The rain had stopped, but the streets still gleamed like poured ink, reflecting the fractured glow of the city's lights. Somewhere behind us, the hum of distant engines cut through the quiet, too steady to be random traffic. James' pace didn't change, but his attention had shifted, his shoulders just tense enough to make me feel it in my own spine.
We turned down a narrow alley that smelled of wet brick and gasoline. The air here was still, close, carrying only the muffled pulse of bass from a bar two streets over. James paused once, not to look back, but to let the silence speak for him. I didn't ask; I knew I wouldn't like the answer.
When we emerged on the other side, a car waited, black and polished to a mirror sheen. A man leaned against it, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His eyes met James', and for a moment the street felt smaller, as if the walls themselves leaned in to listen.
"Richard," James said, flat as a closed door.
The man's smile came slow, deliberate. "You've been hard to find." His gaze slid to me, quick but sharp, and I caught the faintest twitch in James' jaw.
"We're not doing this here," James replied.
Richard's smile didn't fade, but his voice dropped, carrying enough weight to still the air. "No, we're doing this soon. And she's part of it whether you like it or not."
The cigarette flared once more before he flicked it into the street, the ember hissing out in a shallow puddle. Then he was gone, slipping into the driver's seat and pulling away without another word.
I turned to James, but his eyes were still on the street where the taillights had disappeared. "We move," he said, and there was no space in his tone for questions.
James led us away from the street, cutting through another side lane where the walls pressed closer and the ground was littered with broken glass that caught the dim light. His stride was measured but unyielding, each turn deliberate, as if he was navigating a map only he could see.
"You knew him," I said finally, my voice low.
His answer came without hesitation. "I know everyone who matters in this city."
That should have been reassuring, but it wasn't. The way he said it felt less like comfort and more like a warning.
We emerged onto a quieter street, the kind with shuttered storefronts and faded awnings, where the only sound was the whisper of our steps. James slowed near a recessed doorway, pulling a set of keys from his coat. The door creaked open to reveal a narrow stairwell leading down instead of up.
I hesitated. "Where are we going?"
"Someplace Richard won't follow," he said, starting down without looking back.
The air grew cooler as we descended, the hum of the city above fading to nothing. At the bottom, a heavy steel door waited, its surface scarred and dented. James unlocked it with a series of practiced motions, each metallic click echoing in the close space.
The room beyond was windowless, its walls lined with shelves holding everything from dusty ledgers to neatly stacked crates. A single hanging light cast a pale circle over the center table.
"Sit," James said. This time it wasn't a suggestion.
I took the seat, watching as he crossed to a cabinet and retrieved a small black case. When he set it on the table and flipped it open, I caught the gleam of a pistol and the dull weight of extra magazines.
"That man," I began, "Richard..."
James cut me off. "He's not your problem yet. Right now, your problem is staying one step ahead of anyone who thinks you're leverage."
He slid the case toward me, his eyes steady. "And you're going to learn how to do that before the night's over."
I stared at the gun like it might rearrange itself into something else if I waited long enough. The metal caught the light in a way that made it seem heavier than it was. James didn't fill the silence; he let it stretch until I had to say something.
"I've never..."
"I know," he interrupted. "That's why we're starting now."
He pulled the pistol from the case, cleared the chamber with a motion so fluid it was almost quiet, and set it in front of me, grip turned my way. "Pick it up."
The cold weight settled into my palm like it belonged to the air here more than it belonged to me. My fingers curled around it, the unfamiliar shape forcing my hand into a position I didn't trust.
"First rule," James said, his voice even. "You only point it at something you're ready to put in the ground. There's no such thing as a warning shot in my world."
I swallowed. The gun was steady in my hand, but my pulse wasn't. "And the second rule?"
"Don't freeze," he said. "Not when it matters."
He reached across the table, adjusting the angle of my wrist, then my stance. His hands were warm, but his touch carried no softness. Every movement was deliberate, shaping my grip until the metal felt less foreign. "You think too much when you're under pressure," he added, almost to himself. "This will need to be muscle before it's thought."
We practiced dry-firing, the click of the trigger sharp in the stillness. James corrected every flaw, how my elbow tucked in, where my weight fell on my feet, how I followed through after the shot. Minutes blurred, each adjustment grinding away at the edge of my hesitation.
Finally, he stepped back. "You'll keep it in your reach at all times. If you wake up and it's not where you left it, you find me before you breathe."
I set the pistol back in the case, but the impression of it stayed in my hand, heavy and precise. "Do you always train the people you're protecting?"
"Only the ones I expect to last," he said.
He reached for the case, locking it again, but didn't move it away from me. "We'll do this until you stop thinking about where your hands are." His eyes held mine. "And then we'll do it until you stop thinking about why."
The words stayed with me even as the silence returned. Somewhere above us, the faint rumble of a car passed, slow enough to listen. James didn't look toward the sound, but I could tell he heard it the same way I did, like it was meant for us.
James closed the case but didn't push it aside. He left it between us, the weight of it sitting in the middle of the table like a truth neither of us wanted to say out loud. The room smelled faintly of oil and metal, undercut by something older, dust that had settled into the walls long before we walked in.
"You're quiet," he said.
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"About the fact that two hours ago I didn't even know that man's name, and now I'm sitting in a room under the city learning how to shoot in case he decides to come back."
James didn't answer right away. He leaned against the far shelf, arms crossed, watching me in the way someone watches a door they expect to open. "Richard isn't the one you should be losing sleep over."
"Then who?" I asked.
His gaze didn't move. "The people who sent him."
That sat between us like another loaded magazine. I felt the cold of it travel up my spine, slow and deliberate. "And what do they want?"
"They want you to mean something you don't," he said. "And they're willing to hurt you until you do."
The bulb above us hummed softly, swinging a fraction in air I couldn't feel. I thought of the street outside, of wet brick and polished black paint, of the way Richard's eyes had slid past James and landed on me like a mark.
James pushed off the shelf and moved to the door, unlocking it but not opening it yet. "We'll stay here until the streets shift. Then we go."
"Shift how?" I asked.
He tilted his head slightly, like he was listening to something through the concrete. "You'll know it when you feel it. The air changes."
I wanted to press, but something in his tone stopped me. He turned back to me, eyes narrowing, not in suspicion but in calculation. "If you hear someone say your name and I'm not in the room, you don't answer. Not even me."
"Not even you?"
"If it's me, you'll know," he said, and the certainty in his voice was the kind that didn't leave space for doubt.
The steel door groaned as he shut it again, the lock turning with a final, metallic snap. The room seemed smaller after that. I stared at the case on the table, at the faint smudge his thumb had left on the lid, and realized I wasn't sure if I was safer with it closed or open.
The silence stretched until the hum of the light was all I could hear. Somewhere above us, faint but distinct, came the slow drag of footsteps across wet pavement. Whoever it was wasn't in a hurry.
James's eyes met mine. He didn't move toward the gun, but he didn't look away from the door either.
The footsteps grew louder, each one deliberate, like someone marking time in the dark. The faint creak of weight on old pavement echoed through the ceiling, slow enough to make the air feel heavier. James didn't blink, didn't shift, just watched the door as if the metal could turn transparent if he stared long enough.
"Down here?" I whispered.
He shook his head once, barely a movement. "Not yet."
The sound paused, then started again, moving to the left. Whoever it was knew the street's bones, stepping where the echo wouldn't carry as far. My hand hovered near the case without touching it.
James's voice was low, precise. "If that lock turns, you aim before you think."
The drag of footsteps stopped directly above us. A long beat passed. Then, faint but clear, came the tap, two knuckles against metal. Not our door, but close enough to feel through the wall.
James moved then, silently crossing the room to kill the light. The sudden dark pressed close, the hum of the bulb replaced by the thump of my own heartbeat. Above, another tap. Then nothing at all.