The rain hadn't stopped all night.It drummed against the window like a heartbeat I couldn't quiet. The room smelled of wet asphalt and coffee grounds gone cold.
I hadn't slept. I just sat there, half-lit by the gray dawn, watching the steam from my mug fade into nothing.Lily lay on the couch, wrapped in the blanket I'd given her. Every so often she twitched—small, restless movements, like her body was still running from what it had seen.
She looks too calm for someone who's seen death.The thought hit me hard, because I remembered another night like this: my brother, pale and shaking, telling me he'd found something inside Nexora he shouldn't have. I hadn't listened then. I would now.
I turned back to the window. The city was still there—its skyline blurred by the storm, lights blinking like tired eyes. Somewhere out there, Damian Cross was already spinning his next lie.
A soft sound broke my thoughts.Lily stirred, pressing a hand to her face. When she opened her eyes, she looked confused at first, then remembered. Her shoulders stiffened.
"Morning," I said quietly.
She blinked toward the window. "Still raining."
"New York doesn't know when to quit."
She gave a weak smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Not really." I gestured toward the mug. "Coffee's terrible, but it's hot."
She sat up slowly, hair mussed, the blanket sliding to her lap. "Thanks."When she took the mug, her fingers brushed mine—cold skin, trembling a little.
For a while we just listened to the rain. It was easier than talking.
Then she asked, "You keep files on Nexora, don't you?"
I hesitated. The laptop was still open on the table, documents scattered everywhere. She'd seen enough last night to guess.
"Yeah," I said finally. "Everything I could find."
She walked closer, the floor creaking under her bare feet. "Can I see?"
I nodded and turned the screen so she could. She leaned over it, eyes scanning lines of data, photos, encrypted archives. The blue light reflected in her pale eyes like ghosts.
"These people…" she whispered. "They worked there?"
"Most of them," I said. "Some disappeared. Some 'resigned.' All of them had one thing in common—they got too close to the truth."
She looked up at me. "And your brother?"
My throat tightened. "He's one of them."
Silence. Only rain.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I didn't know."
"You couldn't."
She reached out and rested a hand on my arm—a small gesture, but it steadied me more than she realized.
"Jacob, we can't run forever," she said. "If you've been collecting this for years, maybe we can do something with it. Publish it. Leak it."
I wanted to believe her. I really did. But hope was dangerous.
"Maybe," I said. "But first we make sure we're still alive by morning."
Her eyes flicked toward the window again. "You think they'll come?"
"I think Cross doesn't like loose ends."
She swallowed, then nodded. "Then we stay awake."
By afternoon the apartment felt smaller, like the rain was pressing the walls closer. Jacob barely spoke, fingers flying across the keyboard, screens filled with code and files I didn't understand.
I tried to distract myself—tidied the tiny kitchen, made more coffee—but fear had a smell, metallic and sharp. Every sound outside made me jump.
When Jacob finally stood and stretched, I exhaled without realizing I'd been holding my breath.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I think so."
He studied me, then offered a small, almost shy smile. "You're handling this better than I did my first week in Nexora's mess."
"That's not saying much," I said, and he actually laughed—a quiet, tired sound that somehow made the rain less heavy.
For a moment, the world felt almost normal.
The afternoon light never quite arrived. The clouds were so thick that the rain looked silver, sliding down the window in unbroken lines.
Jacob pulled a chair to the table and pushed a few open folders toward me. "If you're really serious about helping, start here. See the pattern?"
Names. Dates. Project codes.At first it was just noise, but then I saw it—certain employees vanished right after signing the same internal contract: Project Lumen.
"Every person on this list worked under the same department," I said.
Jacob nodded. "Clean-energy division. Nexora's golden child on paper, but off record it funneled money somewhere else. My brother's last message to me said only one thing—'Lumen isn't light.'"
The words felt like ice. I looked up at him. "You think it's a cover for something illegal?"
"I know it is. I just can't prove what."
He leaned over my shoulder, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of soap and coffee. The screen's glow painted both of us in cold blue.
"Cross hides everything behind shell companies," he said. "If we find one unregistered account, we'll have our first crack."
"I can search public records," I offered. "Cross-check against the names here."
His lips curved slightly. "You're good at this."
"Journalism major, remember?"
"Right." He looked at me a moment longer than necessary before clearing his throat. "Thanks."
By the time we burned the second batch of toast, I'd stopped caring about the taste. The smell filled the small room, warm against the damp air.
"You really don't sleep much, do you?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Dreams aren't my thing lately."
I wanted to tell him that sometimes sleep wasn't rest for me either—that the moment I closed my eyes, I saw Damian Cross again, calm as he ended a man's life. But saying it out loud felt like giving it more power.
So instead, I said, "Then maybe you need better dreams."
That made him laugh, quiet and surprised. "Maybe you'll find me one."
Something in the way he said it made my chest tighten. I looked down, pretending to focus on the toast.
Outside, thunder rolled over the river.
The clock crept toward night. We decided to keep lights low, curtains drawn. Jacob checked the locks twice, then sat by the window with his laptop, tracking encrypted network traffic.
I sat on the couch, trying to read one of the old newspapers he'd left out. The headlines blurred; my eyes kept drifting to him instead.
He looked so still, like the storm couldn't touch him—but I saw the strain in his shoulders, the way he tensed at every sound from the hallway.
When the knock finally came, it was soft, almost polite. Three times.
I froze. Jacob's head snapped up.
A second knock—slower. Then the faint rattle of metal against the lock.
"Someone's at the door," I whispered.
He was already moving. "Closet. Now."
I didn't argue. I slipped inside the narrow space between coats, heart hammering loud enough I was sure the stranger could hear it. Through the crack of the door, I watched Jacob cross the room.
The doorknob turned once. Stopped. Then turned again, harder.
Jacob gripped something under the table—a small tactical knife. He stood perfectly still.
The lock clicked. The door eased open a few inches. Rain-cooled air drifted in, carrying the smell of the city.
A figure in a black jacket stepped inside, scanning the room with a small flashlight.
My breath caught. The beam slid over the couch, the papers, the mug on the table—then stopped on the photo of me and Jacob spread across the laptop screen.
Jacob moved silently behind him. The intruder turned just in time to see the glint of the knife; he bolted, slamming the door and pounding down the stairs before Jacob could reach him.
For a heartbeat, nothing but rain.
Then Jacob locked the door, chest rising fast. "You can come out."
I stumbled from the closet, shaking. "Who—who was that?"
He held up something he'd picked off the floor. A badge. Nexora Group.
My knees gave out; I sat on the edge of the couch, pressing a hand to my mouth.
"They know where we are," I whispered.
Jacob crouched in front of me. His hands were steady now, voice low. "Hey. Look at me."
I did. His eyes were dark, tired, but certain.
"You're safe," he said. "I promise."
He brushed a stray strand of hair from my face and, almost without thinking, pressed his lips to my forehead—a small, quiet gesture that carried more comfort than any words.
For the first time in days, I believed him.
The rain kept falling. Neither of us spoke. The apartment felt smaller again, but the silence between us had changed—less fear, more resolve.
Jacob finally stood, still holding the badge. "Tomorrow, we disappear," he said. "But before that, we find out what this means."
I nodded, fingers tightening around the blanket. "Together."
"Together," he echoed.
Outside, lightning flashed—white light reflected in the wet glass—and for a second it looked like the whole city was watching.