Sky had no idea where he was.
Concrete. Rusted fences. Broken glass crunching under his boots. The streetlights back here flickered like dying stars, casting everything in a sickly yellow haze.
And it was silent.
The kind of silence that pressed against your chest and made your heartbeat sound too loud.
He ducked behind a dumpster, breathing hard, trying to remember what Day had said about people like this.
Don't trust anyone. Don't call for help. Don't wait to be found.
But he wasn't Day.
He didn't know how to vanish into shadows or shoot his way out of a problem. All he had was a glittery shirt, bruised knees, and a little too much faith in people who smiled too easily.
Think, he told himself. If you were Day, what would you do?
The answer came fast and brutal: You wouldn't have gotten in that car.
Sky squeezed his eyes shut. Useless thought.
Footsteps echoed somewhere behind him.
He flinched, heart slamming into his ribs like it wanted out. He couldn't stay here. He had to move. Keep moving. Even if every part of him ached.
He slipped between a broken chain-link fence and a wall, emerging into a narrow alley between two warehouses. His shirt snagged on the fence, ripping a bit—great—and his palms stung from earlier when he'd scraped them during the escape.
He didn't know where to go. No idea which way led back to the city.
Then—voices. Close.
Sky backed up, but too late. One of the shadows turned toward him.
"Well," the man said, eyes glinting. "The prince's pet."
Sky bolted again. Around a corner. Over a low wall. His breath came in sharp, panicked gasps.
He didn't make it far.
A rough hand caught his wrist and yanked him backward. He hit the ground hard, pain shooting up his side. The man loomed over him, pulling something from his coat—a blade, glinting faintly.
Sky's chest rose and fell like he was trying to breathe underwater.
"I was told to bring you in," the man said, crouching. "But no one said you had to be in one piece."
Then—
Crack.
The gunshot was deafening.
The man collapsed sideways, blood blooming across his chest.
Sky stared, shaking.
And standing behind the smoke, eyes furious, gun still raised—
Was Day.
Not in a suit this time. Not composed. Not calm.
His hair was windblown, his shirt half-buttoned, his expression carved from rage.
"Don't touch what's mine," he said coldly.
Sky couldn't move.
Day dropped to his knees beside him, voice low now. "You okay?"
Sky opened his mouth—but no words came out.
So he did the only thing he could do.
He reached for Day's hand and didn't let go.