ThesilenceafterMilohangs up is heavier than before. It’s filled with the weight of his words.
He’s tearing the whole damn city apart looking for you.
There’s nowhere you can go that he doesn’t own a piece of.
My sanctuary has become a cage of a different kind. The four walls of my studio, which at first felt like a shield, now feel like they are closing in. Every creak of the old warehouse, everydistant siren, is him. I am a mouse hiding from a hawk, and the sky is full of his eyes.
Days bleed into one another. I don’t dare leave. I sleep on a pile of dusty drop cloths, the smell of old paint a constant companion. I ration the few granola bars I found in an old art supply bag and drink water from the studio’s rusty tap. The hunger is a dull ache, but the fear is a sharp, constant blade. My world has shrunk to this ten-by-ten room, and my only connection to the outside is the small, black burner phone that I stare at for hours, willing it to ring.
I was banking on the memory of Milo's face—the raw terror in his eyes when he saw me on that sofa. He wasn't Cassian's friend; he was just another prisoner, trapped by a different kind of chain. I have to believe his fear of what Cassian might do to him is outweighed by his fear of being complicit in what’s happening to me.
On the third day, it happens.
The phone vibrates against the concrete floor, a sudden, violent buzz that makes me jump. I snatch it up, my heart hammering against my ribs. An unknown number.
“Yes?” I answer, my voice a croak.
“Stop talking. Just listen,” Milo’s voice is a rushed, panicked whisper. “I’m using a payphone. I can’t talk for long.”
I press the phone harder to my ear, straining to hear him over a faint sound of passing traffic.
“You wanted a window,” he says. “You wanted to know where he goes.”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“He fights. Underground. It’s how he… it’s what he does. There’s a place in the industrial district.”
“When?” I ask, my mind already racing.
“Saturday night. This Saturday. The main event is usually around eleven. He’ll be gone for at least three hours from thetime he leaves the loft until he gets back, probably closer to four.”
This is it. The opportunity. A predictable window where the monster will be gone, distracted by his own brand of self-destruction.
“Milo, how do I get in?” I ask. “The building, the loft…”
“I can’t, Aria,” he says, his voice cracking with strain. “Getting you this much is already—I can’t get you keys. He’d know. He tracks everything.”
My hope plummets. A window is useless if the house is locked.
“But,” he continues, his voice dropping even lower. “The service elevator. In the garage. It doesn’t require a keycard for access up to the penthouse level. It’s a design flaw he’s been meaning to fix. It’s for maintenance crews. It opens into the hallway near his front door. It’s the only way.”
My mind latches onto the information. A design flaw. A crack in his fortress.
“Thank you, Milo,” I whisper, my throat thick with a dangerous mix of gratitude and terror.
“Don’t thank me,” he says, his voice ragged. “Just be careful. If he catches you… just don’t get caught. I never made this call.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the wall, the plan crystallizing in my mind, sharp and terrifying. I have my window. I have my point of entry.
Saturday night.
I’m going back into the lion’s den. Not as a victim to be caged, but as a thief in the dark. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when I see it. Some piece of leverage. Some secret. Some weapon to turn this war in my favor.
The fear is still there, a cold knot in my stomach but for the first time since I ran, it’s joined by something else. A flicker of savage, desperate hope.
He thinks he’s the hunter. On Saturday night, he’ll find out he’s the one being hunted.
