As night fully descended, Ezra stumbled out of a smoky alley, feeling the sting of a fresh wound on his arm where Veyra's drone had barely missed him. He was panting, the metallic smell of burnt tech still lingering in the air, and the unopened data pad he held felt heavy in his hand—a silent reminder of his predicament. Heart racing, he weaved through dark side streets, narrowly avoiding flickering streetlights while the distant sound of sirens faded into the night behind him.
Past midnight,
he finally arrived at the safehouse—a run-down shack on the outskirts of the city—after hitching a ride on the back of a delivery truck. His legs trembled as he slipped inside, greeted by the musty air and a weak buzzing from a single light bulb overhead, illuminating the sagging couch. He dropped onto it, wincing as he pressed a torn shirt against his bleeding arm, tears streaking down his dirty face. Kael's earlier touch from the penthouse was still vivid in his mind, a warmth that left him feeling achy with an emotion he couldn't quite place—maybe love, mixed with shame.
Suddenly, a loud crack outside jolted him upright, and he noticed the red light of a drone cutting through the grime on the window. "Not again," he mumbled, his voice hoarse as he reached for a rusted pipe with unsteady hands. With a loud bang, he fired, creating a hole in the wall, then swung the pipe hard, shattering the drone's lens as sparks flew. Hearing more drones approaching, he sank back onto the couch, feeling utterly drained, the handler's ominous words replaying in his mind as the night closed in around him.