Askai woke with a violent jolt. The half-crushed can of beer was still clutched in his hand, slick with cold residue. He grimaced and set it aside, blinking hard as his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness.
The room lay in muted silver, washed in the pale, indifferent glow of a moon that refused to set. He couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour—his mind was still thick, heavy, the remnants of exhaustion clinging to him. Across the narrow space, Jordan lay sprawled on the other bed, limbs flung about with boyish abandon, dead to the world.
Nothing seemed out of place in the dimness… and yet, something had torn him awake.
There it was again.
A faint disturbance cutting through the silence—the whisper of shuffling steps, sharp hisses of low voices. Askai's pulse jerked. The sound came from the window he had so carelessly left cracked open, letting in the cool night air.
He moved toward it with steps quick but quiet, his instincts screaming about something amiss. The instant he reached the frame, his breath caught in his throat.
Down below, in the street that wound like a shadow through the student district, men in black suits prowled with the vicious precision of trained hunters. One stood locked in an intense, heated argument with the warden at the gate—poor man looked as though he'd rather wrestle a demon than deny them entry.
Then, with a sudden stillness that chilled Askai to the bone, one of the men tilted his head upward.
Askai dropped from the window in an instant, muscles snapping into motion.
"Jordi—wake up," he whispered fiercely, shaking Jordan's shoulder.
Jordan mumbled, eyelids fluttering as though trying to pull himself back from a dream, before wide, confused blue eyes fixed on Askai's tense expression.
"We need to leave. Now. They found us. They're right outside—we have less than a minute."
Something in Askai's tone—low, clipped, resolute—cut through the fog of sleep. Jordan flew upright, fumbling for the bag he had tucked beneath his bed. Askai didn't need to explain; this was a drill they'd rehearsed more times than either cared to count.
In the West, darkness meant only two things—vulnerability or opportunity. You never truly knew which one you were stepping into until the blade was already at your throat.
"Is there a safe way out?" Jordan asked as he shoved his phone and charger into his bag, fingers remarkably steady despite the tension rippling through the air.
Askai was already lacing his shoes, mind racing through the layout of the building. "The fire exit," he muttered absently. "No one uses it. I kept the keys. It's our best chance."
Jordan didn't wait—he was out the door in a flash, silent as a shadow.
Askai yanked his emergency stash from beneath the drawer, slung his own bag across his shoulder, and reached the doorway just as Jordan leaned back, whispering urgently, "Footsteps. They're coming up the main stairs."
So soon.
The hair prickled on Askai's neck.
He eased the door shut without a sound and motioned Jordan to follow. Their escape route lay only two doors down—fortunate positioning that, tonight, felt like divine intervention.
They slipped into the narrow fire exit and began descending the metal steps two at a time, the cold rail biting against their palms. Above them, a crash split the stillness—wood splintering under force.
A door being kicked in.
Their hearts thundered in unison, matching the frantic rhythm of their footsteps. But fear did not rule Askai; anger did. A simmering, bewildered fury that strengthened with each step he took.
Who, in hell, were these men and how did they find him so quickly? They had left no trace at all.
Were they followed then?
Many thoughts raced through his mind but one hit him like a blow.
Someone had dared to hunt them on the University Ground. That was a line even the dirtiest West-side enforcers didn't dare cross.
Askai didn't know what terrified him more—
That someone was breaking every rule of the city to get to him…Or that he had absolutely no idea who that someone was.
The old bike waited exactly where Askai had left it—leaning against the back wall beside the fire exit, as loyal and battered as every habit he had picked up while ruling the streets in the reckless arrogance of youth. But as he swung his leg over it, a cold truth hit him with a sting of remorse.
For all the years he had spent mastering the alleys, outrunning rivals, and flirting with danger…
He had never learned to fear the sound of his own engine.
The moment he kicked the starter, the bike roared awake—far too loud, far too eager—shattering the hush of night.
Once, that roar had meant freedom and power. Tonight, it felt like a torch held above their heads, announcing their presence to every predator in Nolan.