I peeled out, tires shrieking, and shot up the ramp. Rain had started again since I went in. It hit my helmet, blurring the word unfolding in front of me. I didn't care.
I cut hard onto the street, lane-splitting without caring, flicking my eyes left and right, then left again. Nothing behind me. Nothing ahead.
But inside, I was all turbulence.
I hit the throttle and gunned it, weaving through the traffic clogging this part of the city. I almost ran a red, barely missed a van, then another. In my head, I knew to be careful. Getting caught on the traffic light cameras for violation was the worst way for me to get on the authorities' radar.
Again, I didn't care.
I hit the next stretch of open road and sped up, engine howling, body hunched low over the bars. The city blurred past—concrete, glass, chain-link, sidewalks with umbrellas.
I remembered the heat of her skin, the way her body molded to mine for that painful moment, the way I wanted—no, needed—to taste her again, to push past the rules, to feel her without barriers.
But rules were all I'd ever had.
Rules and numbness.
I almost missed the turn for the Bureau compound. I braked hard, the rear wheel locked, slewing me sideways until I righted. The adrenaline shot straight to my brain, clearing out everything for a single, crystalline moment.
I swung into the underground, drove past the vehicles, past the security measures, and into my designated parking spot.
I sat for a moment, eyes shut, gloved hands trembling on the bars.
My whole body was charged, sick and alive like never before. I wanted to hit something, or maybe tear the world apart with my bare hands.
Instead, I removed the helmet and climbed off the bike.
Once inside the compound, I pulled out my burner and dialed Secretary.
"I need to see Father," I said without any greetings.
"He is occupied."
"Bullshit," I snapped. "Tell him I need to see him now." I knew gettingemotional was against the rules of the Bureau. But somehow, I couldn't hold it back.
My demand was met with dead silence.
"Now," I growled into the phone.
Secretary made a noise, then said, "I'll check if he's available."
"He better make himself available for me."
I'd never asked Father about anything, but it was time.
I was going to get answers, one way or another.
The office was just as impersonal as it had always been.
No windows. No clocks. Just the low hum of the vents and that same table that ate the center of the room. Two chairs. Today, the lamp between them turned low so that everything was drenched in yellow and black.
I'd seen all this before a million times.
Father sat in his usual chair, a boulder of a man with his face in the shadow.
I didn't sit. I was too wired, too antsy, too pissed off.
I stood on the opposite side of the table, hands at my sides, shoulders squared.
