He’s not chasing me like a panicked stranger.
He’s moving like a weapon that has already decided where the threat is and how it will die.
Tall. Hard lines. Dark jacket. Eyes that don’t look at people like people—more like variables. He turns his head once, scanning, and the second his gaze lands on me it’s like a hand closes around my throat.
Not fear.
Assessment.
I force my legs to keep going.
I turn the corner, duck under a hanging laundry line, and plunge into an alley so tight my shoulders almost scrape both walls. The stones are slick beneath my shoes. I nearly slip.
My bag bounces against my hip, heavy with the stupidest things to die for—folders, a portable drive, an old notebook I keep telling myself I’ll throw away. My fingers clamp around the strap until it bites.
Something in my pendant catches on my scarf. I yank it free and the silver charm flashes briefly in the streetlight.
Idiot.
The thought hits hard enough to make me stumble.
I’ve been trained for this.
Not the violence. Not… him.
But the noticing.
The staying calm.
The never being the one who makes noise when noise gets people killed.
My father used to say,The world is a filing cabinet, Lark. If you know which drawer they don’t want opened, you’ll know who’s lying.
I’ve spent my entire career opening drawers.
Tonight, one of them opened back.
I step out of the alley onto a wider road and slow just enough not to draw attention. My heart keeps trying to climb out ofmy ribs. I push my hair back and force my face into a neutral expression.
Invisible.
That’s what I am. That’s what I’ve always been good at.
I reach the corner and stop at the edge of a plaza where tourists gather in loose clusters under warm lights. A street musician plucks a guitar. People drift and laugh, their faces soft with alcohol and music and safety.
I step into the crowd like it’s water and let it swallow me.
Then I do the worst thing.
I check my phone.
No service.
Not no signal—no service.
As if it has been turned off at the source.
My stomach goes cold.
