But she’d never come this far south. Too many stories about people not coming back.
Emerson kept looking over his shoulder, tense. “Do you hear anyone following us? I reached, but I want to be sure,” he whispered, his breath brushing her ear.
For him to ask for help, he must have been nervous.
Audrey didn’t mind. She lifted her chin, cracked open her mental floodgates. Voices murmured: hunger, deals, wasted plans—not Ryker’s melodic nightmares or Emerson’s guttered consonants. Voírían and whatever Emerson thought were silent. She saw no interference, no static in the lights.
They’d taken a circuitous route, and her mind had been oddly clear since leaving the club. She hadn’t had any drug cravings,nor had she felt that strange presence biting into the back of her thoughts. With Emerson by her side, she’d also lost the sense of a stare lingering over her shoulder.
As they neared, their surroundings became quieter. Audrey felt an emptiness, as if someone had already decided what stayed. “I don’t hear him, or anyone at all,” she said. “We should be alone.”
“We’re not. My contact’s here, but his shields are impressive.”
Their boots stepped across broken glass and filth. Audrey kept her thoughts in French, her habitual shield, looking sideways as she moved to match Emerson’s long strides.
He led her down an abandoned block. A massive warehouse loomed, blank windows like black eyes. The wind was heavier.
What am I doing?she thought as she forced herself to keep following a near-stranger into unfamiliar, poorly lit streets, making her heightening discomfort clear through her hesitant steps.
She shouldn’t trust Emerson—not after so many betrayals. But something steady marked his patience; he didn’t flinch or demand more. It wasn’t enough to ease her doubts, but it was more than anyone else had offered. She needed answers. If she failed, she’d lose her last shot at redemption. Without clearing her name, surviving her mess seemed impossible. Each step reminded her how close she’d come to losing herself entirely. She couldn’t stop until she knew if any misery could be undone.
A derelict office stood on their left, a window spiderwebbed with cracks. Emerson angled toward it.
“Jaxon works out of here,” he said. “He’s a friend.” He rapped on the door with three precise knocks. It creaked open a sliver. Two red eyes beamed in the slice of darkness, raking over them.
“Who’s the straggler?” Jaxon rasped.
“She’s safe,” Emerson said.
“You can vouch for her?”
Emerson’s jaw flexed. “I don’t think I need to remind you, Jaxon, how many favors you owe me.”
A long, annoyed sigh came from the forger. Then, the door opened wider.
Inside, incense barely masked old smoke and dust. The place was neater than it looked with tidy piles of hardware, coiled cables, and a battered desk with three ancient monitors. Still, Jaxon’s presence felt slick and evasive.
Emerson said his shields were impressive, and they were, but something about his aura was off, too.
He knows how to hide, she thought, unease blooming.
Emerson paused just inside the doorway.
Jaxon was slight, with lank dark-blond hair and red eyes that absorbed light. He dropped into a chair, pointed to the seats across from him, and lit a cigarette, not offering one.
“How can I help you, Hunter?” he asked.
Emerson and Audrey sat. Emerson didn’t waste time. “Has Sophia Simas contacted you lately? Don’t lie, Jaxon. You know I’ll know.”
Jaxon’s eyes narrowed. “How did you find out about that?”
He was lying already. She could taste it.
“You know why—I’m a Hunter. I hunt,” Emerson said.
Jaxon breathed out smoke. "Yeah, she reached out. Needs a Si-ID to get off this shithole." Audrey realized Jaxon’s work was critical. Silo IDs weren’t just fake papers—they were a key to getting past serious checkpoints, a way to disappear. Without one, you couldn’t leave Earth alive.
“You don’t just make Si-IDs for anyone,” Emerson said. “Did you agree?”
