Miles's place had the kind of quiet that didn't mean peace.
It meant someone was listening.
The living room lights were low, but not off. The cheap lamp in the corner threw a dull cone across the carpet. A baseball bat leaned against the couch where it always leaned—except tonight it felt less like "just in case" and more like a prayer.
Miles stood a few feet back from the front door, bat in both hands, shoulders tight. He kept his feet planted like he could anchor the whole house if he stayed stubborn enough.
From the hallway, Lena whispered, "Miles?"
"Shh," he breathed. "Stay there."
The knocking had stopped. That was the part that made his mouth go dry. A normal person knocks, gets ignored, knocks again, gets louder. These guys knocked once, then went quiet—as if they already had the next step planned and just wanted the timing to be perfect.
Miles held his phone close to his ear. The screen was smeared with sweat.
"Ethan," he whispered, "they're doing something to the lock."
On the other end, Ethan's voice snapped back fast and controlled. "Don't open it. Back window. Now."
Miles glanced toward the back of the house. The hallway felt too long. Like it was a tunnel.
"They're between me and—" Miles started.
Metal scraped again at the door. Slow. Deliberate. Not a frantic jiggle—more like someone calmly solving a puzzle.
Miles swallowed. "They're not rushing," he said, voice thinning. "That means they know they're getting in."
A click.
Not the click of a key.
The click of a mechanism giving up.
Miles raised the bat, heart punching into his throat.
The door swung inward smoothly, almost polite.
Two men stepped inside.
No masks. No hoods. No dramatic gun wave. They looked like men who could sit in a hotel lobby for hours and never draw attention. Clean jackets, calm eyes, hands low but ready.
The taller one offered a small, friendly smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Evening."
The second man stepped in and quietly shut the door behind them. Then, with a casual twist, he turned the deadbolt—locking them in.
Miles felt the room shrink.
"We're looking for a girl," the tall man said, tone conversational. "We'd like to keep this easy."
Miles tightened his grip until his knuckles burned. "Wrong house."
The tall man's eyes moved over the room—bat, hallway, the lack of other footsteps. He wasn't "looking." He was measuring.
"No," the tall man said. "Right house."
Miles set his feet and lifted the bat higher. "Leave."
The second man exhaled like Miles was being unreasonable. "We really don't want to hurt you."
Miles almost laughed. "Then you picked a weird way to show it."
The tall man's smile stayed in place. "Where is she?"
Miles didn't answer.
The tall man waited a beat—just long enough to make it feel like Miles was the one wasting time.
Then he nodded once, as if accepting the inevitable.
Miles swung.
He brought the bat down hard toward the tall man's shoulder.
The tall man didn't jump away. He stepped in, inside the arc, like he'd been expecting it. The bat clipped his forearm instead—solid contact—and the man barely moved.
Pain shot up Miles's arms. Not because he hit wrong, but because he'd hit something that didn't give.
The second man was already on him. Fingers like a vise closed around Miles's wrist and twisted. The bat slid out of Miles's hands and clattered on the carpet.
Miles hissed and tried to wrench free.
The tall man leaned closer, voice quiet. "Bathroom," he said.
Miles's eyes widened before he could stop himself.
The tall man noticed.
He didn't look pleased. He looked confirmed.
Miles threw his shoulder forward, trying to break the grip. The tall man hit him once—short and efficient—under the ribs. Miles's lungs folded. Air vanished. His body betrayed him, knees buckling.
He slid down the wall with a strangled gasp.
From the hallway, a dull thump—like a foot hitting tile. Then another.
Lena.
Miles forced a breath and rasped, "Lena—run!"
The tall man grabbed Miles by the collar and dragged him back like he weighed nothing. "Stay down."
A crash sounded—wood splintering. The bathroom door giving way.
Miles tried to crawl toward the hallway. The tall man slammed him into the wall again. Stars flashed behind Miles's eyes.
"Stop," the tall man said, mildly annoyed. "You're not the point."
Miles's phone slipped in his sweaty grip, but he caught it instinctively. His last thin thread to Ethan.
The tall man's gaze flicked down at the screen. His mouth curved. "Oh."
He bent, close enough that Miles could smell mint and gun oil.
"Tell Ethan," the tall man murmured, "he's late."
Then he slapped the phone out of Miles's hand. It skittered across the carpet and disappeared under the couch.
Miles coughed, trying to pull air back into his chest.
Behind him, the hallway filled with movement and low voices—controlled, not panicked. People who knew they had time.
Ethan stood on the pier with the black case under his arm, phone pressed hard to his ear, and the feeling of a trap tightening around his neck.
Scrape. Click. Silence.
He heard Miles breathing like he was trying not to make sound, and he knew exactly what that meant.
In front of Ethan, the watcher stood by the post with the same calm patience as before. No weapon out. No rush. Like he had all night.
"You think you can be in two places at once?" the watcher had said.
Ethan didn't answer then. He didn't answer now.
Words weren't going to buy Miles time.
Ethan needed space. He needed an angle. He needed to break the watcher's clean line on him without starting a scene in front of tourists.
He walked toward the food stands like he was deciding what to eat. He kept his shoulders loose, his steps normal. The case stayed tucked close, hidden by his jacket.
The watcher drifted with him at the edge of the crowd, just far enough to look like coincidence.
Ethan stopped at a stall and held out cash. "Two waters," he said.
The teenager behind the counter blinked like Ethan had interrupted his whole reality. "Uh—sure."
Ethan took the bottles, turned away, and walked.
He didn't drink. He wasn't thirsty.
He needed an object. A reason to lift his arm. A reason to drop something without it looking like a move.
He tossed one unopened bottle into a trash can like a careless idiot and kept the other in his hand.
The watcher's eyes flicked toward the movement—a tiny, natural reflex.
Ethan used it.
He pivoted into a narrow service lane between buildings and kept walking like he'd meant to go there all along.
The lane was empty. Wet concrete. Dumpsters lined one wall. A metal door marked STAFF ONLY sat halfway down.
Ethan didn't go near the door.
Doors were how you got boxed.
He kept to the center, grip on the case, water bottle loose in his other hand.
The watcher followed him in.
The moment the watcher's foot crossed into the lane, the world felt tighter. No crowd. No noise to hide in. Just two men and the sound of water dripping somewhere.
Ethan let the bottle slip from his fingers.
It hit the ground and rolled. The water sloshed inside, shifting its weight.
The watcher stepped forward and planted his foot—
The bottle skated.
Not enough to drop him, but enough to steal traction and rhythm.
Ethan ran.
Full sprint now, no pretending. Case tight against his ribs. He cut hard left, then right, weaving through the back-of-house maze behind the pier where cameras were fewer and angles were worse.
Behind him, footsteps came fast—no longer casual. The watcher had dropped the act.
Good.
Calm meant they had time. Fast meant they didn't.
Ethan burst out onto a parallel street where tires hissed on wet asphalt. A bus groaned to a stop, doors opening.
Ethan didn't hesitate.
He stepped on as the doors started to close.
The driver looked up, annoyed. "Hey—"
Ethan shoved cash forward. "Sorry."
The driver took it and waved him through, not paid enough to care.
Ethan stood near the back door, steadying himself as the bus pulled away. Through the fogged window, he saw the watcher reach the corner and scan the street, eyes sharp. For a second their gazes almost lined up through the glass.
Then the bus turned.
The watcher vanished from view.
Ethan pulled out his phone and called Miles again.
No answer.
He called a second time.
Still nothing.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
The system buzzed in his pocket—its ugly, deliberate vibration. Ethan ignored it like it was a fly.
He got off three stops early and ran.
Not a straight run. Not the shortest route. The route that didn't put him under every camera. Alleys. A cut through a parking garage. A hop over a low fence behind a grocery store.
When he reached Miles's neighborhood, the air felt wrong. Too still. The kind of still that came after someone had already made a move.
Ethan slowed as he approached the gate.
The gate was ajar.
It hadn't been ajar when he left.
Ethan didn't go through it.
He circled the side, staying along the fence line, listening.
No voices. No footsteps. No shouting.
That didn't calm him. It did the opposite.
He reached the back of the house and stopped beneath the bathroom window.
The window was cracked open. The screen was bent outward.
Ethan's chest tightened. "Lena," he whispered.
Nothing.
He tapped the wall twice, then once—quick and soft. A signal he'd invented on the spot and prayed she'd understand.
A shadow moved.
Lena's face appeared at the window, eyes wide, hair messy, cheeks flushed like she'd been holding her breath for a long time.
Ethan exhaled, sharp and silent.
"Ethan," she whispered, voice shaking.
Ethan lifted a finger. Quiet.
He leaned close. "Miles?"
Lena's eyes flicked past him toward the hallway inside. "He—he tried. They're—"
A heavy thump from inside cut her off.
Then a calm voice, close and easy, like someone talking to a scared animal.
"Sweetheart," the voice said, almost kind. "We can do this easy."
Lena flinched hard.
Ethan set the black case down in the wet grass like it was glass. He slid the cheap knife into his sleeve. It wasn't a gun. It wasn't ideal. But it was something.
He looked up at Lena. "Out," he mouthed.
Lena shook her head, panicked. "I can't—"
Ethan's eyes held hers, steady. "Now."
She swallowed, then pushed the window wider. She climbed out awkwardly, trying not to scrape the frame. Ethan caught her by the waist and set her on the ground.
She was trembling. But she moved.
That mattered.
Ethan hooked the case under his arm again. He pulled Lena behind the corner of the house, low and tight.
"Stay," he whispered. "Don't move unless I tell you."
Lena grabbed his sleeve. "Ethan—Miles is inside."
"I know," Ethan said.
She opened her mouth to argue.
Ethan cut it off. "If you come with me, you die with me. Stay."
The words were harsh, but they landed. Lena's fingers loosened.
Ethan slipped back to the bathroom window and climbed in.
The tile was cold under his boots. The air smelled like bleach and damp towels. He moved down the hall without sound, shoulder brushing the wall to stay centered in the dark.
The living room was brighter than before. Someone had turned the lamp up, like they wanted to see.
Miles was on the floor near the wall, one hand braced, breathing hard. His face was pale, eyes unfocused for half a second—then he locked onto Ethan like he couldn't believe it.
Alive.
Hurt, but alive.
Two men stood near the front door.
The tall one had blood on his upper lip now, like someone had clipped him earlier. He smiled when he saw Ethan, as if the night had finally become entertaining.
"There you are," the tall man said.
Ethan didn't answer. He stepped forward and placed himself between them and the hallway like a simple piece of geometry.
The second man—slightly shorter, shoulders squared—let his eyes slide toward the hall, toward the bathroom, like he was checking if Lena was still contained.
Ethan saw that glance.
He moved.
Not at the tall one. At the shorter one.
Ethan lunged. The shorter man raised an arm to block.
The knife flashed from Ethan's sleeve—a quick, shallow slash across the forearm. Not a kill. A message.
The man jerked back, swearing under his breath, hand opening reflexively.
Ethan kicked the bat on the floor with the side of his boot.
It slid across the carpet toward Miles.
Miles's fingers closed around it like it was oxygen.
The tall man finally dropped the polite tone and threw a punch toward Ethan's jaw.
Ethan ducked, stepped inside, and drove his shoulder into the tall man's chest. They slammed into the wall.
The tall man grabbed Ethan's jacket and tried to twist, trying to pin him. He was strong. Controlled.
Ethan headbutted him—short, brutal.
Bone hit bone. The tall man's nose cracked. Blood spread quick.
The tall man didn't scream.
He smiled through it, like pain was just a line item.
"Still the same," he said, voice thick.
Ethan's eyes were ice. "Yeah."
Behind Ethan, the shorter man tried to angle toward the hallway again, favoring his injured arm.
Miles swung the bat.
It connected with the man's knee with a sick, solid sound.
The man collapsed, choking on a curse, hands grabbing his leg.
Miles's voice came out hoarse. "Get her out."
Ethan shoved the tall man back, breaking contact. The tall man wiped blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
"You took something," he said, calm returning. "Give it back and we leave."
Ethan didn't bother to answer.
He backed toward the hall, keeping his body between the tall man and the bathroom. "Move," he said to Miles.
Miles struggled up, bat in both hands, ribs clearly screaming at him. He took one limping step, then another.
Ethan reached the bathroom and leaned out the window. Lena was already crouched outside, shoes in her hands like she'd learned the lesson in five minutes.
Ethan grabbed her wrist and pulled her close. "Shoes later," he whispered.
"I—okay," Lena breathed.
The tall man's voice carried from the living room, calm again, almost conversational.
"Go ahead," he called. "Run."
Ethan didn't look back.
He pushed Lena through the window, then climbed out after her. Miles followed, awkward and cursing under his breath, but he made it.
They moved along the fence line, fast and low.
Ethan kept one hand on Lena's shoulder, guiding her. She stumbled once on wet grass. Ethan caught her without slowing.
They slipped through the gate and onto the street.
That's when an engine started nearby.
Too close.
Ethan's head snapped left.
A black SUV rolled away from the curb with its headlights off, moving slow, deliberate—like it had been waiting for a clean visual.
Lena's breath hitched. "Ethan…"
"Walk," Ethan whispered. "Normal pace. Don't run yet."
They walked.
The SUV rolled with them, matching speed.
Miles limped beside them, bat hanging from one hand like a warning he didn't have energy to use.
Then the SUV's headlights flicked on.
White glare filled the street.
And at the far end of the block, a patrol car turned the corner—slow and deliberate, like it had all the time in the world.
Ethan felt the trap settle.
Front and back. Light and authority. Private and public.
Lena clutched Ethan's sleeve hard enough to hurt. "They're—"
"I know," Ethan said.
Miles swallowed and rasped, "Tell me you've got a plan."
Ethan didn't answer immediately because he was calculating the only plan that didn't get Lena grabbed in the next ten seconds.
He leaned close to Lena's ear, voice low and steady. "When I say 'now,' you run to that alley," he murmured, eyes on the patrol car, "and you don't stop."
Lena's eyes widened. "What about you?"
Ethan's jaw tightened. "I'll catch up."
The SUV's engine growled—impatient.
The patrol car kept coming.
And under Ethan's jacket, the black case felt like a brand.
Somewhere deep in his pocket, the system's clock buzzed once, as if it enjoyed the timing.
Ethan's eyes locked on the alley mouth.
His fingers tightened on Lena's sleeve.
"Now," he said.