Valthera breathed with a low, electric hum. The rain had stopped a while ago, but the streets still glistened, slick and scattered with puddles catching flickers of neon. The air felt thick—warm, damp, and edged with the bite of gasoline. Above, tall buildings loomed in silence, their windows mirroring the city like worn-out sentinels.
Silas ran.
His lungs were on fire. He ran hard, cutting through the alley, jumping over crates and crunching glass underfoot. The smell hit him—something oily and rotting, couldn't tell what. His boots slapped the wet ground loud enough to give him away. Footsteps came fast behind him.
Behind him, footsteps closed in fast. Closer than before. Rhythmic. Sharp. Professional.
These weren't street punks looking for trouble. They moved in unison—like a unit. Like men trained to kill quickly and without a trace.
He didn't have to look back. He already knew who was after him.
This was supposed to be a chill evening—just him, his camera, and the city lights. But then he saw something he shouldn't have. What looked like a simple exchange turned weird—briefcases, nods, some kind of scanner beep, men in perfect suits. No names. No signs. Just… off.
He caught the whole thing on camera.
That camera, now shoved into his backpack, thudded against his spine as he ran. It felt heavier with every step. Like guilt. Or a countdown.
A gun went off behind him—loud, sharp, close. It bounced off the walls like it was chasing him. Then the streetlamp ahead blew—glass and sparks raining down. He dropped without thinking, arms over his head. Didn't stop. Couldn't.
Still, he didn't stop.
Left, then a quick right.
The alley dumped him onto a side road. And there it was—a black sedan, engine running, headlights on. Waiting.
A trap? Or blind luck?
No time to weigh it.
He yanked the passenger door open and climbed in. The driver flinched, eyes wide. A young woman. Late twenties, maybe. Sharp features, dark eyes, posture locked like a coiled spring. She looked more like someone used to giving orders, not taking them.
"Drive," he said, breathless.
"Excuse me?" Her voice was clipped, skeptical.
"Now. Drive. Or we're both dead."
Her eyes narrowed, then shifted to the alley behind him. Voices. Footsteps. Another gunshot, closer now.
She cursed and hit the gas. The car shot forward, tires squealing on the soaked pavement. Neon signs dragged past the windows, their colors bending in rain-soaked puddles.
"Ten seconds," she muttered, jaw tight, hands clamped around the wheel. "Convince me not to push you out."
"You've got ten seconds," she snapped, hands gripping the wheel tight. "Why shouldn't I kick you out right now?"
"I saw something. Took pictures. They want me death."
"You a reporter?"
"Photographer. Freelance."
She scoffed. "Even worse."
They turned hard, the car briefly lifting on one side.
Silas watched her with new curiosity. She wasn't panicking. She was adjusting. Tactical. Smart. There was more to her than chance.
"I didn't mean to drag you into this," he muttered.
"You didn't. You jumped into my car. There's a difference."
"I was out of options."
"Lucky me."
A pause.
"Name's Silas," he offered.
She glanced at him briefly. "Ayla."
No last name. No follow-up. Just Ayla.
Then came a noise—high and thin, cutting through the quiet. Silas twisted in his seat. One headlight. Getting closer.
"Motorcycle," he muttered.
Ayla didn't flinch. She pressed harder on the gas. The city gave way to dimmer streets and rusted buildings as they sped toward the shadowy outskirts of Valthera's industrial zone.
They swerved into a side road drowned in darkness, the car disappearing into the gloom. The motorcycle followed, relentless.
Silas opened the glovebox. Empty.
"You armed?"
"Not expecting a chase tonight."
"There goes my luck."
The bike was close now. Too close.
Silas clenched his jaw. "If they catch up—"
"They won't," Ayla said, and reached beneath the dash. She pulled out a compact pistol.
"You said this wouldn't be a problem."
"Doesn't mean I came empty-handed."
He smiled, despite everything. "Remind me to never cross you."
"You already did."
Behind them, the motorcycle roared.
Ahead, the road dipped into a tunnel—dark, echoing.
Ayla didn't slow down.
Neither did the chase.