Seren Vale had eleven minutes—maybe less—before the first knock at the door.

The city still glittered outside Alaric Voss’s penthouse windows, but inside, the light seemed to have curdled. The scent of blood was metallic, clinging to her skin, staining her nails. She had already pulled the knife from his chest and tossed it into the kitchen sink, running the tap until the blade’s steel gleamed under the water, but the act felt useless. The crime was everywhere—on her hands, in the air, in the way her heartbeat thudded against her ribs like it was trying to escape her body.

Alaric was still on the floor where she’d lowered him, his breaths shallow and ragged. She’d checked his pulse twice—faint, but there.

You should finish it, a voice in her head hissed. If he survives, everything unravels.

But another voice, colder and far more dangerous, whispered: You already destroyed him. Do you want to destroy yourself too?

Her phone lay on the coffee table, Lyra’s message still glowing:

It wasn’t Voss. It was Cassien.

That single sentence had detonated her entire reality. She should have been halfway across the city by now, but she couldn’t make herself move. Not yet. Not until she erased herself from this place.

She moved through the penthouse like a shadow, grabbing the glass she’d used earlier, the wine bottle, her scarf from the arm of the sofa. Each item went into the black leather tote slung over her shoulder. She plucked a single strand of hair from the cushion where she’d been sitting—missed details could kill her later.

From the hallway came a muffled groan. She froze.

“Leona…” His voice was barely audible, thick with blood and confusion.

She turned toward him, an ache flaring hot in her chest. “Don’t talk.”

He tried anyway, the words catching in his throat. “If you run… they’ll bury you.”

The irony almost made her laugh. They’ll bury me either way.

She crouched beside him, pressing a dish towel from the kitchen against his wound. “I didn’t mean—” The words stuck. There was no point finishing the sentence.

In the distance, faint but unmistakable, sirens wailed. Her pulse spiked. She had minutes.

She left him there.

The elevator was too risky—security cameras, building staff—so she took the stairs, fifteen flights down to the service corridor that led to the parking garage. Her breath was steady, controlled; she’d trained herself to run without panic years ago.

The sirens were closer now. She ducked behind a concrete pillar as two police cruisers swept into the garage, lights splashing across the cars.

Her own vehicle, a nondescript gray sedan, was parked three rows away. Too exposed. She slipped between SUVs, keeping low until she reached an unmarked service exit. From there, she stepped into the narrow back alley and merged with the city’s noise.

By the time she reached the riverfront, she had shed her blazer, stuffed it into a dumpster, and wrapped her scarf around her head. In the glow of the streetlamps, her reflection in the water looked like someone else entirely.

But no disguise could keep the past from clawing its way forward.

She had been seven the first time she hid from sirens. That night, her parents’ voices had stopped mid-argument. She’d crawled under her bed, small enough to fit, trembling as the silence grew thick. The sound that had replaced it—the steady tick of the grandfather clock, the faint drip-drip of something wet hitting the hardwood—had imprinted itself on her bones.

When they found her, Lyra had been pale, shaking, telling the police they had to keep the girl safe. Then the system had taken her, renamed her, filed her away like a piece of lost mail.

Seren Kurtner had vanished; Leona had been built in her place.

A passing train shook her from the memory. She slipped into the back of a café just as they were closing, heading straight for the restrooms. In the locked stall, she pulled out a burner phone from her bag and dialed.

Ben answered on the second ring. “You’re late.”

“Cassien’s alive,” she said.

Silence. Then, “That’s not possible.”

“Lyra sent me proof.”

“Lyra’s been off the grid for six years. Proof of what?”

“That Voss wasn’t the one. I stabbed the wrong man.”

Ben swore under his breath. She could picture him at his cluttered desk, fingers flying over his keyboard. “Where are you?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Too late, they’ll track you anyway. Cassien’s moving pieces—two political aides were found dead in a car fire last week. I thought it was unrelated. Now I’m not so sure.”

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to think. Cassien had been a ghost for years, his name whispered in the darker corners of political corridors. If Lyra’s message was true, he was the one who had orchestrated her family’s murder. And if he knew she was still alive…

“I need you to scrub the building footage,” she told Ben. “Penthouse, parking garage, every camera for the last three hours.”

“I’ll try, but if Cassien’s already in the system, he’ll see me coming.”

“Then move fast.” She hung up before he could argue.

The next morning, headlines exploded across every screen:

SENATORIAL CANDIDATE ALARIC VOSS IN CRITICAL CONDITION AFTER ASSAULT

POLICE SEEK WOMAN SEEN ENTERING PENTHOUSE HOURS BEFORE ATTACK

Her photo—Leona’s photo—was everywhere.

She sat in a dingy motel room on the outskirts of the city, watching the footage on mute. They’d pulled a still from a security camera at a fundraiser weeks ago. The image wasn’t sharp, but it was enough.

Ben’s message came through:

Footage wiped. But someone else was in there before me. And they weren’t covering your tracks—they were following you.

Her stomach tightened. Cassien.

The TV anchor’s voice droned in the background. “…police sources suggest the attack may be politically motivated. Voss’s campaign has been suspended indefinitely…”

Suspended. Not ended. Which meant he was still alive.

She should have felt relief. Instead, all she felt was the weight of Cassien’s shadow lengthening over the city.

Voss might survive. But the real predator was still out there, circling.

And now, he knew exactly where to find her.