The lair never really slept. Even in the quietest hours, the hum of electricity, the scrape of metal, the faint shuffle of boots across concrete reminded you that nothing here was permanent. Not comfort. Not safety. Not trust.
Faye found me leaning against the far wall, staring at the floor like it might explain the world if I just looked long enough. She didn't knock. Didn't announce herself. Just appeared, like she'd always been there, like she knew I'd be waiting.
"You're moving too fast," she said. Voice low, casual, but there was a sharpness behind it that made my spine rigid.
"I'm following instructions," I replied.
She snorted softly, but not in amusement. "You think that keeps you safe?"
"I didn't say it would," I said.
Her gaze softened, just a fraction. She stepped closer, lowering her voice another notch. "Careful, Vale. People close to Cager… they don't last. Not because she's cruel. Not because she wants you gone. But because everyone else notices you too quickly."
I didn't answer immediately. Not because I didn't understand, but because the truth sat heavy in my chest.
"And she notices that too," Faye continued. "Do you think she doesn't see it? That she doesn't measure every advantage, every risk, even with someone like you?"
I nodded slowly. "I understand."
She shook her head, almost imperceptibly. "You don't. Not yet. You're learning to survive with her at your side, but visibility… that's another game entirely. You can survive the streets and still lose the ones you care about if you're careless."
Her words lingered in the air after she walked away, light on the surface, but weighted beneath.
I remembered the first time I had spoken on the run. How the way I had moved, the way I had reacted, had made people notice me. That recognition had consequences. It wasn't fear. It wasn't danger. It was a kind of magnetism, and everyone I'd ever wanted to ignore it could now see me.
I understood Faye's warning in principle. It wasn't the bodyguards, the enemies, the city itself I had to be careful of. It was the way attention followed me. The way it drew her attention, too.
Cager didn't like mistakes. That I could accept. I also understood now that she didn't like distractions. Not for herself, not for anyone else. And yet, I was always there, close enough to draw them in, but not close enough to understand the calculus of her choices.
Later that day, Cager assigned me a position for the gathering at the northern edge of Creeper territory. It was a small meeting, intended to smooth tensions between minor factions and reaffirm our presence. I was supposed to stand at her side, visible, a silent signal that she trusted me to follow, to hold.
When I saw her, standing at the center of the room, posture rigid, eyes scanning the crowd, I realized for the first time that this visibility was deliberate. Not a reward. Not a test. A statement.
The room was crowded. Low murmurs, faint glances, the faint scrape of boots on concrete. Every faction leader and lieutenant had someone watching them, and everyone knew someone was watching back.
I stood beside Cager, keeping my hands visible, my breathing measured. I counted the seconds between movements, measured the rhythm of conversation. People noticed my presence, yes. But they noticed her more. I felt the pull of it, the gravitational weight of her name, her reputation.
A man from one of the lesser factions approached. I recognized the type—nervous energy masked by bravado. He addressed Cager directly, expecting a curt dismissal. She gave him a nod, precise and deliberate, then didn't break her posture to follow up. He stumbled through the rest of his words, caught in the unspoken control she radiated.
I realized I was learning more than survival. I was learning influence. And influence had its own dangers.
At one point, the man's gaze flicked to me. I didn't flinch. I didn't speak. But I felt it—the awareness that my proximity carried weight. That even standing silently beside her, I was visible in a way I hadn't been before.
Cager's eyes flicked to mine. A fraction of an acknowledgment. Not approval, not warning. Just a measurement, a calculation. I didn't react. That, I realized, was also part of the lesson.
After the meeting, she led me away quietly, her movements precise, her presence still commanding even in the hallway. No words were exchanged, not until we were alone in the lower training room.
"Did you notice?" she asked finally, voice low, careful.
"Yes," I said. "Everything."
Her eyes narrowed, the hint of a shadow passing across them. "Good. You'll need that awareness. People remember everything. Even what isn't said."
I nodded, understanding the weight of her words.
Later, in the quiet of my cot, I replayed the gathering in my mind. The way people had glanced at me. The way Cager had held herself, unbroken, unwavering. The way my presence, silent and unassuming, had drawn eyes anyway.
And I realized that this was only the beginning.
Not just for survival. Not just for recognition. But for understanding her.
Cager's attention wasn't a gift. It wasn't kindness. It was control. It was strategy. And I was learning, slowly, that being at her side meant more than obedience. It meant being part of a calculation I couldn't yet see.
A calculation where mistakes were costly, where visibility could be fatal, and where every moment counted.
And for the first time, I understood that keeping pace with her wasn't enough. I had to anticipate, to measure, to exist in a way that made sense in her world.
Because the streets were watching. And Cager was always watching closer.