Law.
He didn’t look back.
Didn’t need to.
“Open goes to the street,” Sage added.
The figure ahead chose it.
Of course he did.
Sage shifted direction without breaking stride, cutting angle instead of distance, driving for the intercept. His focus narrowed as everything else fell away—no noise, no distraction, just movement and timing.
The guy vaulted a low barrier. Sage followed, landing and already moving again.
No wasted motion, and the distance didn’t close—
which was the problem.
Sage narrowed his eyes, tracking the rhythm of the run ahead of him.
Too even.
Too intentional.
Like the guy knew exactly where he was going.
Sage caught a glimpse of his face.
Rook.
“Son of a bitch,” Sage muttered. Ahead, the figure cut right into a cluttered stretch of alley—laundry strung overhead, sheets and shirts hanging low, blocking the sun and breaking the light into shifting patches of shadow.
Sage leaned into the turn—
—and pushed.
The alley tightened as he drove into it, sunlight filtering through fabric and lines, flashing and cutting across his path,turning everything uneven—light, shadow, movement—until the space narrowed to shape, motion, and instinct.
He didn’t slow.
His focus shifted instead, tracking the movement ahead through the space—shouts cutting down the alley, voices calling direction as the runner stayed fast and deliberate, still not breaking stride, still not sloppy.
Sage adjusted on the fly, cutting left, then right, following the path.
There—
A flicker of movement ahead, just enough to lock onto—a few young men falling out of the runner’s way.
He drove harder, closing the angle, pushing for the intercept—
—and Rook just… vanished.
Not a stumble. Not a missed step.
Gone.
Sage hit his brake a fraction too late, boots skidding before he caught himself, his gaze already sweeping the space in front of him.
