Ring.
"Charlie speaking."
"Hello, Charlie. Again," I said, voice low, flat. Controlled. "Cutting to the chase. Kyle Milson. Brunette. Neck tattoo. Get me his file."
A pause. Long enough that my chest tightened.
"Huh? Why should I?"
"Just get it," I whispered, quieter than I realized. "I'll explain once I secure proper evidence. This is connected to the girl you saved."
Silence stretched, heavy and brittle.
"I'll be back," he finally said, then hung up.
While he dug, I worked. Kyle's online footprint unfolded like a map I had to decipher carefully. Social media, tagged locations, friends, work history. Tattoo artist. That was new—an anchor point. A place. A network. A trail.
Each detail added another layer, another node in the invisible web. My pulse thumped in time with each click.
My phone buzzed again.
"Where do I drop the files?" Charlie asked.
"In Mid City," I said. "Bakery alley on the right. Loose brick—red, soft. Foam painted over. Put it there."
No questions. Good. Efficiency. Precision. That was part of the rule now: no chatter, no mistakes, no curiosity left unchecked.
I ended the call. Burner SIM tossed aside, destroyed. Untraceable. Perfect.
I wasn't going out during the day. Sunburns weren't just cosmetic—they were literal danger. My skin was fragile, my presence fragile. Exposure meant death by attention.
Night arrived like a black curtain, swallowing the house. I told Mom I was sleeping early. She didn't question it.
Darkness covered my sins better than honesty ever could.
I slipped out through the window and down the fire escape. Heart steady. Every step calculated. Rooftops came next—easy. Familiar. I moved like someone invisible, practiced. Agile, but careful. Night had always been mine. My refuge. My ally. The sun hated me; the dark understood.
Moonlight followed me silently, painting silver edges on the city.
Face hidden behind a black kitsune mask I'd bought on a Japan trip. Oversized gray hoodie. Bermuda shorts. Knee-high socks. Sneakers. Anonymous. Forgettable. Just another shadow slipping past the world.
The bakery alley waited. Silent. Narrow. Smells of bread, yeast, and damp asphalt.
I dropped down, found the loose brick, and retrieved the files. My fingers brushed the paper. Heavy with secrets. I froze.
Movement. Somewhere nearby. Too still to be casual.
Charlie. Probably. Thinking he was clever. Too bad. I never used the obvious exit.
I climbed the wall, scaled back onto the rooftops, and disappeared into the dark. Every jump silent. Every breath shallow. My chest sang with that familiar mix of fear and… thrill.
Before leaving, I tossed something down—a crumpled note. Smacked lightly on his head. He cursed under his breath, then picked it up.
The note read:
"I'll call you again."
The wind tugged at my hoodie, carrying the faint smell of baked bread below. Moonlight caught the edge of my mask. I smiled under it.
Rules were forming. Boundaries, patterns, invisible lines that nobody else would see. Anonymity was survival. And the thrill? Addictive.
Somewhere in the distance, the city slept. Somewhere in that same darkness, Charlie looked at the note, wondering who I was. But he wouldn't know. Not yet.
And that was the point.