The streets had a new edge to them now—sharper, meaner, less forgiving. Travis was gone, and the world hadn't softened because of it. The city hummed around me, indifferent to loss, indifferent to survival. The alleys that had once felt like shortcuts now seemed like labyrinths lined with invisible traps.
I moved cautiously, every sense alert. Hunters still prowled, still tested boundaries, still sought me out. I kept to the shadows, learning every corner, every flicker of neon, every shadowed doorway. I carried Travis's memory like armor, a fuel that mixed grief with something sharper: determination.
A man stepped from a doorway, cigarette smoke curling from his lips. He didn't see me at first, just lit the tip of his cigarette and exhaled a lazy stream of smoke. But instinct had me pressed against the wall, knife tucked into my coat, eyes tracking every micro-movement.
He glanced my way, suspicious. I held my breath, letting the fog and shadows blend me into the night. His eyes narrowed. I could feel the tension in his shoulders. Hunters had allies, trackers, and informants everywhere. But this man—maybe a drunk, maybe something worse—wouldn't matter if I stayed silent and invisible.
When he muttered something under his breath and turned away, I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Survival was exhausting. Even when I wasn't fighting for my life directly, the act of existing—moving, hiding, watching—was a constant strain.
I slid into a side alley, listening to the hum of the city and the distant echo of boots on wet asphalt. I was alone, yes, but alive. And surviving meant testing limits, learning patterns, and trusting instincts. I was no longer Travis's shadow—I had to be my own.
I found an abandoned building, one I had scouted the night before. Broken windows, graffiti marking decades of neglect, but a roof intact and walls solid enough to offer temporary shelter. I climbed the stairs carefully, noting loose steps and gaps. Once inside, I leaned against a wall, eyes closed, letting the weight of grief press against me.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
My instincts screamed, and I opened my eyes just in time to see movement out of the corner of my vision. A hunter—or someone who moved like one—slipped across the roof opposite mine, weapon glinting in the moonlight.
Adrenaline surged. Heart hammering, I crouched low, knife ready, watching him. This was no accident. He was hunting.
I needed a plan. I couldn't fight him head-on—not yet. Not until I understood the terrain, the angles, and my advantage. I watched, waited, breathing shallow, muscles coiled.
He stopped, scanning, and I saw him raise a device—another prototype weapon, similar to the one that had taken Travis. Rage flared, sharp and hot. My hands clenched around the knife, teeth gritted. He couldn't take anyone else from me.
I moved with careful precision, keeping shadows between us. Every step was calculated, measured. He didn't see me at first—he never did. But he would if I made the wrong move.
Then I saw it: a narrow catwalk connecting our rooftops. A chance. A risk. But also a chance to confront him without letting him corner me.
I leapt. The distance wasn't far, but the gap was enough to make my heart lurch. I landed lightly, rolling to absorb impact. The hunter's eyes widened in surprise, weapon raised too late.
"Silver," he hissed, voice low, dangerous. "You shouldn't have come here."
I smiled—bitter, sharp, dangerous. "I'm full of surprises," I said, voice steady despite the pounding of my heart.
He lunged, weapon swinging. I dodged, knife flashing, and struck—not to kill, but to warn, to disable. My movements were precise, honed through months of survival, danger, and necessity. Each strike, each dodge, each roll was instinctual now, sharpened by grief and determination.
We danced across the rooftop, a deadly ballet of shadows, steel, and adrenaline. I pressed my advantage, ducking low, springing high, moving unpredictably. He underestimated me. He had assumed that grief would weaken me, that Travis's death had left me fragile. He didn't understand what grief could do—it could sharpen you, make you ruthless, make you unstoppable.
Finally, I disarmed him, knife pressed to his throat, chest heaving. The fog swirled around us, masking the city, masking the danger. "Leave," I said, voice calm but icy. "Now. Or you'll wish you had."
He hesitated, then melted back into the shadows, disappearing as suddenly as he had appeared. I sank to the ground, heart pounding, adrenaline draining. Every muscle ached. Every nerve screamed exhaustion.
I closed my eyes, leaning against the wall, letting the tension slide away in trembling waves. I had survived my first real confrontation without Travis. I had survived by relying on my instincts, my wit, my memory of him. And yet, the ache of loss remained, raw and unyielding.
I allowed myself a quiet laugh, bitter but defiant. "Not bad for a dramatic princess," I whispered to the empty rooftop, to the memory of him. "Not bad at all."
The city stretched before me, endless and unforgiving. Hunters would continue to come. Danger would never end. But I had faced it. And each step I took, each night I survived, each shadow I navigated brought me closer to something—freedom, escape, or at least control over my own fate.
I gathered myself, pulling the knife from my pocket and wiping it clean on my coat. Survival required movement, planning, vigilance. I had taken my first step into independence. The world was dangerous. So was grief. But I was learning to navigate both, one step at a time.
And somewhere in the shadows, the city whispered back, reminding me that life—and danger—would not pause for sorrow.