The hallway was silent — too silent.
Cynthia hovered behind Alexander as he opened her apartment door just a crack, scanning both sides with the intensity of someone who'd spent years learning how danger breathed. The dim light flickered over his shoulder, turning half his face to shadow.
"Stay close," he murmured.
Cynthia clutched her bag and stepped out. Her hands were shaking again — they hadn't really stopped since he told her Lydia had been taken. The memory of his voice — tight, urgent, afraid — looped inside her head like a warning siren.
Alexander moved first, taking long, purposeful strides down the hall. He didn't speak. And somehow, that silence made everything worse.
When they reached the stairwell, he paused and looked over his shoulder.
"Down, not up. They'll check the elevators first if they're near."
She swallowed. "Is someone actually here?"
"I don't know." His voice was low. "And I'm not going to wait to find out."
They moved quickly down the stairs, their footsteps echoing in sharp, cold beats. Cynthia kept her eyes on the back of Alexander's coat, as if it was the only thing anchoring her to reality.
On the third floor landing, he suddenly lifted a hand — signaling her to stop.
Cynthia froze.
He listened.
There was nothing at first.
Then — footsteps.
Soft. Slow. A pair.
Cynthia's breath hitched, but Alexander silently shook his head, gesturing for her to stay hidden behind the wall. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, counting the steps, measuring the rhythm.
"They're not coming down," he whispered. "They're going up."
"Are they—?"
"Probably just tenants." He exhaled. "But we're not taking chances."
They waited until the sound faded, then continued. By the time they reached the ground floor, Cynthia's legs trembled from adrenaline more than exhaustion.
Alexander pressed his ear to the door before cracking it open enough to peek out. Outside was the dark lobby — empty, lit only by the soft glow of the wall lamps. The front receptionist was gone; night shift didn't start until 1 a.m.
"Clear," Alexander whispered.
He guided Cynthia through the lobby, staying close to the walls, avoiding the wide window where headlights outside cast streaks of light across the floor.
When they reached the glass exit door, Alexander hesitated again.
"Wait here," he said quietly. "Let me check the parking lot."
Cynthia nodded, though her chest tightened at the thought of him going outside alone. He slipped through the door soundlessly and disappeared behind one of the stone pillars outside.
The seconds dragged.
Ten.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Her heart hammered harder with each beat.
What if something happened to him?
What if the gang was waiting out there?
What if they—
The door opened again, and he returned, a faint sheen of tension still in his eyes.
"Come on," he said.
They crossed the sidewalk quickly. Alexander's car — a sleek black sedan — was parked three spots away, half-hidden behind a large SUV. He opened the back door for her, not the front.
"Why back?"
"It's harder to see you from other cars," he said simply.
She slipped in, ducking her head. Alexander circled to the driver's seat and got in, locking the doors instantly.
The car was silent except for Cynthia's breathing — and his, steadier but deep.
He pulled out of the parking spot slowly, deliberately. Not fast. Not drawing attention.
Once they turned out of the complex, he finally spoke.
"Don't look behind us."
Cynthia froze. "Why?"
"Because if someone is following, I need to confirm it myself."
Her voice shook. "Is someone following?"
"I don't think so," he said, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. "But I'm not certain yet."
The city streets passed by in long, quiet stretches. It was nearly 1 a.m., so traffic was thin — a few taxis, a police patrol car, a motorcycle that veered off after two blocks.
Alexander took odd routes — turning left instead of right, looping around a roundabout twice, switching lanes abruptly.
"Is this… normal?" Cynthia asked softly.
"For me? Yes." He kept his tone even. "They know my habits. So I change them."
"And if they are following us?"
"Then I'll lose them."
"How? They're dangerous—"
"So am I."
The certainty in his voice made her chest tighten.
He wasn't bragging.
He wasn't threatening.
He was stating a fact born from something he'd survived long before she met him.
They drove in silence for ten more minutes. Cynthia couldn't help herself — she glanced at the side mirror.
Alexander noticed.
"I said don't look back."
"I know," she whispered. "I just… needed to check."
He exhaled. Not annoyed — more like he understood.
Finally, he sped up slightly, merging onto the highway. The lights thinned. The buildings faded behind them.
After another five minutes, Alexander spoke.
"We're clear."
Cynthia's body sagged with relief. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." His shoulders relaxed a little. "If they were on us, we would've seen something by now."
She exhaled shakily. "Okay. Okay…"
Alexander glanced at her. "You good?"
"No," she admitted. "But I'm breathing. So that's something."
He nodded. "Good enough for now."
They drove for a few minutes before Cynthia asked, "How did things even get this bad?"
Alexander kept his eyes on the road. "Because the people I used to work with don't forgive easily."
"They think you betrayed them?"
"I did betray them." He didn't soften it. "I left with information that could destroy their entire operation. They never forgave that."alexander said
"And Lydia…" Cynthia's voice cracked. "She didn't deserve any of this."
"No." His jaw tightened. "And neither did you."
A quiet stretched between them, heavy with things unsaid.
"Alexander?" Cynthia swallowed. "Why didn't you leave the city when they first came after you?"
He hesitated.
That alone scared her.
"Because if I run, they win." He paused. "And because I thought I could handle it."
She didn't speak. He continued.
"I've always been one step ahead of them. Always. Until tonight."
The faint tremor in his voice startled her.
Alexander voss — cold, composed, impossible — was shaken.
"Is this… your fault?" she asked softly.
His grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Yes. Because I underestimated how far they'd go to get to me."
Cynthia looked at him — really looked — and saw the weight he carried. The guilt. The fear he tried so hard to bury.
"You're trying to protect me," she whispered.
"That isn't the word I'd use," he muttered.
"What word would you use?"
He didn't answer directly.
Instead he said:
"Lydia was taken because of me. I'm not letting them take you too."
A shiver ran down her spine.
Not because of fear.
Because of the intensity in his voice — fierce, determined, almost painful.
The city disappeared completely behind them. Miles of quiet highway stretched ahead.
Finally, a faint sign came into view.
"Silver Ridge Inn — 2 km."
Cynthia frowned. "Is that where we're going?"
"For tonight," he said. "It's small, isolated, and no one from the city comes here unless they're lost."
"But why can't I stay with Julienne?"
"Because they know your friends."
"And you?"
"They know me," he said simply. "And I'm the one they want."
She swallowed. "So… I have to hide alone?"
"No."
His voice softened, only barely.
"I'll be close."
They pulled off the highway toward a quiet road lined with pine trees. The hotel wasn't fancy — an old building with warm yellow windows and a front porch light glowing like a lighthouse in the dark.
Cynthia let out a long breath.
"We made it."
She looked at him quietly. "But you'll still help me?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
Cynthia didn't know why, but hearing that steadied her more than anything else that night.
He parked the car and finally turned toward her fully.
"Cynthia…"
"Yes?"
"You're safe. For now."
He looked away, voice low.
"But don't mistake that for the danger being over."
She nodded slowly.
Because she already knew:
This was only the beginning.