The air in the room felt heavier with each second James stayed silent. I kept my eyes on the faint outline of him by the door, the dim light from the street outside brushing across his shoulders. He wasn't moving, but I knew he was listening, every shift in the wind, every creak in the hallway was being measured against some mental ledger only he could read.
I sat up, unable to ignore the prickling tension that had settled in my chest. "You're not going to sleep either, are you?"
His head tilted slightly, enough for the light to catch the hard line of his jaw. "Not tonight."
There was something about the way he said it that made me certain he wasn't just talking about the next few hours.
A car passed on the street outside, tires hissing through wet asphalt, and his gaze tracked the sound until it faded. Then he pushed away from the wall, crossing to the small dresser in three unhurried steps. He pulled open the top drawer, retrieving a small, matte-black pistol and a folded cloth. The gun disappeared into the inside pocket of his coat, the cloth into the back pocket of his jeans.
"Where are you going?" I asked, the question out before I could stop it.
He glanced at me, eyes unreadable. "To make sure we're alone."
I stood, instinct telling me not to let him walk out without me. "James..."
"Stay." The word was quiet, but it carried enough weight to stop me mid-step. His eyes softened for half a second, almost an apology, before he slipped out into the hall.
The door closed with that same deliberate click, sealing me in with the faint smell of rain and whatever cologne still lingered in the air. I moved to the window, peeling back the curtain just enough to see the street. Empty. Too empty.
The clock on the wall ticked loud enough to feel like it was keeping time with my heartbeat. Somewhere beyond the glass, James was part of that darkness, out of sight, but threaded into every shadow.
The first sound I heard in the morning wasn't the rain, it was James' voice. Low, muted, talking to someone I couldn't see. The words didn't carry, just the rhythm of them, steady and measured.
I pushed the blanket back and stood, crossing the room without letting the boards creak under my feet. The door was open a sliver. Through it, I caught the faint reflection of his coat sleeve in the narrow hallway mirror, his head angled down as he spoke into his phone.
He didn't sound like the James I knew. The warmth was gone, the edges sharpened. Whatever he was saying wasn't meant for me, and the longer I listened, the more I was sure I didn't want to know.
The conversation ended with a curt word. He stayed still for a moment, phone still in hand, before sliding it into his pocket. His eyes lifted just enough to catch mine through the narrow gap in the door.
"You're up," he said. Not a question.
I stepped out into the hall. "Who was that?"
"No one who needs your name." He started toward the stairs without slowing. "Get your shoes on. We're leaving now."
The safehouse felt different in the daylight, though daylight barely touched the place. The mist outside had thickened again, coating the windows in a dull silver. James opened the door, scanning the street before motioning me forward.
We didn't speak as we walked, only the sound of our steps and the faint hiss of tires somewhere blocks away. Every turn he took felt intentional, leading us deeper into streets I didn't recognize.
"Where are we going?" I asked finally.
"A place where people owe me enough to keep their mouths shut," he said, and his tone made it clear that was the end of it.
The buildings here were older, brick gone dark from years of weather. He stopped in front of one with a steel door and no sign. One knock, then two more. A man answered, heavyset and silent, stepping aside as James guided me in.
Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of tobacco. Low voices drifted from deeper in the building, but no one came close enough to greet us. James led me down a narrow hall, his hand brushing the small of my back just enough to guide me without looking like he was doing it.
We stepped into a back room lit by a single hanging bulb. A table sat in the center, with two chairs and nothing else.
"Sit," James said.
I did.
He set the envelope down between us again, like it had never left his hand since last night. "We can't carry this forever," he said quietly. "Sooner or later, it's going to open."
I looked at him, at the shadows under his eyes, at the way his fingers rested on the paper like it might burn through. "Then tell me what's in it before it does."
He leaned back slightly, his jaw tightening. "If I tell you, there's no taking it back."
"Maybe I don't want to take it back."
The silence that followed was different this time, not the absence of sound, but the weight of a choice hovering between us.
James' eyes stayed locked on mine, as if measuring how much of the truth I could hold without shattering.
He didn't reach for the envelope. Didn't push it toward me, either. Just let it sit there like a live wire between us.
"You've been dragged into enough," he said finally. "If I cut you in any deeper, there's no pulling you out."
"Maybe I don't want out."
A faint muscle in his jaw moved, the only sign my words had landed. Then he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, voice low enough I had to lean in to hear.
"What's inside this doesn't just burn the people who touch it," he said. "It burns anyone they look at. People disappear over less."
"People disappear without reason too," I said. "You, of all people, should know that."
Something flickered in his expression, something quick, almost gone before I could place it. He sat back, the distance between us returning like a wall.
"Not here," he said, and the finality in his tone told me that, for now, the envelope would remain sealed.
But as we sat there in the dim light, I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever was in that envelope had already started working on both of us, even without opening it.
The bulb above us buzzed once, a faint flicker rolling across the table. James' eyes tracked it for a fraction of a second, then came back to me, sharper than before.
"We're not staying here long," he said, voice clipped.
I nodded, but my gaze drifted back to the envelope. My fingers itched to touch it, to feel the weight of whatever truth it carried. He noticed, of course he noticed.
His hand came down over mine before I reached it, the pressure steady but not painful. "Don't," he said. Not a warning. A command.
The door opened a crack. The heavyset man from before leaned in just far enough to speak. "You've got company outside."
James didn't look at him. "How many?"
"Two cars. Haven't moved since they rolled up."
A breath slid slow through James' nose. He took his hand from mine, slid the envelope into his coat, and stood. "We go out the back."
I rose with him, pulse already tightening. The table and the dim light stayed behind as we slipped into the narrow hall. James moved ahead, silent but quick, one hand hovering near the inside of his coat.
Before we reached the exit, he stopped and turned just enough to meet my eyes. "Once we're outside, stay close and don't speak unless I tell you to."
I didn't answer, I just nodded.
The back door opened to a colder wind, the alley tight and shadowed. Somewhere beyond the brick walls, engines idled low, patient.
James stepped out first. I followed.
The door shut behind us with the kind of sound that makes you wonder if you'll be coming back.