The university district was quiet this time of day.
Students were either cramming in libraries or skipping class altogether. The coffee shops were half-full, the sidewalks drowsy with sun. It was an easy place to hide if you didn't want to be noticed.
Ava stood outside a small bookstore with no name, running her fingers along the worn spines of secondhand titles stacked in uneven rows near the window. She hadn't bought anything—hadn't planned to. It was simply a place where she could be still.
She felt him before she saw him.
That low-pressure shift in the air. The quietness that came with someone powerful choosing to say nothing.
She didn't turn.
Lucas Bai's reflection appeared beside hers in the glass.
No helmet. No suit. Just a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled precisely to the elbows, and those golden eyes—watching her not like a man seeing something new, but like a tactician mapping out a live field test.
Ava picked up a book. Flipped a page. Didn't speak.
"Do you read," he said, "or just pose for surveillance footage?"
His voice was dry. Casual. But not soft.
She closed the book. "You looked me up."
"You made it necessary."
She finally turned to face him.
Close. Closer than she should've been.
From this distance, his eyes didn't look gold—they looked molten. Precise and always thinking. A blade that had never dulled.
"You don't know me," she said quietly.
Lucas tilted his head. "Not yet. But I have your file."
"And?"
"It's a disaster." A beat. "Which is suspicious in itself."
Ava's lips curved slightly, not quite a smile.
"You erase yourself very well," he continued, taking a step closer, voice even. "But people don't vanish without motive."
"And you came all this way to find out mine?"
He didn't blink. "No. I came to see if you'd lie to my face."
She met his gaze, calm and cool. "Would it matter?"
"That depends," he said. "On how good you are at it."
For a moment, the space between them felt sharper than it should. He didn't reach for her. Didn't threaten. But Ava knew—if Lucas Bai ever put his hands on someone, it was to own them. Or to end them.
She held his gaze.
Then said, "Ask me something that matters."
Lucas looked at her—truly looked at her—for the first time.
And beneath all his suspicion, she saw it:
Doubt.
Lucas studied her for a long moment.
People usually cracked under his attention. Even the bold ones—especially the ones who thought they were clever—eventually shifted their weight, looked away, gave some unconscious tell.
Ava didn't.
She stood there in front of him, framed by peeling books and soft morning light, and didn't flinch. No twitch, no glance, no breath out of place. Like she'd already lived this moment.
"Why Angel?" he asked finally.
Ava tilted her head slightly. "You mean why is she cheating on you?"
Lucas didn't react. That was the wrong question anyway, and she knew it.
"No," he said. "Why do you care?"
She was silent for a moment.
Then she said, "Because you deserve better."
Lucas gave a humorless smile. "People like you don't get to decide what I deserve."
"People like me," she echoed, no inflection.
"High school girls with shaky files, blurry faces, and obsession complexes."
Still, she didn't react.
"You follow me, tag my bike, intercept private deliveries—"
"I intercepted a fraud," she corrected.
"—and now you're suggesting I end a strategic engagement that's been in place since before you were even enrolled."
"Strategic," she repeated. "That's what you're calling it."
Lucas's voice stayed level, but the tension beneath it was starting to sharpen.
"It's what it is."
Ava's expression didn't change. But something shifted in her tone.
"Is that how you justify it? Every lie you tell yourself. Every time you excuse her actions because the contract says she's useful."
She stepped forward; not close, but deliberate. Her voice lowered.
"She's a liability. A performance with a pretty smile. And she doesn't respect you. She never did."
Lucas's jaw flexed, but he didn't interrupt.
"You know it," Ava added, her voice softening. "You've always known it. You just needed someone else to say it out loud."
He didn't speak.
Not because she was wrong.
But because she'd said it like it was inevitable. Like he'd already made the decision and was simply waiting for the timing to catch up.
Ava looked up at him, steady.
"I'm not trying to take her place."
Lucas arched a brow. "Aren't you?"
"No," she said. "I already have mine."
Lucas's gaze sharpened.
He wasn't used to that kind of answer. Most people wanted something—status, favor, proximity. She wasn't asking for any of it.
But she'd said it like a fact. Not arrogance. Not ambition.
Certainty.
Like the matter was already settled.
Like he was the one behind.
He watched her turn—not dramatic, not dismissive—just done. As if the conversation had ended exactly where she intended.
"Your place," he repeated.
She didn't pause, but her voice drifted back over her shoulder.
"You'll see it soon enough."
No smirk. No tease. Just that same calm, cold tone.
Like she was discussing the weather.Like everything that hadn't happened yet… already had.
Lucas stood there on the sidewalk, unmoving, the scent of old books and dust still lingering between them.
He didn't call after her.
But he watched.
Every movement.
Every step she took away from him was logged, broken down, analyzed.
Gait: Balanced, mid-heel pressure, no limp, no shift in weight — not military trained, but aware of pursuit tactics.Shoulders: Relaxed, not slouched. No tension in the neck. No effort to seem smaller or less visible.Stride: Predictable. Consistent. She wasn't walking fast to escape. She was walking slowly on purpose.
Because she knew he was watching.
She wanted him to.
Her posture was neutral, but her control was too perfect. Not robotic. Not stiff.
Just… precise.
Too precise for someone her age.
Lucas's eyes dropped to the hem of her coat as she turned the corner.
Cut: Tailored. Cheap fabric, but modified — sleeves altered by hand, likely by the wearer. Someone who valued fit over fashion. Function over trend. Someone with sewing skill, or at the very least, pattern awareness.
That explained the subtle crease pattern on her left hip — not carelessness.
A holster seam.No weapon. Just a shape worn into the fabric by repetition.
She carried something. Regularly. Probably a tool. Probably important. Probably not visible.
He turned the details over in his mind like puzzle pieces.
She never looked back.
Which meant she already knew what he looked like when he was suspicious.
Which meant she was familiar with his patterns, not just his name.
He glanced down at the window beside him — the one they'd both been reflected in earlier.
There, beside the crooked stack of used books and a chalkboard menu half-erased by rain, was a faint smudge.
Half a fingerprint. Index finger. Facing outward.
She'd touched the glass.
Why?
Not for balance. Not for support.
Placement.
A marker.
Lucas exhaled slowly, then stepped closer, inspecting the glass without touching it.
She hadn't left it by accident.
It wasn't obvious to anyone else. Just a brush of skin in the right place — easily wiped, easily forgotten.
But not for him.
She wanted him to see it.
She was leaving breadcrumbs.
And the worst part?
He couldn't tell if it was a warning.
Or an invitation.