"Now."
Lena ran.
Not a wild sprint—more like someone who finally accepted the only rule that mattered: move when Ethan tells you to move. She cut left into the alley, shoes still in her hands, feet slapping wet pavement.
Miles tried to follow. His body made it one limping step, then another, then his ribs punished him for even pretending.
Ethan stayed on the sidewalk for half a beat, letting the street show him what it was.
Behind them, the black SUV rolled off the curb with its headlights still off—quiet, patient, deliberate. Ahead, a patrol car came around the corner, slow and clean, no siren, no urgency. Like it wasn't responding to anything. Like it was arriving to finish something.
Ethan didn't like the way the patrol car moved.
Real cops either come hot or don't come at all.
This one came like it already knew where the bodies would be.
Ethan stepped into the lane.
The SUV crept forward. Two feet. Just enough to threaten without "threatening."
Ethan raised his hands and made his posture wrong on purpose—hunched, frantic, confused. A man in trouble. A man who might do something stupid.
The patrol car slowed even more. Window down. The cop inside didn't yell. Didn't ask if anyone was hurt. He simply watched.
Ethan turned his head toward the alley and barked loud, "Lena—stop!"
It was the opposite of what he wanted her to do.
But the lie mattered. Cameras, witnesses—if anyone caught anything, they'd catch him calling her name. Chasing. Controlling.
He heard Lena's footsteps vanish deeper into the alley and didn't let his face change.
Ethan swung back toward the patrol car, then pointed at the SUV. "That car's been following me," he shouted. "They're—"
The SUV's headlights snapped on, bright enough to bleach the street.
Ethan flinched—real enough to sell it, controlled enough not to lose position.
Miles finally moved.
He swung the bat and cracked it against the SUV's rear quarter panel.
The sound rang out sharp, ugly, attention-grabbing.
The SUV jerked a fraction. Not fear. Surprise.
Miles immediately regretted it. He staggered back, face white, breath ripping. But the damage was done.
The patrol car's door opened.
A cop stepped out.
Mid-thirties. Close-cropped hair. Calm eyes. He walked like he was breaking up an argument, not walking into a trap. No hand on his weapon. No urgency.
"Sir," the cop called, tone flat, "step out of the roadway."
Not "Are you okay?"
Not "What's going on?"
Just move.
Ethan's stomach tightened. The cop wasn't here to help. He was here to direct.
Ethan took a slow step back toward the curb—toward the alley mouth, toward Lena.
The cop mirrored him, one step at a time.
The SUV rolled forward half a car length, then stopped, as if waiting for the cop's body to be in the right place.
Ethan glanced at Miles without turning his head. "Go," he muttered.
Miles stared at him, breathing hard, eyes glossy with pain. "Where?"
"Fence line," Ethan said. "Back yard. Don't stop."
Miles swallowed. He limped away into the dark gap between houses, bat dragging slightly.
Good.
One less person to keep alive.
The cop stepped closer. "Hands where I can see them."
Ethan's hands were already up. "I'm not armed," he said, loud enough for the street. "That car—"
"Turn around," the cop cut in.
Ethan paused. A beat too long to be accidental.
The SUV idled behind him, patient as a knife.
Ethan turned slowly like he was complying, but he kept stepping backward—angling, inching, toward the alley.
The cop saw it. His eyes narrowed a fraction. He reached for Ethan's wrist.
Ethan moved.
Not a punch. Not a tackle.
He dropped weight, twisted out of the grab, and exploded sideways into the alley mouth.
"Stop!" the cop shouted—finally, noise.
Ethan sprinted into the alley.
Wet brick. Garbage bins. The smell of old oil and rain-soaked trash. Narrow enough that the patrol car couldn't follow. That was the point.
He ran hard for five seconds, then slowed just enough to listen.
Footsteps behind him—one set, maybe two.
The cop followed. Good. Better than the SUV.
Ethan cut into a side notch and found Lena exactly where he hoped she'd be: crouched behind a dumpster, shoes still in hand, eyes wide, breathing hard but controlled.
Ethan dropped beside her. "You did good," he whispered. "Stay quiet."
Lena's voice shook. "Miles—"
"He's moving," Ethan said. "Breathe."
The footsteps stopped about ten yards away.
A flashlight beam swept the alley wall, slow and thorough.
"Sir," the cop called, calm and rehearsed, "come out."
Ethan stayed still.
The beam swept the dumpster row, paused, moved on.
Then the cop did something Ethan hated: he said Ethan's name.
"Ethan Cole."
Ethan's jaw tightened.
Hearing his full name from a uniform felt like the city itself had decided what he was.
"We can do this the easy way," the cop said.
Lena's fingers clenched around her shoes so hard the laces cut into her skin.
Ethan leaned close to her ear. "When I touch your shoulder, you move," he whispered. "Straight down that side passage. No looking. No stopping."
Lena nodded once, fast.
The flashlight beam came back again, lingering longer. The cop wasn't searching now. He was narrowing.
Ethan's eyes tracked the layout: street exit behind the cop, and a maintenance corridor cut further down to the right that led into a loading yard. Tight, dark, probably gated.
A bottle lay near the dumpster—glass, chipped, half-label.
Ethan picked it up and tossed it underhand toward the far end of the alley.
Clink. Skitter.
The flashlight snapped away instantly.
Ethan touched Lena's shoulder.
She moved.
Silent, low, fast. She slid into the side passage like she'd done it before.
Ethan rose and went the opposite way—toward the street exit.
He wanted the cop chasing him, not her.
He ran loud, boots splashing.
The beam whipped back and caught him mid-stride.
"There!" the cop shouted.
Ethan burst out of the alley mouth and cut left along a service street lined with parked cars and chain-link fence. He heard the SUV's engine note rise somewhere nearby, repositioning.
He needed vertical.
A stairwell to a fire escape sat open on the side of a building, metal steps slick with rain.
Ethan took it two at a time.
"Get down!" the cop shouted from below.
Ethan didn't answer. He hit the landing, crossed, and dropped down the far side into a parallel alley behind the buildings.
He landed hard, rolled, came up moving.
Footsteps clanged above—cop on the stairs.
Ethan's pocket buzzed—short, sharp, the system's vibration.
He ignored it.
Then the phone chimed—different. Cold. Mechanical.
Ethan glanced.
A single line:
DELIVER SUBJECT — 00:19:43
Ethan's stomach knotted.
Deliver.
Not protect. Not survive.
Deliver.
He clenched his jaw. "Of course."
He didn't have Lena. Not in his hands. But he knew where she'd gone—the side passage. He needed to reconnect, fast, before the SUV sealed the exits.
He moved down the parallel alley, scanning for a cut-through that would bring him back to the passage without stepping into the open street.
A chain-link gate stood half-open ahead. Ethan slipped through into a small loading yard: pallets, a rusted rolling door, a forklift parked at an angle like it had been abandoned mid-task.
He ducked into a maintenance corridor and waited two beats to listen.
The cop's radio crackled—faint, muffled through walls.
Ethan caught a phrase: "—north end—"
Another voice answered, "Copy."
Not dispatch. Not normal.
Coordination.
The perimeter was layered.
Ethan climbed a short ladder to a low rooftop and looked down.
He found Lena.
She was tucked behind a stack of pallets in the side passage, breathing hard, eyes scanning like she was trying to copy Ethan's brain.
And on the street beyond the alley mouth, two men in dark jackets moved into place—not searching, not chasing. Guarding.
Blocking.
Ethan's heart hit heavy once.
This wasn't one cop and one SUV. This was a net with hands.
Ethan didn't waste time. He ran the roofline, jumped a narrow gap, and slid down a drainpipe into the passage behind Lena.
She whipped around, eyes huge.
Ethan put a finger to his lips. "Quiet."
He moved behind the dumpster where he'd stashed the black case earlier and grabbed it.
Still there.
He hooked it under his arm and leaned close to Lena. "We're moving," he whispered. "No questions."
Lena's lips parted. She swallowed them shut and nodded.
They slipped deeper into the service maze instead of going back to the street. Ethan kept her close, one hand guiding her shoulder, watching corners like they could bite.
They reached the chain-link gate to the loading yard.
It was locked now.
A new, shiny padlock hung there like someone had brought it just for them.
Ethan stared at it for half a second, anger cold and clean.
"They sealed it," Lena whispered.
"Yeah," Ethan murmured. "Back."
He pulled her away immediately—no hesitation.
Footsteps approached—light, controlled. Not the cop's heavy chase.
A voice came from the passage mouth, calm and familiar.
"Ethan."
Vance.
Ethan didn't answer. He waited until she stepped into view.
Vance looked like she hadn't broken a sweat all night. Coat dark with rain. Hair pulled back. Eyes sharp.
She didn't look at Lena first.
She looked at Ethan's posture.
Then at the case under his arm.
"Good," Vance said softly. "You brought it."
Ethan's voice came flat. "You're bold."
Vance shrugged. "You're predictable. You always come back for the person you're protecting."
Lena's breath hitched behind him.
Ethan didn't glance back. "What do you want?"
"This ends simple," Vance said. "If you stop fighting it."
"And if I don't?"
Vance stepped closer, slow, hands visible. "Then it ends the same way it always ends. You get labeled. You get boxed in. You run until you can't."
Ethan's pocket buzzed—system again.
He didn't look.
He could feel the clock anyway.
Vance's eyes flicked toward the street, as if checking that her pieces were where they needed to be. "You don't understand what you're holding."
"I understand enough," Ethan said.
Vance's voice softened a fraction. "That file doesn't protect her. It makes her the center of the room."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "So you're here to collect."
"I'm here to keep the mess contained," Vance said.
A car door closed somewhere outside the yard. Another set of footsteps. More pieces arriving.
Lena whispered, barely sound, "Ethan…"
Ethan touched her hand behind him without looking. Stay still.
Then Ethan made his move.
He threw the case.
Not at Vance—past her, hard, toward the far corner of the yard where it would skid and bounce.
Vance's eyes snapped toward it. Reflex.
One of the shadows near the passage mouth moved to intercept. Instinct.
That half-second was the only window Ethan was going to get.
Ethan grabbed Lena's wrist and ran.
They cut left toward the forklift lane. The forklift the same way it's always there in places like this—left with the key in because people are lazy and routines don't expect war.
Ethan jumped onto the forklift, twisted the key.
The engine whined to life.
Lena stumbled beside him. "Ethan—!"
"Get behind me," he snapped.
Ethan drove the forklift forward and shoved a pallet stack sideways into the lane. Wood cracked. Boxes shifted. The path narrowed into a messy choke point.
Vance's voice snapped behind them, sharp and angry now. "Find them!"
Ethan yanked Lena through a gap between pallet stacks and a half-open rolling door.
They slipped into a dark storage room that smelled of damp cardboard and cold metal.
Ethan pulled the rolling door down just enough to leave a thin slit of light. Not closed. Not locked. Just less visible.
He pressed Lena down behind crates.
They listened.
Outside, footsteps fanned through the yard. Voices low. Controlled.
The system buzzed again.
Ethan finally checked.
DROP POINT UPDATED — 00:11:02
Lena whispered, "What is that?"
Ethan didn't dress it up. "A clock," he said. "And it's not on our side."
Lena's eyes tightened with fear she was trying to swallow. "Where do we go?"
Ethan scanned the back of the storage room.
A service hatch sat half-hidden behind bins. A metal panel, simple latch.
He checked it once.
It opened to a crawl space leading toward the pier side.
Tight. Ugly. But a route.
Ethan returned to Lena, crouched close. "We're going through that," he whispered. "Stay close. If you lose me, you freeze."
Lena nodded, jaw set.
Outside, the rolling door lifted slightly. A sliver more light spilled in.
A voice: "Clear!"
Then Vance, closer now, cold: "Inside. Now."
Ethan pushed Lena into the hatch first, then followed, pulling the panel shut behind them.
The crawl space scraped their elbows and knees. Water dripped somewhere. Lena's breathing sounded loud in the tight metal tunnel, but she kept moving.
They emerged into another service corridor and stumbled out into dim light.
Ethan checked the phone again.
DROP POINT: GRAYSON TOWER — LOBBY LEVEL
Ethan stared.
Back to Grayson Tower.
Back to where this started.
Lena saw his face and went pale. "What?"
Ethan swallowed, jaw tight. "We're going back."
Lena's eyes widened. "Back there? Are you—"
Ethan cut her off, low and firm. "It's either that, or they close every other door."
He didn't add what he was thinking.
Or the system closes it for us.
He tightened his grip on the case. Took Lena's wrist—not rough, not gentle. Certain.
And together, they moved down the corridor toward the place that had already tried to swallow them once.