The horn split the quiet like glass shattering.
I flinched before I even turned, the sound ricocheting off the slick brick walls around us. Behind us, headlights swelled in the rain, cutting through the narrow street like a blade. Tires hissed over wet asphalt, the car sliding just enough to make my stomach clench before it stopped hard at the curb.
James was already moving. His hand found my arm, firm but controlled, pulling me into the shadowed recess of a boarded-up doorway. My shoulder hit the cold wood, and he stepped in close, shielding me from view as the black sedan idled only a few feet away.
The driver's side window rolled down halfway. I couldn't see a face, just the faint outline of someone watching. The hum of the engine bled into the steady rhythm of rain hitting the roof.
"Stay here," James murmured without looking at me. His voice was low, quiet enough that I almost missed it over the rain.
He stepped forward, slow but deliberate, the kind of movement that made the space between seconds feel longer than it should. The figure inside the car shifted, but didn't speak. My pulse beat heavy in my ears.
Then James leaned down, close enough to the open window that I couldn't hear the words, only the cadence, low, measured, dangerous. The driver replied just once, voice too muffled to catch, before the window slid back up and the car pulled away, disappearing into the mist like it had never been there.
James didn't come back right away. He watched the corner where the taillights vanished, his jaw tight, the rain beading on his coat. When he did turn, his expression gave me nothing.
"Let's move," he said. And I didn't ask.
We moved quickly, boots splashing through shallow puddles as the city closed in around us. The sound of the car's engine still echoed faintly in my mind, even though it was long gone. James kept a step ahead, glancing back just enough to make sure I was still there. The rain had eased into a mist, the kind that clung to your skin and made the air taste metallic. Each streetlight we passed felt like an island in the dark, and I realized I was measuring the distance between them, counting them like a clock ticking down to something unseen.
When James finally slowed, we were in front of a building I didn't recognize. Its facade was a mix of peeling paint and faded signage, the kind of place people passed without looking twice. He opened the door without knocking, guiding me inside with a hand at my back. The smell of old wood and faint smoke hit me first, followed by the low murmur of voices deeper in. Whoever they belonged to, they went silent the moment we stepped in.
I didn't know what this place was, but the way James carried himself here told me it wasn't somewhere strangers wandered into uninvited.
The rain clung to us as we moved, droplets catching in my lashes and blurring the glow of the streetlamps into smeared halos. James kept a steady pace, one hand at the small of my back, guiding me without speaking.
We cut through a side alley where the light barely reached, the scent of damp stone and old engine oil clinging to the air. Water dripped from rusted fire escapes overhead, each drop sharp against the quiet. My pulse still hadn't steadied, and I kept glancing back over my shoulder, half-expecting those headlights to reappear.
"Who was that?" I finally asked, voice hushed but taut.
James didn't slow. "Someone who needed a reminder about boundaries."
It was the kind of answer that explained nothing but told me everything. His tone left no room for further questions, yet the tension in his shoulders hinted the conversation in the car had been more than just a warning.
We emerged onto a broader street, neon signs flickering through the drizzle. The reflections bled across wet pavement, painting everything in fractured reds and blues. James steered us toward a building at the corner, tall, narrow, its brickwork darkened by years of rain. A single light burned above the recessed door.
He knocked twice. The sound was dull, swallowed by the weather, but the door opened within seconds. A man I didn't recognize stood there, heavyset with a weathered face and eyes that flicked over me before locking on James.
"You're late," the man said, stepping aside.
James guided me in without a word. The air inside was warm, thick with the scent of tobacco and something faintly metallic. Somewhere deeper in the building, voices murmured low, and the faint sound of a card game carried through the walls.
The door shut behind us, muting the rain entirely.
The air inside wrapped around me, warm and heavy, a stark contrast to the damp chill outside. The faint tang of tobacco lingered under the richer scent of aged wood, the kind that creaked when you leaned your weight on it. Somewhere beyond the narrow hall ahead, a low hum of voices and the muted clatter of cards on a table rose and fell in uneven rhythm.
James' hand rested at the small of my back, a subtle but unyielding pressure guiding me forward. We passed a row of closed doors, each with its own muted story leaking through the gaps, a muffled laugh here, a scrape of a chair there. I felt every sound in my chest, like the building itself was breathing around us.
The hallway opened into a wider room with low lighting and shadows that moved like they belonged. Men sat in loose clusters, speaking in low tones, their attention flicking toward us only long enough to register me, then James, before returning to their conversations. It wasn't indifference, it was the kind of acknowledgment that said they already knew who we were, and that knowledge was enough.
James didn't speak to anyone. He led me toward a corner where the light was weakest, a booth tucked back far enough that the rest of the room became a blur of motion and sound. He slid in first, watching the entrance, leaving me to take the seat opposite. The leather was worn smooth under my fingers, its seams split in places.
A man I hadn't noticed before appeared at the end of the booth, his presence quiet but weighted. He placed two glasses on the table without a word, one in front of James, one in front of me, then disappeared as silently as he had come.
I wrapped my hands around the glass, more for something to do than from any desire to drink. James' gaze stayed fixed on the room, sharp and unblinking, and I realized that while I was trying to take in my surroundings, he was cataloging every face, every movement, every shift in the air.
The booth felt like an island. Shadows pressed close on all sides, but the air between us was taut, threaded with things unsaid. James hadn't moved much since we sat down. His fingers rested loosely on his glass, but I could see the faint tension in the tendons along the back of his hand, the way his thumb tapped against the rim once, twice, then stilled.
I tried to drink, but the liquid's bite was sharp, coating my tongue with heat I couldn't quite swallow. It was easier to focus on the room, the way laughter came in short bursts and cut off quickly, the scrape of a chair leg against the warped floorboards, the smell of tobacco thickening in the air until it seemed to cling to my skin.
Across from me, James' gaze flicked briefly toward a table on the far side of the room. The group there was different from the others, quieter, not playing cards or speaking freely. They sat close, heads angled toward one another, eyes darting occasionally toward the entrance.
I opened my mouth to ask what we were doing here, but a sharp sound cut me off, a glass set down too hard somewhere behind me. Conversation ebbed, then flowed again, the disruption small but enough to send a ripple through the room.
James leaned forward slightly, his elbows braced on the table. "You're safe here," he said, low enough that it might not have reached me if I hadn't been watching his lips. "But don't draw attention to yourself."
The warning sat between us like a third presence. I didn't argue.
Minutes passed in a kind of suspended stillness until a man with a narrow frame and deep-set eyes slid into the booth beside James. He smelled faintly of rain and cold air, and his clothes were dark enough to blend with the corner's shadows. He didn't look at me.
"You brought her," the man said quietly, not quite a question.
James' reply was even quieter. "She's under my watch."
The man gave a short nod, his gaze still fixed forward. "Then you need to know something. Word is out. Someone's asking questions about her. Not the kind you want being answered."
A weight settled in my stomach. My fingers tightened around the glass. James didn't react, at least not outwardly, but the air between them seemed to grow denser.
"Names?" James asked.
The man hesitated, then shook his head. "Not yet. But the trail's warm."
They exchanged a look that said more than the words had. Then the man slid out of the booth and vanished into the crowd, gone so quickly it was as if the shadows had taken him back.
James leaned back, his attention returning to me. His expression was unreadable, but his next words were clear enough. "We don't stay long."
I didn't realize how tense my shoulders had gotten until James stood, the booth suddenly feeling colder without his shadow cast across it. I slid out after him, careful not to meet the eyes of anyone who glanced our way. The room seemed quieter now, but I couldn't tell if it was in my head or if the air itself had shifted.
We moved through the narrow aisles between tables, the low light catching in James' hair as he passed under each hanging lamp. He didn't hurry, but there was intent in his stride, the kind of focus that made me fall in step without thinking.
The heavyset man from the door was still at his post. He didn't stop us, only gave a brief nod, as if James' expression alone told him enough. The rain was waiting outside, soft now, but steady, beads gathering along the edge of the awning before dropping in slow rhythm to the sidewalk below.
James started walking without a word, and I followed. The streets here were different, the glow of neon giving way to dimmer pools of light from old streetlamps. A few storefronts were still open, their windows fogged from the heat inside, but most were shuttered. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, its rise and fall swallowed by the city.
It wasn't until we turned down a side street that James finally spoke. "The man you saw, he doesn't speak to just anyone."
I glanced at him, but his gaze stayed forward. "Why me?"
"Because whoever's looking for you isn't going to stop just because they're told to." His tone was flat, but there was an edge to it, the kind that made the hair along my arms lift.
I wanted to ask who he thought it was, but before I could, a figure stepped out from a recessed doorway ahead. Tall, lean, face obscured by the shadow of a hood. They didn't move aside.
James slowed, his body shifting just enough to put himself between me and the stranger. The streetlight caught on the wet fabric of the hood, tracing a faint outline of their jaw.
"James," the stranger said, voice low, familiar in a way I couldn't place.
"Not tonight," James replied, calm but final.
The stranger's gaze slid past him, landing on me. Something in it made my breath catch, not curiosity, but recognition.
They smiled, barely. "We'll talk soon."
Then they stepped aside, vanishing into the darkness at the edge of the alley as if the rain had swallowed them whole.
James didn't move right away. He watched the place where they'd gone until the street seemed empty again, then turned to me. "Let's keep moving."
I did, but the stranger's voice stayed with me, echoing in places I didn't want to explore.
The stranger's voice still lingered in my mind, faint but persistent, as James and I walked on. The rain seemed quieter now, each drop amplified against the stillness between us. I kept my eyes forward, but every shadow felt thicker, every side street heavier with possibility.
James glanced over his shoulder once, scanning the street behind us before speaking. "We're changing course."
I didn't ask why. I knew the answer would be the same as before, one that left me with more unease than clarity. He cut left at the next corner, leading us into a narrow lane that reeked faintly of oil and damp stone. The glow of the main road faded behind us until the only light came from a flickering sign ahead.
The door beneath it opened before we reached it, spilling a sliver of yellow light onto the wet ground. A man stood in the doorway, broad-shouldered, with eyes that studied me before settling on James. "They're waiting."
Inside, the warmth hit like a wave. The air smelled of leather and smoke, and low voices murmured just beyond sight. James guided me deeper, each step carrying us into a place that felt more like a den than a refuge. This wasn't a stop along the way, it was a meeting point. And from the looks of the faces turning toward us, whoever was on the other side of this night had been expecting us.