Tracy's pov
Episode 8
Chicago. 2:46 a.m.
The city never really slept. It only pretended to. Neon signs buzzed in the mist, traffic lights blinked through the fog, and sirens wailed in the distance like a lullaby for the damned.
A man stood beneath a flickering streetlamp, the light cutting shadows across his sharp jaw and tired eyes. His gray coat swayed faintly in the wind. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, smoke curling upward, though he hadn't taken a drag in minutes. He looked more like a ghost than a man.
Eli Dray.
He wasn't one for rules. Or roots. Or goodbyes. But he had a gift—secrets. He could find them, keep them, and sometimes, twist them into currency.
Across the street, a high-rise window flickered once. Then twice.
Eli crushed the cigarette beneath his boot, the ember dying with a hiss.
"She's late," he muttered, though his voice carried no surprise.
Then he heard it—the sharp click of heels against concrete, steady and deliberate. Not hurried. Not hesitant. Each step fell like punctuation.
She emerged through the fog, her long coat trailing behind her, hair pinned up in a way that dared anyone to look closer. She wasn't flashy. She didn't need to be. Her pale green eyes said enough—calculating, cold, the kind of eyes that made you feel exposed with just one glance.
Mara Vex.
Officially: museum curator.
Unofficially: ghost.
"Eli." Her tone was flat, unreadable.
"Mara." He inclined his head.
"I said no contact for six months."
"And yet," he replied, a smirk tugging at his mouth, "here you are."
She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "You sent the raven card. You don't send that unless you want blood."
Eli didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph. The edges were crumpled, the corners burned, like it had survived a fire it wasn't supposed to. He handed it over.
Mara took it. For a moment, the fog seemed to thicken between them.
A young woman's face stared up from the photo. Innocent. Determined. Unaware.
Tracy Lane.
Mara's frown was sharp. "She's just a girl."
"Not anymore."
"What do you want from me, Eli?"
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I want to know why her name is in the same vault as mine."
The photo trembled slightly in Mara's hand. For the first time, her mask cracked. "No one's supposed to access that list. It's sealed."
"Unless someone's rewriting it," Eli said.
Silence stretched between them, heavy as the city fog. Mara's green eyes glinted with something like fear—or recognition.
"If this is real," she whispered, "then you and I aren't the only ones who came back."
Eli pulled another cigarette from his coat, lit it, and exhaled smoke into the cold night. "Then maybe we better start running."
Mara didn't move. "Or we start watching."
He turned to her, his gaze cutting sharp as glass. "You still trust me?"
"No."
"Good," he said. "Let's keep it that way."
The cigarette's ember glowed red in the mist, a silent warning in the dark.
---
Tracy's POV
I couldn't sleep. Not really.
Not with my thoughts circling like vultures, each one uglier than the last.
Who wanted me? Why me?
The answer I kept circling back to was Dad. My dad. The one man I never wanted to rely on again. And yet… he was the only one who could give me answers now.
As much as I despised him, as much as his gambling had ruined our family, I had to believe he hadn't completely sold me off to whoever was after me. At least not for my mother's sake. For her memory.
But then there was Zane.
Zane with his impossible eyes,