They ran.
Rainwater sprayed up from the cracked pavement as Elena sprinted after Damian, her knife slick with blood, her lungs burning. Behind them, the alley exploded with shouts, boots hammering against stone.
Damian veered left, cutting down a narrow service passage, barely glancing to see if she followed. Of course she did. She hated herself for it.
By the time they burst into the shell of an abandoned textile warehouse, Elena's chest was heaving. The air inside was damp with mold and dust, every broken window a whistle of wind. Damian slammed the heavy door shut, dragging a rusted beam across it.
For a moment, silence. The kind that buzzed in her ears after too much chaos.
Elena wiped her blade on her coat, her voice sharp. "This isn't coincidence. They knew exactly where we'd be."
Damian checked his pistol, then crouched near a stack of crates. "You think I don't know that?"
"Then start talking." She crossed her arms, her eyes drilling into him. "Why you, Damian? What the hell are you tied up in now?"
He glanced up at her, rain still dripping down his jaw. His usual grin was gone, replaced by something darker. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
The silence stretched. He shook his head once, almost to himself, then muttered, "They weren't supposed to come after me. Or you. Not like this."
Her chest tightened. He knows. He's known all along.
"Don't," she warned, stepping closer, voice trembling with fury. "Don't you dare pretend to be the victim here."
Damian's gaze snapped up, sharp, dangerous. "And don't you dare assume you know the whole story."
For a second, the warehouse seemed smaller, the air charged between them.
Then—a bang. A fist against the metal door. The attackers hadn't given up.
Elena spun, knife ready. Damian rose fluidly, cocking his gun.
"Great," Elena muttered, adrenaline spiking again. "We're cornered."
Damian smirked—just a flicker of the old arrogance. "Wouldn't be the first time."
"Last time," she said coldly, "I nearly didn't make it out alive."
His smile faltered. His voice dropped low, rough. "And I still haven't forgiven myself for that."
The pounding on the door grew louder. Elena's breath caught—not at the danger, but at the crack she'd just seen in him. The glimpse of something real. Something she wasn't ready to face.
"Fine," she snapped, forcing steel back into her tone. "Truce. For now."
Damian nodded once, eyes never leaving hers. "Truce."
The door shuddered again. Dust rained from the ceiling.
Side by side, weapons raised, the former lovers braced for war.