Idiot.
I should turn around. Go back upstairs. Go back home.
Instead, I keep walking.
Because if thatisone of Gabriel’s men, I’m not letting him follow me wherever the fuck he wants and spring on me when I’m cornered. Better to drag him somewhere quieter. Better to make him come close. Better to put a knife in him and send Gabriel a message with the body.
I angle away from the thicker part of the platform, toward a dimmer stretch broken up by pillars and a dead vending machine humming in the corner. Fewer people. Fewer eyes.
Come on, then.
Behind me, I hear movement. Not rushed.
Certain.
Good.
I keep my pace even, heart hammering hard but steady now. My fingers flex once around the duffel handle, then loosen. Ready.
Someone slams into my shoulder.
Hard.
I twist on instinct, curse already on my tongue.
A guy in a cap jerks back with his hands up like it was an accident. “Sorry.”
Too quick.
Too rehearsed.
The duffel is ripped sideways out of my hand.
“What the fuck—”
I catch the strap before he can tear it free and yank back hard enough to jolt his whole body forward.
His face pinches, not surprised, not apologetic. Just mean.
Not a thief.
Adistraction.
The thought hits a second too late.
I drive my elbow forward and catch him somewhere solid. He grunts, grip slipping. I wrench the bag back toward me and reach for my knife—
A hand closes around my elbow.
Firm.
“Don’t.”
The voice is low, roughened by smoke, the accent familiar enough to make something cold crawl over my skin.
My head snaps toward him.
Too close.
