My gaze caught on Maeve as she shouldered her bag, her expression set with determination despite the dark circles under her eyes. This woman had faced the weapon sent to kill her and somehow found something human beneath the programming.
“Ready?” Maeve asked, her voice steady despite everything.
I nodded, unable to tell her about the headache building behind my eyes, the first sign of what was coming. With it came one unexpected result: a signal. Not physical, but internal—like a quiet mechanism activating for the first time. Something within me… shifted. For the first time in my memory, an internal directive pushed me toward searching for the truth. And Maeve was by my side. She had traveled, exposed herself to known and unknown threats, all to obtain answers that concerned her brother and people like him—people like me. Even when I threatened her life, she still stayed. That was statistically rare. No individual had taken such consistent action before.
“I meant it, you know,” she said as we moved forward—our feet pressing down over tangled undergrowth and unruly vegetation, the perimeter of the abandoned structure fading behind us. This factory had been untouched, clearly inactive for a significant time, before I claimed it for temporary shelter. “Whatever we find out… we’ll deal with it together. I promise.”
Their meaning was not lost on me. She had verbally confirmed her intent to stay, even if the truth behind who I was—or what I was—proved undesirable. Even if the version of me hidden beneath Reaper was… dangerous.
The pressure inside my skull increased. It pulsed behind my eyes, heavy and persistent. I responded minimally—just a nod.
Then—a sound. Soft rustling. Distance uncertain. Possibly beyond fifty meters. I halted instinctively. Breathpaused. Muscles tightened, locked into readiness. My head turned, eyes searching the darkness surrounding us.
Another thought crossed my mind—Brock could be closer than estimated. Closer than logic had allowed for.
Chapter 6
Maeve
The coordinates led us into Mooca, an industrial district where São Paulo hid its decay behind colorful graffiti and battered storefronts. Evening shadows stretched long across narrow streets emptied of workers hours ago. The air hung heavy with cooking smells from unseen kitchens, mixed with the stale breath of urban decay.
“There aren’t many people around,” I muttered, checking my phone again.
Reaper didn’t answer. He’d been moving like a predator since we left the main road—eyes constantly scanning rooftops, doorways, shadows. His body shifted with each step, always keeping himself between me and potential threat points. Not the protection I asked for. Not the protection he’d offered. Yet there we were, locked in this lethal dance.
I checked the coordinates on my phone again and glanced at the crumbling three-story warehouse in front of us. The address matched, but the place looked abandoned, windows boarded, paint peeling like dead skin.
“This can’t be right,” I said, shaking my head. I wanted justonething to go right.
Reaper moved ahead, his posture reconfiguring to shield me from the street. Since we’d left the safehouse, he’d spoken fewer than twenty words, but his eyes hadn’t stopped their relentless assessment.
“Stay behind me,” he said, voice low.
“You don’t have to position yourself like my bodyguard.” I gestured between us. “We’re equals in this mission.”
Reaper turned back toward me, his expression stern. Everything about it seemed to say we were nowhere near equals in this situation.
“You’re a journalist,” he pointed out, “and a woman.”
“I...”
“I’ve been trained for this.”
Annoyance filled me, but I didn’t say another word. He was right in a way, I supposed. The two of us had different strengths.
The muscles across his shoulders tensed, coiled and ready. The silence between us that followed felt strangely intimate—as if we’d moved beyond the need for certain words. The building itself was unremarkable—a three-story structure with boarded windows and peeling paint. No signs, no lights, no indication anyone had entered it in years.
“This is it?” Reaper asked.
“According to the coordinates.”
Reaper approached a weathered metal door, testing the handle. It turned.
“Wait,” I said. “Be careful.”
He gave me a look that might almost have been amusement—if assassins allowed themselves such luxuries. “I know.”
Without hesitation, he pushed the door open and slipped inside. I counted to three, then followed. The interior was darker than it should have been, smelling of dust and abandonment. Nothing but bare walls and empty spaces, and that same stale scent that made my stomach rise.
