I could almost hear my brother’s voice: “When someone cuts off all your exits, they’re preparing to move in.”
I pulled up the last functional VPN on my system and routed through it to a rarely used email address—one I’d registered using public Wi-Fi and a burner phone on my first day in Brazil. It was the digital equivalent of a message in a bottle, but it was all I had left.
I sent a quick SOS to my source—three characters that meant “compromise imminent” in our pre-established code. My finger hesitated over the send button. If my opposition was as sophisticated as they seemed, even this could be monitored. I hit send anyway.
The notification chime startled me enough that I knocked over the drink onto the floor, liquid splattering across the thin carpet.
A single message sat in the inbox, sent thirty seconds ago:
GET OUT NOW. M-PROJECT APPROACHING. ARMED.
Thetimestamp: 2:19 AM.
Oh, fuck.
My pulse spiked. I scanned the message twice, trying to process it. My source not only knew I was compromised but had visual confirmation of an approaching threat. That meant they were either nearby or had access to surveillance I didn’t know about. Under other circumstances, that would have terrified me. Right now, it was the least of my concerns.
A follow-up message appeared before I could respond:
ONLY TAKE WHAT YOU ABSOLUTELY NEED. TRUST NO ONE. GO NOW.
My mind shifted gears instantly. No time for fear.
My hands moved before my mind fully processed the information, muscle memory from Xavier’s paranoid drills taking over. I grabbed my go-bag from under the bed—pre-packed with essentials, cash in multiple currencies, two burner phones, and a pre-paid international transport card.
I swapped my laptop for the weathered journal containing my most crucial notes—handwritten, nothing that could be remotely accessed or tracked. The photo of Xavier went into my pocket.
I made a mental inventory. Passport. Knife. The thumb drive with scanned evidence. The emergency contact numbers memorized.
Fifteen seconds gone.
My movements were steady, practiced. Xavier’s voice guided me: “Fifteen seconds to gather essentials. Thirty seconds to clear evidence. Forty-five seconds to exit.”
Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.
It was thirty-seven seconds when I spotted it: the bathroom door standing slightly ajar.
I froze.
I always close doors fully. Always. It’s a habit Xavier drilled into me.
When I entered this room, I checked the bathroom first thing. I’d closed that door completely. I had a sequence of things I did wherever I went, just to keep myself safe, and there was no way I would’ve missed something like this. Someone was in here. With me.Right now.
My heartbeat sounded like thunder in my ears. My fingers inched toward the knife in my pocket. The silence in the room suddenly felt wrong. Too complete. The dripping faucet I’d noticed earlier had stopped. The hum of the air conditioner continued, but beneath it—nothing. My breath hitched in the back of my throat, and a single drop of sweat rolled down my forehead. My entire body pulsed with adrenaline. There was no way I could make it out before whoever hid there got to me first.
The air shifted—a subtle change in pressure that raised the fine hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. That primal sixth sense recognized a predator’s presence, and it had never been wrong before.
My hand wrapped around the knife handle as I pivoted slowly toward the window. I gripped it tightly, ready for use. Fire escape. Four steps away. Three. Two.
The bathroom door swung open without a sound.
I stopped breathing.
Reaper filled the doorway like death personified. His tall frame shouldn’t have fit through the bathroom’s narrow window—I’d assessed it as an eight-inch gap, far too small for a man his size. Yet, there he stood, not a hair out of place, as if he had materialized from the shadows themselves.
The overhead light illuminated what darkness had hidden during our first encounter—broad shoulders beneath a fitted black jacket. Dark hair cut short. A face carved from stone—no warmth, no emotion, just cold symmetry designed for nothing but efficiency. But it was his eyes that paralyzed me—dark blue like the deep sea, and just as lethal.
He stepped forward. I stepped back. A predator-prey dance began. I gripped my knife tighter, holding it right in front of me, but Reaper didn’t even let his glance land on the blade—as if it wasn’t even a threat.
