The dark held longer than it should have. Even after the last tap faded, the silence was thick enough to feel on my skin, pressing in from every side. Somewhere above, water ran through a gutter, slow and uneven, its drip marking time we couldn't see.
James hadn't moved since killing the light. His silhouette was fixed against the faint glimmer that bled from the hallway, shoulders square, head tilted just enough to listen without distraction.
Then, without looking back, he spoke. "We're leaving."
The words were flat, no whisper this time, just quiet enough to keep from carrying. I rose, fingers brushing the edge of the case on the table. He caught the motion. "Bring it."
The lock gave a soft metallic sigh as he turned it, the steel door opening onto the narrow stairwell. The air was colder now, carrying the faint smell of rain that had never touched these walls. Each step upward felt like moving toward something heavier than the dark we left behind.
Near the top, James paused, one hand on the wall, the other resting near his coat pocket. The silence above had changed, emptier, but not clean.
"Stay close," he said, before pushing the door open and letting the night spill in.
The street was slick again, not from rain, but from something that clung in the air, a dampness that wasn't weather. Every shadow felt sharper, every sound just far enough away to keep you guessing.
We stepped out, and the city seemed to lean in.
James took a slow breath, scanning the length of the street before moving. His stride was controlled, not hurried, but every turn of his head felt like another piece of a silent checklist. I matched his pace, the weight of the case pulling at my arm, the cold air tightening in my lungs. Somewhere ahead, a light flared and died, leaving the dark just a little thicker.
Somewhere behind us, a car door closed. Not slammed, placed. The sound didn't echo; it sank into the wet air. James didn't speed up, but I felt the change in him, the way a current changes before a storm.
We cut down a side street where the streetlamps worked in halves, one dark, one pale, one dark again, casting the wet pavement in uneven bands of light. Halfway down, James stopped. Not suddenly. He just… ceased forward motion, as if the space ahead had already made its move and he was waiting to see the shape of it.
The faint scuff of shoes approached from behind. Slow. Confident. A man's voice followed, pitched just enough to carry.
"You walk quieter than you used to."
James didn't answer.
From the dark behind us, a figure stepped into the weak light. Coat unbuttoned, hands empty, eyes running over us in a way that felt less like recognition and more like inventory.
"I was wondering when you'd bring her out into the open," the man said, gaze cutting to me.
"Keep wondering," James replied. His voice was calm, but it didn't have to be loud to press against the air between them.
The man's eyes flicked to the case in my hand. His mouth tilted, not a smile, but an acknowledgment. "You carrying that means you've already decided something."
I didn't speak.
"Walk," James said to me, without looking away from the man.
I did. Each step forward stretched the space between them until the sound of my boots on wet concrete felt too loud. I didn't need to turn around to know James was matching the man's stillness with his own.
By the time he caught up to me, we were three streets away, the city's noise starting to climb back in around us.
"That was..." I began.
"Nothing," James said. "Unless we make it something."
The street narrowed until it became less a road than a corridor, walls of old brick crowding close on either side. Somewhere high above, a lone security light buzzed, its sickly yellow glow barely reaching the ground. The sound of the city dulled here, muffled as though the air itself didn't want to carry noise out.
James slowed, scanning the angles where wall met shadow. His eyes moved once, twice, then fixed ahead. "Left," he said.
I followed him down a gap so thin I had to turn sideways to pass without scraping the case along the wall. The smell changed here, less rain, more metal and damp stone. Water dripped somewhere unseen, slow and deliberate.
When the passage opened up again, it was into a courtyard boxed in by taller buildings. A single streetlamp at the far end flickered, its pulse out of rhythm with my steps. James didn't stop moving, but his voice dropped lower.
"We're being steered," he said.
The words sat heavy between us. My fingers tightened on the handle of the case, feeling the weight inside shift with my grip.
From one of the shadowed doorways along the right, a figure leaned just far enough into the light to be seen. Tall. Thin. Too still.
"You should have kept walking, James," the figure said.
James' hand brushed the side of his coat, just a touch, not enough to draw, but enough to remind whoever was watching that he could. "You'll need more than a doorway to stop me."
The man stepped forward, the light catching a pale scar that ran from his ear down to the corner of his mouth. His gaze swept me once, and I felt it like someone running cold metal along my skin.
"This isn't about her," he said. "Not tonight."
"Then you picked the wrong place to stand," James replied, already angling us toward the far exit.
But the man shifted just enough to block the line out, his posture loose but his eyes locked. "You're not walking away from this without hearing it."
James stopped, shoulders turning just enough to square to him. "Talk."
The man's eyes narrowed, like he wasn't expecting permission. "They want the case. And they don't care how many steps it takes to get it."
James didn't look at me, but I could feel the decision forming in the space between us. He moved first, not toward the man, but past him, forcing the air to shift. The man didn't block him this time.
As we slipped out into the next street, James said, "If they wanted it tonight, they'd have tried to take it."
"And if they try tomorrow?" I asked.
"Then tomorrow will be their mistake," he said.
We kept moving, and somewhere behind us, the sound of footsteps began again. Slow. Measured. Following.
We crossed into the next block, the sound of the footsteps still there, never closer, never fading. James glanced to the side, eyes flicking toward a service alley wedged between two shuttered shops. Without a word, he shifted course, pulling me with him.
The alley's walls pressed in tighter, their bricks slick with old moisture, the air heavy with the scent of oil and rust. Somewhere behind us, the footsteps paused. James stopped too, his hand light on my arm, holding me just inside the shadow of an overhang.
We waited.
Nothing moved. No sound except the slow tick of water from a rusted pipe overhead. The quiet stretched until it became almost unbearable, a weight pressing between my shoulder blades.
Then, from the mouth of the alley, a voice carried in, a voice I hadn't heard before, low but clear enough to travel. "You think you can walk this city without leaving marks, James?"
James didn't step forward. "I've been walking it longer than you've been trying."
The voice let out a short, humorless laugh. "Then you know every mark gets noticed eventually."
A shadow shifted at the far end, the owner just out of reach of the dim streetlight. James eased me back another step, the case still tight in my grip.
"We're done here," James said, and it wasn't a threat, it was a conclusion.
We moved again, cutting through the alley's other end, and this time, the footsteps didn't follow.
The street we stepped into was emptier than it should have been. No cars. No pedestrians. Just the damp hiss of the city settling after rain. The buildings leaned in close on either side, their windows dark, their brickwork slick and uneven. Every step we took landed soft, the sound swallowed before it could carry.
James didn't speak. His pace was steady but threaded with purpose, his eyes moving in quick, precise arcs over the rooftops and shadowed recesses. I stayed close enough to feel the faint shift of air when his coat moved. The case in my hand felt heavier with every block, not from weight but from knowing too many people wanted what was inside.
We cut left at the next corner, into a lane so narrow the opposite walls felt within arm's reach. The dim light from the far end stretched toward us, thin and uneven, like it had to fight to reach this far in.
Halfway down, James slowed, not stopping, but letting his steps lengthen just enough to listen. I matched him, feeling the echo of something behind us. Not footsteps this time. Something smaller. Quicker. A shuffle against brick, the faint tap of grit displaced under a shoe.
He didn't turn his head when he spoke. "On the wall to your right. Third window up."
I glanced without lifting my chin. A shape broke the darkness there, no bigger than a man, crouched and still. Whoever it was, they were watching us, their outline fixed against the faint gleam of glass.
"Keep walking," James said, voice low but certain.
We reached the mouth of the lane and stepped into a wider street. Neon bled across the wet asphalt from a diner sign, the flicker of its pink and blue glow making the puddles look like fractured glass. The scent of coffee drifted on the air, sharp against the city's usual wet-metal smell.
James crossed without looking at the diner. I followed, but my eyes caught movement in its reflection, a figure slipping from the lane we'd left, pacing just inside the opposite sidewalk's shadow.
When we reached the next block, James angled us toward a recessed doorway beneath a boarded-up awning. The lock on the door was old, the kind you could open with more patience than force. James didn't touch it. He stood just inside the doorway's shadow, letting the night hide us while his eyes worked the street.
"He's following," I whispered.
"I know." His gaze never left the street. "And he'll keep following until he thinks we don't notice. That's when he'll make his move."
I tightened my grip on the case. "And if he doesn't wait?"
James glanced at me then, a flicker of something like calculation in his eyes. "Then he learns tonight was the wrong night to try."
The man didn't wait.
From the shadow of the boarded storefront opposite us, he stepped into the light. No rush, no raised weapon, just a deliberate closing of the distance. The kind of approach meant to make you decide if you were willing to break the stillness first.
James' weight shifted, subtle, his stance angling to shield me without blocking my view. "You've been walking a long time," he said, voice calm. "What's the end of it look like to you?"
The man's eyes flicked to the case, then back to James. "It looks like you handing that over before I make a call that ends your night in ways you don't want to picture."
The air between them tightened. I could feel it in my chest, the way the city noise seemed to drain out until there was only the damp smell of wet asphalt and the faint buzz of a failing streetlamp.
James didn't blink. "You've got ten seconds to walk away."
The man smiled, not wide, just enough to show he'd already decided against it. "I'll take my chances."
The move was fast, but James was faster. His hand caught the man's wrist before it reached his coat, twisting it with a sharp, controlled motion that forced him sideways. The case's weight shifted in my grip as I stepped back, my pulse hammering loud in my ears.
James shoved him off balance, sending him into the wall hard enough to rattle the old wood. "That was your chance," he said, low but sharp.
The man pushed off the wall, breath quick, eyes darting between us. But he didn't close the distance again. His mouth worked like he wanted to speak, then shut tight. A second later, he melted back toward the alley he'd come from, disappearing into the dark.
James didn't watch him go. "Move," he said, already turning away.
I followed without looking back, the city swallowing the moment as if it had never happened. But the weight in my hand felt heavier now, and I knew we'd only just made the first mark on someone's list.