I didn't sleep.
I lay on the edge of the bed with the city glowing through the glass, counting breaths, listening to sounds that weren't there. Every luxury suite claims silence, but silence is never empty. It hums. It waits. It remembers.
She slept like she had nothing to lose.
Curled on her side, hair spilling across the pillow, breathing slow and even. No weapon within reach. No tension in her body. Either she trusted the walls to protect her, or she trusted me not to kill her in my sleep.
Both were dangerous assumptions.
By dawn, the city shifted from neon sin to polished ambition. Sunlight crept across the floor, exposing fingerprints, discarded clothes, the evidence of choices made too quickly. She stirred, stretched, and opened her eyes like she'd been waiting for me to move first.
"You're still here," she said.
"So are you."
She smiled faintly and sat up, pulling the sheet around herself. "That means you chose correctly."
"I chose not to die before breakfast."
"Same thing."
She stood and crossed the room, unbothered by my stare. Confidence like that doesn't come from beauty alone. It comes from leverage.
"We're leaving," she said. "Get dressed."
"Where?"
"Somewhere safer."
"That place exists?" I asked.
"For now."
She handed me a phone that wasn't mine. No cracks. No case. No fingerprints.
"Memorize the number," she said. "Then destroy it."
I looked at the screen. One contact. No name.
"And if I don't?"
She met my gaze. "Then you won't make it past noon."
We left through a private elevator that bypassed the lobby entirely. Underground. The kind of exit meant for people who don't want to be seen leaving or entering. The car waiting below was blacked out, engine already running.
The driver didn't look at us.
We drove without speaking, the city changing block by block. Glass towers gave way to older buildings, then to streets that remembered violence. The air felt different here. Heavier. Honest.
"Why bring me here?" I asked.
"Because this is where your reputation still matters," she said. "And where mine doesn't."
The car stopped in front of a warehouse that pretended to be abandoned. Rusted doors. Faded signs. Lies stacked on lies.
Inside, the air smelled like oil and old money. Men moved quietly, efficiently. Armed, disciplined, watching without staring. They knew me. Or at least the version of me that survived long enough to earn a look.
"This is a bad idea," I muttered.
"All good ideas are," she replied.
We were led into an office overlooking the floor. One man waited there. Older. Calm. The kind of calm that comes from knowing everyone else is expendable.
"She vouches for you," he said without greeting.
"I don't need a babysitter," I said.
He smiled thinly. "Everyone does."
She stood beside me, close enough that her shoulder brushed mine. A reminder. Or a threat.
"You took something," the man continued.
"I didn't."
"You were there."
"Yes."
"That's enough."
He slid a photo across the desk. The buyer. Alive. Smiling. Before the alley.
"Where is it?" he asked.
"I don't know what 'it' is."
His eyes flicked to her. "He's convincing."
"He's honest," she said.
"That's not the same thing."
The man leaned back. "Then you'll help us find it."
"And if I don't?" I asked.
"Then we stop protecting you."
I laughed quietly. "You never were."
He studied me for a long moment. "You have until nightfall."
We were escorted out without ceremony.
In the car, she was silent.
"You enjoy putting me in rooms like that?" I asked.
"No," she said. "But you needed to see how little time you have."
"And you?" I asked. "What do you get out of this?"
She looked out the window. "Control."
We stopped again, this time in the slums.
My slums.
The streets raised me didn't forget me. Eyes followed. Whispers traveled. Doors closed softly. This place remembered debts.
"You're insane," I said. "Bringing me here paints a target on both of us."
"I know," she replied. "That's the point."
We walked.
Men approached. Questions were asked without words. I answered in posture and silence. She stayed close, letting them see she belonged to me—or that I belonged to her. Either story worked.
A boy I used to run with pulled me aside.
"They're asking about you," he whispered. "Offering money."
"Who?"
He glanced at her. "People who don't like no."
I nodded. "Stay invisible."
He disappeared.
She watched it all with interest. "You still have influence."
"For now."
"That makes you useful."
We reached a corner where blood had dried into the concrete years ago. My phone vibrated.
UNKNOWN: They're lying to you.
I didn't show her.
"Someone's playing both sides," I said instead.
She stopped walking. "Yes."
"And you're not telling me everything."
"No."
I turned to face her. "Then we're already dead."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Then stop expecting honesty from people who trade in lies."
A shot rang out.
Glass exploded behind us.
She shoved me down as another round cracked the air. Screams erupted. Chaos bloomed.
"Move!" she shouted.
We ran.
I dragged her into an alley, heart pounding, instincts screaming. Footsteps. Shouting. Someone fell.
We burst through a door and slammed it shut. Darkness. Dust. Breathing too loud.
She pressed against me, close, intimate, dangerous.
"You okay?" she whispered.
"Are you?" I shot back.
She nodded, eyes bright. "They weren't supposed to fire here."
"That doesn't make me feel better."
She reached into her jacket and pulled out a gun.
I stared. "You said you weren't muscle."
"I'm adaptable."
We waited until the noise passed.
When we emerged, the street was empty. Blood stained the pavement. Someone wouldn't be going home tonight.
In the car again, she was quiet. Tense.
"They're accelerating," she said.
"Why?"
"Because you matter more than you should."
My phone buzzed again.
UNKNOWN: She's the key.
I looked at her profile. Calm. Controlled. Untouchable.
"Who are you really?" I asked.
She didn't look at me. "Someone who won't survive this if you don't."
"And if I do?"
She finally met my gaze. "Then neither of us gets out clean."
The car disappeared into traffic, carrying us deeper into something already spiraling.
And for the first time, I understood the truth.
The danger wasn't choosing her.
It was what choosing her was going to cost.