The pause is brief. Measured.
“No.”
Military, then.
Or something worse.
I take a step back into the crowd. “Then I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He watches me like he’s timing something. Like he’s listening to a frequency I can’t hear.
“You can stand here,” he says, “and they’ll try again. Or you can move now while they’re regrouping.”
My breath catches.
“They’ll try again?”
His gaze locks hard. “Yes.”
Something inside me tries to reject the idea. My mind scrambles for a version of reality where this is a misunderstanding. A mugger. A random assault.
But the way that man moved out of the alley—targeted, urgent, precise—
That wasn’t random.
That was a hand reaching for a specific file.
Me.
I swallow and force the words out. “Why?”
For the first time, a fraction of emotion slips into his face—not softness.
Anger.
It’s brief. Like a flare in a dark room.
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
We.
He said it like it was already decided.
I should be offended. I should be furious. I should tell him to go to hell.
Instead, my eyes drop to his hands again.
The bruised knuckles.
The readiness.
The calm.
He isn’t here because he wants something from me.
He’s here because something wants me badly enough that people with his kind of training were already watching.
I lift my chin. “What’s your name?”
