---
Elara had been waiting.
The last three nights, she stayed half-awake beside Cass, feigning sleep while the apartment settled into silence. And every night, like clockwork, she heard it: the soft creak of Miles's door, the hush of footsteps, the front door easing shut.
Always at the same time. Always around one in the morning.
Tonight, she was ready.
Her sneakers were by the bed. The journal was hidden under Cass's pillow, safe where she knew Miles couldn't touch it without waking him. She slipped on a hoodie, tied her hair back, and waited until she heard the door close.
Her pulse hammered so loudly she was sure Cass would wake. But he didn't stir.
She crept to the window, watching as Miles appeared on the street below. His hood was up, shoulders hunched, stride purposeful. He didn't look like a man running out for cigarettes. He looked like a man with an appointment.
Elara's throat tightened. She grabbed her bag and slipped out the door after him.
---
The night air hit her like cold glass.
She stayed half a block behind, keeping to the shadows, the soles of her sneakers soundless on the cracked pavement. Miles walked fast, like he knew exactly where he was headed.
Downtown's edge was quieter than the city center—rows of shuttered storefronts, streetlights buzzing faintly, dumpsters reeking of rot. Each corner felt like it could swallow her whole.
She tightened her grip on her bag, forcing her breath slow.
Miles didn't look back. He cut through alleys, crossed deserted intersections without hesitation, his steps sure. Too sure.
Elara followed.
---
After ten minutes, he ducked into an underpass, graffiti scrawled across its concrete ribs. The orange glow of a single streetlamp painted him in broken light.
She hesitated at the corner, pulse drumming. If he turned, he'd see her.
But he didn't. He pulled his phone from his pocket, lifted it to his ear.
Her skin prickled as she strained to listen.
"…yeah. Heading there now… No, they don't know."
Her chest constricted.
Miles moved again, slipping deeper into the underpass, his voice fading.
Elara pressed her back to the wall, her whole body trembling.
She wanted to run back. To wake Cass. To scream that she had been right all along.
But she didn't.
She followed.
---
The trail took her further into the city's forgotten veins—places she'd never seen at night. Blocks of old warehouses, their windows shattered like broken teeth. Fences sagging under the weight of rust.
Miles slipped between two chain-link gates and vanished into a shadowed yard.
Elara crept closer, her hands sweating against the metal links.
Inside, under the thin light of a broken floodlamp, three figures waited.
All masked.
Her breath caught. The same faceless masks that had chased them through the streets.
Miles strode up to them like he belonged there. One of the figures nodded.
She couldn't hear everything—just fragments that floated through the still night air.
"…coordinates soon… they're close…"
"…journal's locked down…"
"…sister doesn't trust me…"
Her blood froze.
They were talking about her. About Cass.
Her throat ached from holding back the scream pressing at it.
She gripped the fence so hard the metal dug into her palms.
---
Miles pulled something from his pocket. Papers? No—notes, scribbled lines she recognized instantly. Cass's work.
He handed them over.
Elara's stomach dropped.
One of the masked figures took the pages, studying them beneath the lamplight. Another leaned close to Miles, speaking low. She couldn't make out the words, but the posture was clear: orders.
Miles nodded. Like a soldier.
Elara staggered back, her breath ragged.
Proof. She had it. No one could deny it now.
But if she stayed, if they saw her—
She turned, heart racing, and fled the way she came.
---
The run back to the apartment felt endless. Her legs ached, her lungs burned, but she didn't stop until the brownstone came into view. She scrambled up the stairs, fumbling with the key Cass had given her.
The door creaked as it opened.
Inside, the apartment was silent, warm with the smell of stale coffee. Cass still slept on the futon, one arm curled protectively around the journal.
Elara leaned against the door, chest heaving, tears stinging her eyes.
She wanted to shake him awake, to tell him everything.
But the image of him looking at her—doubtful, dismissive, defending Miles—stopped her cold.
Not yet.
If she told him now, without showing him, he'd never believe her.
So she swallowed the panic clawing at her throat. She kicked off her shoes, slid back under the blanket beside Cass, and clutched the edge of the journal.
Her hands still trembled.
Outside, faint footsteps echoed down the street.
Miles was coming home.
---
When the door opened, Elara forced her breathing steady, eyelids heavy.
She heard him pause in the kitchen. Heard the faint creak of his chair. The scrape of a match, the scent of smoke curling under the door.
He was calm. Too calm.
After a long moment, his footsteps retreated into his room.
Elara opened her eyes in the dark, her heart slamming against her ribs.
Now she had more than suspicions.
She had seen him. Heard him. Watched him hand over Cass's notes to masked strangers in the shadows.
It was no longer a question of trust.
It was survival.
And when morning came, she would have to decide how to make Cass see it.
---