The engine screamed.
My bike tore through the asphalt of the city, weaving between the late-night traffic of Aversque Boulevard. The wind whipped against my jacket, finding every gap, chilling the sweat on my skin.
I didn't feel the cold. I felt a burning, acidic heat in my stomach.
Anna.
He had said her name. He knew where she lived. He knew she was my roommate.
That crossed a line. In the story of Heaven Waits, Hell Grabs, villains usually targeted the main characters. They went after the heroes. They didn't target the Extra C. They didn't threaten the civilian roommate who just wanted to braid hair and bake garlic bread.
This wasn't in the script.
I drifted around a corner, the tires screeching in protest. The neon sign of the convenience store blurred past.
I killed the engine a block away from Syn Hotels. I didn't bother locking the bike. If someone stole it, fine. I had bigger problems.
I walked to the service entrance. The steel door. The keypad.
