The room smelled like antiseptic and fear. Or maybe just fear, because the antiseptic didn't matter. Clara sat tied to a chair, coarse rope biting into her wrists, knees wobbling slightly—but her eyes sparkled with mischief.
Two guards in black uniforms loomed beside her, arms crossed, rigid, waiting.
"Well," Clara began, loud enough for both of them to hear, "this is awkward. And by awkward, I mean highly dramatic, because nobody ever listens to the fun parts first."
The men blinked.
Clara ignored them. "Do you want to hear about the first time I got a pimple?"
They exchanged glances. Deadpan.
"It was horrifying," she continued. "I cried. My mom smeared toothpaste on it. It burned. I tried to cover it with eyeliner. Disaster. Absolute disaster. And you know what? I survived. Thrived, even. Life lesson, gentlemen: chaos is survivable if you have imagination."
Neither guard moved. Clara leaned back, stretching her arms. "And that, boys, is how I became excellent at surviving disasters. Small, medium, catastrophic—you name it. You can thank me later."
The door slammed open before either of them could reply.
Evelyn.
She glided in like a storm, eyes locked on Clara. Every step precise, deliberate.
"Where is Ethan Cole?" Evelyn demanded.
Clara tilted her head, looking bored. "Ethan Cole? Hmm… vaguely familiar. The guy who broods? Plays with shadows? I haven't seen him today, sorry."
Evelyn's lips pressed into a thin line. "Guards. Get the answer. Now."
The two men tensed, glancing at each other.
Clara smiled, wide and mischievous. "Oh, don't worry. I will tell you. But first, let's make this educational, shall we? Because I am very generous."
She leaned forward. "I'll teach you how to make cupcakes. Amazing cupcakes. Life-changing cupcakes. The kind that make angels weep with happiness. But fair warning… I specialize in chaos baking."
The guards blinked, confused.
"Yes," Clara continued. "Measure nothing. Eggs? Throw them like you mean it. Butter? Melt it, but maybe don't. Sugar? More is better—no guarantees. Oven? Preheating is for amateurs. You follow my instructions perfectly, and your taste buds might forgive you. You follow them incorrectly… well, that's the thrill."
She laughed, a wild, chaotic sound that bounced off the walls. "Step one, pick a bowl. Any bowl. Step two… chocolate. Step three… excitement. Step four, panic. Step five, magic."
The guards tried to interrupt. She waved them off. "Silence, apprentices of chaos! Only chaos can teach patience, strategy, and distraction all at once. Take notes—or just look confused. Works too."
Meanwhile, Clara worked her wrists subtly against the rope, loosening knots with each exaggerated gesture, each story twist.
"Step six," she continued, leaning toward them like a teacher giving a dangerous secret, "now comes the fun part. You pretend you're serious. Very serious. Only then do you sneak in the disasters—lava cakes, mystery fillings, unexpected explosions of frosting. The danger is… delicious."
The guards frowned. Clara tilted her head, smiling wider. "And while you're busy imagining molten chocolate nightmares, you're not watching me. That's the key. Timing is everything. I've been waiting my whole life for a moment like this."
Minutes stretched. Her story of disasters, chaos, and cupcakes kept the men mesmerized, caught between boredom and fascination. Every ridiculous step was a calculated distraction. Every laugh, a signal.
Finally, Clara leaned back, letting out a dramatic sigh. "And now… now that you're enlightened, I will reward you with the real secret. Where Ethan Cole is."
The guards' eyes widened slightly, caught off guard.
Clara smirked. "See, if you listen carefully, chaos leads to clarity. And I am always careful."
She glanced at the rope around her wrists one last time. A quick tug, and it slipped loose.
"You're welcome," she said sweetly. "And now, boys, let's go find the mysterious, broody Ethan Cole before your lovely employer realizes she's been outplayed by a baker who refuses to take anything seriously."
She sprinted to the window. Outside, a sleek black bike waited, engine humming, ready. Dawson was perched there, eyes scanning for pursuit.
Clara leapt onto the bike, gripping the handles. "Time to ride!" she shouted.
Dawson didn't hesitate. The bike roared into the night, weaving through alleyways. Clara leaned into the wind, laughing wildly. "Cupcakes, chaos, and Ethan Cole! My favorite trifecta!"
Dawson glanced at her, lips twitching. "You never stop, do you?"
"Change is for boring people," Clara shouted over the engine's roar. "Let's go get the broody hero before Evelyn's men catch up!"
The city blurred around them, lights flickering past. Behind them, confusion, chaos, and a trail of laughter marked their path.
The bike tore through the street like it was running from the past itself.
Clara clung to Dawson's waist, teeth clenched, breath sharp in her chest. The city blurred into streaks of light and shadow, the night ripping past them too fast to think.
Behind them, Evelyn's tablet lit her face in cold blue.
She zoomed in.
Her fingers froze.
"…Impossible."
The image sharpened.
No mask.
No distortion.
Dawson Daniel Reeve—alive, solid, unmistakable—leaning forward on the bike, controlling speed, direction, escape.
Evelyn's breath left her in a slow, furious exhale.
"So," she murmured. "You survived."
The drone adjusted altitude.
Target locked.
Clara's profile filled the screen—talking, gesturing, too alive for Evelyn's liking.
"Take the shot," Evelyn said calmly.
The gunman didn't hesitate.
The crack split the night.
Clara felt it before she heard it.
A white-hot punch slammed into her shoulder, spinning her sideways. Her scream was sharp but short—cut off as Dawson swerved hard, tires shrieking as he forced the bike upright again.
The pain came fast. Deep. Burning.
Her fingers loosened.
Dawson felt it instantly.
"Clara!" he barked.
"I'm—" She sucked in a breath. "I'm still here."
Blood soaked into her sleeve, warm and frighteningly real.
Another shot fired—missed this time.
Dawson pushed the bike harder, weaving through traffic, breaking sightlines, forcing the drone to struggle to keep up.
Clara stopped talking.
Completely.
No jokes.
No commentary.
Just breath. Teeth clenched. Eyes forward.
She held the wound with one hand and Dawson's jacket with the other.
Evelyn watched, expression unreadable.
"She's tougher than she looks," she said quietly.
Minutes later, the bike skidded into a narrow side street and vanished under cover. The drone lost them.
Evelyn lowered the tablet slowly.
"She won't talk now," she said. "Good."
The bike slammed to a stop outside a familiar building.
Ethan's place.
Dawson killed the engine and swung off in one smooth motion.
Clara slid down shakily.
Ethan opened the door—and froze.
Blood.
"Clara."
She looked up at him, pale, eyes blazing with stubborn life.
"Don't freak out," she said. "It ruins my dramatic entrance."
He crossed the distance in two strides. "You were shot."
"Yeah," she said lightly. "Bad people. Poor manners."
Ethan's hands hovered, careful. "Why didn't you call?"
She finally let herself lean into him.
"Because," she whispered, "I promised myself I wouldn't say a word… until I got here."
Dawson shut the door behind them, locking it.
From the shadows of the city, Evelyn watched the building through secondary feeds, lips curling slowly.
"Good," she said.
"Now we all know where to look."