Tina woke to the metallic clang of garbage trucks outside her window and the faint smell of yesterday's fried rice drifting up from the takeout place below. The motel bed had left a crick in her neck, but she smiled anyway—because she'd slept through the night without once dreaming of penthouses or promises she never made. Day two in Philadelphia. Day two of being nobody. It felt dangerously good.
She showered under water that started hot and turned lukewarm in thirty seconds, then dressed in the last clean black tee and the jeans she'd worn on the bus. Hair still damp and black, she tucked it under the hoodie, checked the mirror one last time—yep, stranger staring back—and slipped out into the morning chill. First mission: money. Second mission: stay invisible.
The warehouse district near the Delaware River smelled of diesel and damp cardboard. She walked the blocks with purpose, eyes scanning faded "Help Wanted" signs taped to chain-link fences. Most places wanted résumés and social security numbers. She needed the ones that didn't. At the third lot, a squat brick building with a loading dock and a hand-painted sign that read "River City Storage – Day Labor Welcome," she found her target.
The foreman was a barrel-chested man named Rico with a mustache that looked like it had its own zip code. He sized her up in five seconds flat. "You got ID?"
"Lost it," Tina said, voice steady. "Cash work only. I'm good with a pallet jack and I don't complain."
Rico scratched his chin, then jerked a thumb toward the dock. "Ten an hour, under the table. Start now. Don't steal nothing and don't disappear mid-shift. Deal?"
"Deal."
She spent the morning hauling boxes of printer paper and shrink-wrapped office supplies onto trucks, muscles burning in the best way. Sweat soaked through her hoodie, but the rhythm of lift-carry-stack felt like freedom in motion. No one asked her name. No one cared where she came from. She was just the new girl who worked hard and kept her mouth shut.
Lunch break came at noon. She sat on a stack of empty pallets in the shade of the dock overhang, eating a dollar-store peanut butter sandwich she'd bought on the way. The other laborers sprawled nearby, trading stories about weekend fights and bad bosses. Tina listened, said nothing, and felt the knot in her chest loosen a little more.
That's when she noticed him.
He wasn't one of the workers. Too clean. Too still. A tall guy in a dark jacket and sunglasses, leaning against a chain-link fence across the street, phone in hand like he was scrolling. Except he wasn't scrolling. His head was tilted just enough that the lenses caught her direction every few seconds. When she looked straight at him, he didn't flinch. Just held the gaze for a beat too long, then turned away like it was nothing.
Her pulse kicked up. Coincidence, she told herself. The city was full of people staring at nothing. But the back of her neck prickled anyway.
She finished her sandwich, crumpled the wrapper, and went back to work. The rest of the shift passed without incident—more boxes, more trucks, more sweat—but she kept glancing toward the fence. The guy was gone. She told herself she was paranoid. She told herself it was nothing.
At five o'clock Rico handed her a folded stack of twenties. "Eighty bucks. Same time tomorrow if you want it."
"I want it," she said, pocketing the cash.
She walked the long way back to the motel, taking side streets, doubling back twice, watching reflections in shop windows. No dark jacket. No sunglasses. Just the ordinary hum of a city winding down for the evening.
In her room she locked the door, chained it, wedged the chair, then sat on the bed and counted the money again. Three hundred twenty-one dollars now. Enough for another week, maybe two if she stretched it. She allowed herself a small, tired victory smile.
Then she noticed the tiny envelope slipped under the door.
White. No address. No stamp. Just her new name—well, the fake one she'd given Rico when he asked what to call her.
**Tina.**
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She stared at the envelope like it might bite. Slowly, she picked it up, turned it over. Inside was a single card, heavy cream stock, elegant black lettering.
**"Philadelphia suits you. The black hair is a nice touch. Enjoy your first day of work. —V"**
Below that, in smaller print: **"Coffee tomorrow? My treat. You know where to find me."**
Tina's knees gave out. She sank to the floor, back against the bed, the card trembling in her fingers.
He knew.
He'd always known.
The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in. She wanted to scream, to cry, to smash something. Instead she laughed—a short, jagged sound that echoed off the cheap paneling.
Victor Kane didn't need to chase her.
He was already everywhere.
And somehow, that made the game a thousand times more terrifying—and a thousand times more alive.
She crumpled the card in her fist, then smoothed it out again, staring at the elegant script like it might reveal his next move.
Tomorrow she'd go to work anyway.
Tomorrow she'd keep running anyway.
Because if he wanted a chase, she'd give him one he'd never forget.
She just hoped she could outrun the part of herself that was already curious about what he'd do next.