Chapter 26: The Mark Spreads
That Mia… was already marked.
. . .
The city doesn't rush back in all at once.
It creeps.
Sirens grow louder first. Distant. Then closer. Wind slips between buildings again. A loose sheet of plastic slaps against a vent somewhere below. The rooftop remembers how to breathe.
Scarface is still on his knees.
He hasn't moved since Obsidian vanished.
His hands are planted on the concrete like he's afraid the ground might disappear if he lets go. His shoulders shake. Not from pain. From relief so sharp it borders on hysteria.
I don't look at him.
My focus stays on Mia.
She's leaning fully into me now. Not because she wants to—because she has to. Her weight is wrong. Heavier than it should be. Her head rests against my chest, hair damp at the roots with sweat that wasn't there a minute ago.
"Mia," I murmur. Quiet. Close. "Stay with me."
"I am," she says immediately.
Too quickly.
Her voice is steady, but her fingers are trembling where they clutch my jacket. Not violently. Just enough that I feel it through the fabric.
I adjust my stance without thinking. Shift my feet. Take more of her weight. Angle my body so the wind hits me first.
Scarlet's gas is gone.
But that doesn't mean it's finished.
"Evan," she says again, softer this time. "I don't… feel right."
"I know."
I don't tell her it's getting worse.
Her skin is warm. Too warm. Heat blooming under my palm where my arm is wrapped around her back. Her breathing is shallow—not panicked, not erratic—but carefully controlled, like she's counting each breath to make sure it doesn't slip.
I glance down at her wrist.
The mark is faint.
Still.
But it's darker than it was.
A shadow beneath the skin. Not spreading fast. Not racing.
Just… patient.
Scarface makes a sound.
A broken laugh that dies in his throat.
"I told them," he mutters. "I told them not to escalate. This was supposed to be clean. Observe. Verify. Leave."
I finally look at him.
His face is pale. Eyes bloodshot. Sweat streaks down his temples. He looks smaller now. Not physically—something else. Like whatever kept him upright before has been stripped away.
"Scarlet doesn't freelance," I say.
He flinches.
"You think I don't know that?" he snaps, then immediately recoils, voice dropping. "She doesn't break protocol. Ever. If she tagged her—" He swallows hard. "—then approval came from above."
"Above you," I say.
He doesn't argue.
That tells me enough.
Mia shifts again. Her knees buckle for half a second.
I catch it instantly.
My arm tightens. I pull her closer, pressing her fully into my side. Her forehead bumps lightly against my collarbone.
"Hey," I murmur. "Easy."
"I'm not—" She stops. Breath hitches. Tries again. "I'm not scared."
I believe her.
That's what worries me.
"You don't have to be scared," I say. "Just don't be stubborn."
She lets out a small, breathless laugh. "Too late."
Sirens are closer now. Police. Maybe emergency response. Doesn't matter. None of them will come up here fast enough to matter.
Scarface pushes himself up from the ground. Not all the way. Just enough to sit back on his heels.
"They'll clean this up," he says hoarsely. "They always do. By morning, this rooftop won't exist in any report."
"Will she?" I ask.
He looks at Mia.
Really looks at her this time.
Then he looks away.
"I don't know," he says.
The honesty lands heavier than any lie could have.
I guide Mia toward the stairwell entrance. Slow. Careful. Each step measured. She doesn't fight me. Doesn't argue. That scares me more than if she had.
Halfway there, she winces.
It's quick. She tries to hide it.
I stop immediately.
"What?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "Just—dizzy."
Her pupils are slightly dilated.
The gas wasn't just poison.
It was designed.
Scarlet's specialty.
I scan the rooftop one last time. The vents. The wind direction. The residue still clinging to the concrete in faint, oily streaks.
Dependence. Confusion. Emotional anchoring.
I hate how clean it is.
We reach the stairwell door. I press the handle.
It opens.
Inside, the stairwell smells like dust and old concrete. Safe. Enclosed. Away from the wind.
I guide Mia down one step at a time.
By the third landing, her breathing changes.
Not faster.
Shallower.
Her fingers slip from my jacket and curl into my sleeve instead. A reflex. Like her body is reaching for something familiar before her mind can catch up.
"Mia," I say quietly. "Talk to me."
"I am," she whispers. "I'm just… tired."
I don't answer.
We reach the bottom.
I ease her onto the lowest step and crouch in front of her, keeping my body between her and the open door. My eyes drop to her wrist again.
The mark is clearer now.
Still faint.
Still controlled.
But undeniably there.
She notices my gaze.
"Is it bad?" she asks.
"No," I say immediately.
Not a lie.
Just not the whole truth.
She nods, accepting it without question.
That hurts more than it should.
Footsteps echo above us. Voices. Orders being shouted. Flashlights sweep past the stairwell entrance but don't linger.
Scarface doesn't follow us down.
Good.
I don't want him anywhere near her.
Mia leans back against the wall. Her head tilts to the side. Eyes flutter for a second before she forces them open again.
"Don't let me sleep," she murmurs.
"I won't."
She studies my face.
Really studies it.
"You're angry," she says.
I exhale slowly. "Yes."
"Not at them."
"No."
Her lips press together. "At me?"
I answer without hesitation. "At myself."
She frowns slightly. Confused.
"I was standing right there," she says. "You did everything right."
I don't tell her that Obsidian disagreed.
I don't tell her that the moment he looked at her, something irreversible shifted.
Instead, I say, "Next time, I'll do better."
She smiles faintly.
It fades quickly.
"Evan," she whispers. "Why did he say that?"
"Say what?"
"That I was the problem."
I don't answer right away.
I choose my words carefully.
"Because," I say finally, "you were never part of the background."
Her brow creases. "That doesn't make sense."
"It will."
She looks unconvinced. But too tired to argue.
Her head tilts forward. Just a little.
I straighten instantly.
"Mia."
"I'm awake," she says, eyes still open.
They're unfocused now.
Her breathing evens out. Slower. Deeper.
Sleep is pulling her under whether she wants it or not.
I check her pulse. Steady. Strong.
That's the problem.
The poison isn't meant to kill.
It's meant to stay.
I shift, sitting beside her, pulling her gently against me. Her head settles against my shoulder this time without resistance.
Her body relaxes.
Trusting.
That tightens something in my chest I don't have time to examine.
Sirens fade again. The night moves on.
Above us, the city resets. Below, traffic resumes. People laugh. Someone argues on a phone. Life insists on continuing.
I stay still.
Minutes pass.
Then more.
Mia's breathing deepens.
Sleep claims her completely.
I look down at her wrist one last time.
The mark is darker now.
Not spreading fast.
But spreading.
I don't sleep.
I don't blink.
I don't move.
While Mia slept.
I stayed awake.
Watching the mark on her wrist slowly spread.