I lift my eyes and scan, slowly, the way I’ve taught myself to do when my instincts start screaming.
I see nothing.
And that’s what terrifies me.
Because five minutes ago I didn’t see the man behind me, either.
A shadow crosses the edge of my peripheral vision.
I turn sharply—
He’s there.
Not out of breath. Not frantic. Just… present. Like he’s always been part of the street, part of the stone, part of the city’s bones.
He stops an arm’s length away, close enough that I can see the thin scar at the edge of his jaw and the faint bruising across his knuckles like he’s done this a thousand times and tonight was just another entry in a ledger.
His gaze hits my throat.
My pendant.
Then my eyes.
He doesn’t smile.
He doesn’t soften.
He says, low, controlled, in English that isn’t American but isn’t fully European either—flattened by travel.
“Are you hurt?”
I should lie.
I’ve lied professionally for years.
But something about him makes lying feel like stepping onto ice I can’t see.
“No,” I manage. My voice comes out steady, which surprises me. “What… what was that?”
He doesn’t answer the question.
He shifts his body slightly, blocking my view of the street behind him without making it obvious. It’s protective, but not comforting. Strategic.
“You need to come with me.”
My spine goes rigid. “Excuse me?”
His eyes don’t flicker. “You were about to be taken.”
A laugh tries to escape my throat. It doesn’t make it. “Taken by who?”
His jaw tightens as if the word is too small for the thing he means.
“I don’t know yet.”
That’s not the answer I expected. Not from someone who moves like certainty.
“You’re… police?” I ask.
