"No argument." I scrolled through my playlists on my phone, finding the one I'd created during my lowest moments after Marissa's death. "If we're going to be hunted by military-industrial complex assassins, we should at least have a soundtrack."
The opening guitar notes of David Bowie's "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide" filled the apartment. I cranked the volume higher than necessary, letting Bowie's voice—desperate, yearning, ultimately hopeful—drown out the steady drum of rain against the windows. Closing my eyes, I let the music wash over me, pretending for a moment that we were just two men sharing music, not hiding from unknown threats.
I opened my eyes to find Michael watching me, his expression unreadable. I sang along to the chorus, purposely overdramatic, sweeping my arm through the air with theatrical flair. I wasn't a good singer—Marissa had compared my voice to "a wounded animal with remarkable pitch"—but I put my heart into it.
"You're not alone," I belted along with Bowie, pointing directly at Michael, who stood frozen by the window. "Give me your hand!"
Michael's eyes widened slightly, and I couldn't tell whether he was horrified or amused. Probably both.
"You think this is going to lift my mood?"
I replied in my best academic tone. "I think David Bowie understood sometimes you need to scream into the void. Or, at the very least, dance badly in your living room while the world burns."
"Is that what this is?" Michael gestured at my swaying. "Dancing?"
"I contain multitudes of rhythmic disappointment." I grabbed his hand, tugging him away from the window. "Come on, McCabe. The world's not ending in the next three minutes."
He resisted for a moment before allowing me to pull him into the center of the living room. He didn't dance—I hadn't expected him to—but he moved a half-step closer, his hand still in mine.
"You're really something else."
"So I've been told." I squeezed his fingers. "But you haven't left."
He opened his mouth to respond, his expression unguarded for once, when something shifted in the quality of the air around us. The silence was too perfect like the world holding its breath before a disaster.
The shattering glass sounded like a gunshot—sudden, violent, and unmistakable. The living room window exploded inward, sending crystalline fragments skittering across the hardwood floor. A rust-colored and pockmarked brick sailed through the jagged opening and thudded against the area rug, bouncing once before settling next to the coffee table.
Michael's reaction was pure instinct. One moment, I stood beside him, our fingers loosely intertwined; the next, I found myself pressed against the hardwood floor, his body shielding mine, arms curled protectively around my head. The music continued to play, and Bowie's voice became an absurd counterpoint to the violence of the moment.
"Stay down." Michael's breath was warm against my ear as he rolled off me in one fluid motion. He reached beneath the couch and produced a handgun I hadn't known was there.
"What—" My voice came out strangled as I pressed myself against the floor. My palm slid across something sharp, and a shard of glass sliced into my skin. "Michael—"
"Don't move." He stayed low, moving toward the window in a tactical crouch, gun leading the way. Cold air rushed through the shattered pane, carrying the scents of wet pavement and car exhaust. It raised goosebumps on my arms, threading through a tear in my sleeve where the glass had caught me.
I watched as Michael positioned himself to the side of the window frame, careful to avoid presenting a silhouette. He peered out at odd angles, never staying in one position long enough to make himself a target. Finally, he lowered his weapon slightly.
"No one visible. Probably hit and run."
I pressed myself harder against the floor, trying to slow the frantic pounding of my heart. I told myself it was fear—pure, reasonable fear—but beneath the shaking, something else flickered through me.
A visceralthrill.
It was sick, maybe, to feel it. It was the electric jolt of danger.
Along with it came the wild, reckless certainty that for the first time in a very long while, I wasn't drifting through life half-asleep.
Michael moved with dogged purpose across the room, and part of me—a small, shameful part—ached to follow.
I pushed myself up to sitting, wincing as my hand pressed against the floor. Only then did I notice the blood—bright crimson droplets forming a small constellation on the hardwood.
"I cut myself." I stupidly stared at my palm and the shard of glass embedded near the base of my thumb.
Michael was at my side instantly, gun tucked into his waistband as he took my hand in his. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he examined the wound. "It's not deep. Stay here."
He disappeared into the bathroom, returning moments later with a first aid kit. The soldier had become a medic in the space of a breath. He knelt beside me, dabbing antiseptic on the cut with methodical care.
"The brick, is there—is there a message?"
