They found the hideout in the belly of the city—an abandoned subway maintenance room, its brick walls slick with moisture, the faint stench of oil and mildew clinging to the air.
Damian dropped his soaked jacket on a broken chair and started rummaging through an old supply locker. Elena stood near the doorway, knife still in hand, eyes never leaving him.
"You've gotten sloppy," she said coldly. "You used to have cleaner bolt-holes."
He smirked, pulling out a dented thermos. "Forgive me. It's hard to keep an AirBnB account when assassins are on your heels."
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. Damn him.
The thermos clattered open—half-full of stale whiskey. Damian raised it in mock salute. "Dinner is served."
"Pathetic," Elena muttered, but when he held it out, she took a swig anyway. It burned all the way down, sharp and unforgiving. She welcomed the sting.
They sat opposite each other, silence stretching. The dim light made his features harder, older, but the trace of the man she'd once loved still lingered. It made her chest ache in ways she didn't want to admit.
Finally, Elena broke the silence. "The boy said you were 'the key.' You didn't even flinch."
Damian's jaw tightened. "Because I've heard it before."
Her knife clattered against the floor as she leaned forward, eyes blazing. "And you didn't think to tell me?"
"It was never supposed to matter," he snapped back. Then, softer, almost to himself: "Not to you."
The rawness in his tone unsettled her more than the fight. For a moment, she searched his face, trying to read the cracks in the mask.
Then he ruined it with a crooked grin. "Besides, you'd just stab me for it."
She snorted despite herself, shaking her head. "You're not wrong."
The laughter—dark, bitter—faded quickly. Silence pressed in again, heavy as the tunnels above them.
Elena shifted, rubbing the bruise on her temple. "You killed him too quickly. He could've told us something else."
Damian's gaze met hers, steady, unreadable. "No. He was already dead. He just hadn't realized it yet."
A shiver slid down her spine. Not from fear. From the certainty in his voice.
They sat there, two broken people drinking bad whiskey in a forgotten tunnel, bound by a past that hurt too much to name and a future neither could escape.
Finally, Damian leaned back, exhaustion creeping into his posture. "Get some sleep. We move at dawn."
Elena didn't reply. She couldn't. She just lay down against the wall, knife clutched close, eyes half-shut.
But in the shadows, she watched him.
And though she hated herself for it, some part of her still felt safer knowing he was there.