The walls of Sarafina's apartment had begun to shrink. What was once a sanctuary of curated minimalism and polished hardwood now felt like a glass cage. She sat at her kitchen island, the burner phone lying on the marble surface like a dormant explosive. The digital glow of the screen cast a sickly, blue pallor over her features, carving deep shadows into the hollows of her collarbones.
Outside, Blackwood was a sprawling tapestry of rain and neon, but inside, the silence was absolute. It was the kind of silence that had teeth.
Sarafina scrolled through the messages again, her thumb trembling slightly. The logs on the burner were not mere business transactions. They were a chronicle of her own existence, recorded by a man who had never officially stood in the same room as her. Joseph Mcwell had been a silent ghost in the machinery of her life.
One entry from three years ago made her breath hitch. She's wearing the red dress for her twentieth birthday. It's too loud for a girl who wants to be a shadow, Stephen. Tell her to be careful. The world likes to break bright things.
Sarafina remembered that dress. She remembered feeling bold and invincible as she walked into the bistro downtown. She had thought the prickle on the back of her neck was just the excitement of the city. Now, she realized it had been the weight of a predator's gaze. Joseph hadn't just been watching for her father's mistakes; he had been curated her history. He knew when she had failed her first marksmanship test. He knew the night she had stayed up crying after her mother's memorial service.
He was a collector of her vulnerabilities.
She set the burner phone down and reached for her father's service weapon, which lay disassembled on a velvet cloth. She began to clean the barrel with a methodical, aggressive focus. The scent of gun oil and solvent filled the air, a sharp, industrial perfume that grounded her. Every movement was a prayer to a god of vengeance. She was twenty-two, and the two men she should have trusted most had turned her life into a theater of deception. One was dead and buried under a flag of lies. The other was a monster who sent her letters on cream cardstock.
The air in the apartment suddenly felt too thin. Sarafina stood and walked to the floor to ceiling window, looking out at the city lights. She felt exposed. The glass was no longer a barrier; it was a lens. She thought of the police precinct, of the sanitized files and the way Miller had looked at his shoes. She couldn't go back there. To walk into that building would be to walk into the jaws of a trap. They weren't her brothers in arms. They were the janitors cleaning up Mcwell's messes.
A sharp, digital chirp cut through the quiet.
Sarafina flinched, her hand instinctively flying to the grip of her weapon. It wasn't the burner phone. It was her personal cell, the one she used for work, for friends, for the mundane details of a life that felt a million years away.
She picked it up, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The message was from an unknown number. There was no text. Only an attachment.
She tapped the screen.
The image that bloomed on the display made the world tilt on its axis. It was a high-resolution photograph of her, taken from an elevated angle. She was sitting at her kitchen island, hunched over the burner phone, her face illuminated by the blue light. The timestamp at the bottom of the photo was from exactly forty-two minutes ago.
She wasn't just being watched from a distance. He was in the bones of the building.
Sarafina dropped the phone, the glass screen cracking as it hit the hardwood. She spun around, her eyes frantically scanning the darkened corners of her living room, the shadows beneath the bookshelves, the vents in the ceiling. The paranoia was no longer a whisper; it was a scream. Her sanctuary had been violated. Joseph was letting her know that there was no such thing as a private moment when he decided she was his focus.
The realization was a cold splash of ice water. If he could take this photo, he could have taken her life. He was playing with her, moving her across the board to see which way she would bolt.
She realized with a terrifying clarity that she couldn't solve this with a badge or a warrant. The law was a straight line in a city of curves. To catch a man like Mcwell, she had to stop being the daughter of a captain and start being the nightmare he didn't see coming. She had to go dark. She had to become the very thing the 4th Precinct feared: a rogue element with nothing left to lose.
Sarafina walked to her bedroom and pulled a heavy, black duffel bag from the back of the closet. She didn't pack photos. She didn't pack mementos. She packed black clothing, extra magazines, a burner of her own, and the silver key Joseph had gifted her.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were hard, the grief replaced by a cold, crystalline fury. She reached up and pulled her hair into a tight, severe knot.
The girl who cried at funerals was dead.
She grabbed her leather jacket and headed for the door, but she stopped when she noticed something on the entryway table. It hadn't been there when she came home.
It was a small, black box, tied with a silk ribbon the color of dried blood.
Sarafina held her breath, her fingers hovering over the silk. She pulled the ribbon slowly, the fabric sliding away with a soft, sibilant hiss. Inside the box, resting on a bed of black velvet, was a single, silver bullet.
Engraved into the side of the casing in elegant, flowing script was her name.
Sarafina.
Beside the bullet lay a small slip of paper.
The first one is always a gift, Little Bird. The rest you have to earn. I am waiting at the East Gate. Don't make me bored.
She stared at the bullet, the weight of his obsession settling over her like a heavy cloak. He wasn't just inviting her to a meeting. He was inviting her to a war. And as she stepped out into the hallway, slamming the door on her old life, Sarafina knew she wouldn't stop until one of them was as cold as the silver in her hand.
She headed for the service elevator, avoiding the lobby cameras. She was off the grid. She was a ghost in her own city.
As the elevator descended, her new burner phone vibrated.
Ten minutes, Sarafina. I can hear your heart beating from here.
The doors opened to the parking garage, and Sarafina stepped
out into the shadows, the hunt finally beginning in earnest.