Tina stood on the warehouse catwalk the next morning, clipboard in hand, scanning barcodes while the river glittered below like shattered glass. The job still felt too good—fifteen an hour, cash in her pocket at the end of every shift, no questions about her past or her plans. She told herself it was luck. She told herself Victor's shadow wasn't stretching this far. But the fox pendant bounced against her collarbone with every movement, a constant, mocking heartbeat.
She finished her morning stack early and headed to the break area—a row of metal benches bolted to the concrete floor, a vending machine that spat out lukewarm coffee for a dollar. She fed it quarters, watched the cup drop, and took a sip that tasted like regret and burnt beans. Her burner phone buzzed once in her pocket. She pulled it out, expecting another anonymous text.
Instead it was a photo attachment from an unknown number.
She opened it.
The image loaded slowly on the cracked screen: grainy, black-and-white, timestamped from seven years ago. Tina, sixteen, standing outside a corner store in Brooklyn. She was slipping a pack of gum into her hoodie pocket while the cashier's back was turned. The security camera had caught her face perfectly—wide eyes, guilty flush, the moment before she bolted.
Below the photo, one line of text:
**"Teen shoplifting isn't a big deal. But it's on record. And records can be shared. With employers. With family. With anyone who asks nicely. —V"**
Tina's coffee slipped from her fingers. The cup hit the floor and exploded, hot liquid splashing across her boots. She didn't move to clean it up. She stared at the screen until the image blurred.
Her hands shook as she typed back.
**"What do you want?"**
The reply came in seconds.
**"Coffee. Tonight. 8 p.m. The diner on South Street where we first talked. No tricks. Just talk."**
She deleted the photo. Deleted the thread. Powered the phone off and shoved it deep into her pocket. Then she wiped her hands on her jeans, picked up the broken cup pieces, and threw them away like they were evidence she could discard.
The rest of the day passed in a numb haze. She lifted boxes, scanned codes, nodded at Marco when he praised her speed. But inside her head looped the same questions: How long had he had this? How many other skeletons had he dug up? And why now—why dangle it like bait when he could have used it weeks ago?
At six o'clock she clocked out, collected her cash, and walked the long way to South Street. The diner's neon sign buzzed overhead, the same red letters that had welcomed her the night Victor first stepped into her life like he belonged there. She paused outside, rain starting again in soft, persistent drops.
She could turn around. She could keep running.
Instead she pushed the door open.
Victor was already in the corner booth, same one as before. Black coat draped over the back, sleeves rolled up, two coffees steaming on the table. He looked up when the bell jingled, and his smile was slow, almost relieved.
"You came," he said.
She slid into the seat opposite him, hands flat on the table to hide the tremor. "You didn't give me much choice."
"I gave you every choice." He pushed one coffee toward her. "You could have ignored the message. You could have run farther. You're here because you want to be."
Tina wrapped her fingers around the mug for warmth, not because she wanted the drink. "Blackmail is a hell of a way to ask for a date."
"It's not blackmail." His voice stayed even, almost gentle. "It's leverage. And it's the last time I'll use it."
She snorted. "Sure."
"I mean it." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on hers. "Delete the photo. Burn the record. I've already scrubbed it from the precinct database. That moment never happened on paper. Not anymore."
Tina stared at him. "Why?"
"Because I want you to stay because you choose to, not because you're scared not to." He reached into his coat pocket and slid a small flash drive across the table. "Everything I had on you. The photo. The report. The backup files. It's yours. Destroy it. Keep it. Whatever you want."
She picked up the drive, turned it over in her fingers. Small. Innocent-looking. Heavy with power.
"You could have used this to force me back weeks ago," she said quietly.
"I could have."
"So why didn't you?"
Victor exhaled, the first crack in his calm. "Because forcing you would mean I win the game. And I don't want to win the game, Tina. I want to win you."
The diner noise faded—the clink of dishes, the low hum of conversation, the sizzle from the grill. There was only the rain tapping the window and the man across from her who had just handed her the one thing that could have ended her freedom—and chosen not to use it.
She closed her fingers around the drive. "This doesn't change anything."
"I know."
"I'm still leaving when I'm ready."
"I know that too."
She stood, pushing the chair back with a scrape. "Then why do this?"
He looked up at her, green eyes steady and unguarded for once. "Because I'm tired of playing alone."
Tina walked out into the rain without another word. The drive burned in her palm like a promise—or a threat—she hadn't decided yet.
Behind her, Victor stayed seated, watching through the window as she disappeared into the wet night.
He didn't follow.
He didn't need to.
The leash was off.
And for the first time, he wondered if she'd choose to come back anyway.