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Cass hadn't slept.
The night stretched long and restless, full of shadows that pressed against his thoughts like a weight. He lay on the floor of the spare room, staring at the ceiling until dawn began bleeding pale light through the blinds. Elara's quiet breathing filled the silence, steady, calm — but Cass couldn't match it.
Her words from the night before gnawed at him, over and over: Miles isn't what you think he is.
He wanted to deny it, laugh it off the way he always did when Elara threw her suspicion around like confetti. But the way she'd said it this time — the trembling certainty in her eyes — made it harder to dismiss. And worse, once he let the idea sink in, he realized he couldn't unsee the tiny cracks that had been there all along.
Miles had been too casual when they arrived, too unshaken by the bruises on Cass's jaw, the terror in Elara's face. Miles wasn't easily rattled, sure — but his calm had felt almost rehearsed.
And Cass knew his friend well enough to recognize when something was an act.
He sat up finally, running a hand through his tangled hair, the exhaustion of the chase catching up with him. The journal sat under Elara's pillow, hidden even in sleep. That detail alone told him how deep her distrust ran.
For the first time in years, Cass wondered if maybe she was right.
By the time Miles emerged from his room, hair damp from a quick shower, Cass was already waiting at the kitchen table. The apartment smelled of stale coffee grounds and bacon grease left in the pan from yesterday's breakfast.
Miles grinned when he saw him. "You're up early. Didn't think you were the sunrise type."
Cass smirked faintly. "Couldn't sleep."
"Too much on your mind?"
"Something like that." Cass leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms in mock ease. "Figured we should talk. Just you and me."
Miles paused — just a flicker — before recovering his grin. "Sounds serious."
"Not really. Just catching up. Been a while, right?"
"Yeah." Miles grabbed a mug from the counter, poured the last dregs of coffee. He didn't ask if Cass wanted any. "Feels like old times already."
Cass let the words hang, studying him. Old times. That was the hook. And Miles bit it too easily.
"Yeah," Cass said slowly. "Except back then, I didn't have a target on my back."
Miles sipped his coffee, eyes unreadable. "Guess not. But you always had a way of finding trouble. Some things never change."
Cass tried the first test — casual self-deprecation. He leaned forward, voice low. "Honestly? Sometimes I think Elara's right. I'm just… dead weight in all this. Maybe I should've left her to handle it."
Miles didn't flinch. He just set his mug down, tilted his head. "If you really believed that, you wouldn't be here."
Cass frowned. "Maybe. Or maybe I just don't know when to quit."
Miles smirked. "That's you, alright. Too stubborn to walk away."
It was a safe answer — too safe. Cass pressed harder.
"What if I wasn't? What if one day I just… wasn't around? Wouldn't matter much, right? Elara's the brains. She's the one with the journal."
He said it like a joke, but his heart hammered as he waited.
Miles's smile faltered just a fraction — a hairline crack. Then he shrugged, casual again. "Don't sell yourself short. Elara might be smart, but she wouldn't survive without you watching her back. You're the glue, man."
Cass forced a grin. But inside, something twisted. The way Miles had said the journal — his glance had been too sharp, too fast.
The second test came later, after Elara had gone out for a walk to clear her head. Cass and Miles sat in the cluttered living room, a movie playing muted on the TV.
Cass stretched out on the couch, pretending boredom. "Y'know," he said, "sometimes I think this whole thing isn't worth it. Running, hiding, getting beat to hell for some old notebook. We could just hand it over to whoever wants it. Be done."
Miles's jaw tightened. Subtle, but Cass caught it.
"That wouldn't work," Miles said carefully.
"Why not? They get what they want, we get to live."
"You think people like that leave loose ends?"
Cass arched a brow. "So you do know what kind of people we're dealing with."
Miles froze — just for a second — before giving a quick laugh. "Come on, man. I don't have to know the details. Anyone chasing you two this hard isn't gonna just… let you walk. That's common sense."
Cass nodded slowly, pretending to agree. But his pulse was thrumming. Miles was too quick, too defensive.
The third test, the most direct, Cass saved for last.
That evening, as they cleaned up after a dinner of boxed noodles, Cass dried the plates while Miles stacked them. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the fridge.
Cass asked it casually, like an afterthought. "If it came down to it — would you save me or yourself?"
Miles looked at him sharply. Then he smiled — a little too wide.
"Don't make me choose, man. You know I got your back."
"Do I?"
The words slipped out sharper than Cass intended, almost a challenge.
For a moment, Miles didn't answer. His eyes narrowed, studying him the way Cass was studying him. Two masks staring each other down.
Then Miles chuckled, shaking his head. "You're getting paranoid, Cass. Maybe Elara's rubbing off on you."
Cass forced a laugh too, but inside, his chest felt tight. Because Miles wasn't wrong. Elara was rubbing off on him. And maybe that wasn't such a bad thing anymore.
That night, Cass lay awake again, listening to the soft rustle of the city outside the window.
He wanted to believe Miles — wanted to believe the boy who'd once skipped class with him to play guitar in the park, who'd stolen beer from gas stations and laughed about it, who'd been more brother than friend.
But every answer tonight had carried a weight Cass couldn't ignore. Miles hadn't been rattled by danger, hadn't been indignant at the suggestion of betrayal. He'd been… controlled. Calculated.
Like someone wearing a mask.
Cass turned his head, looking at Elara curled against the far wall, the journal still tucked safe under her pillow.
Maybe she'd been right all along.
And now, Cass wasn't just protecting the journal. He was watching Miles too.
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