices she can’t place.
I glance at her without turning my head fully. Her jaw is tight. She’s listening like she’s trying to decide whether we’re the worst thing that happened to her tonight—or the only reason she’s still alive.
Fair.
I keep my eyes on the road.
