Ethan Russo did not like riding on the subway at night.

It wasn't the sound—he could sleep while braking horns rasped, brakes squealed, even other people's incessant chatter. It wasn't the stench either, though a combination of stale air, grease, and some kind of biting quality always lingered on his clothing.

They were the eyes.

The manner in which, even in a packed car, he felt observed. Tracked. As though a glance lingered a bit too long or slid across his shoulder a bit too frequently.

And tonight, that feeling was worse.

He pushed his hoodie out in front of him, trying to become a less obtrusive presence on the seat as the train surged forward. His music thumped in his earbuds, but could not deaden the itch at the base of his neck—the urge that whispered to him that a person was too close.

Ethan pressed his hand against his jean pocket where his compass would be, searching for the familiar weight. He'd gotten it on his ninth birthday, the last time he'd ever seen his father alive.

"Men require anchorages," his father had told him, kneeling so they were at eye level. "Something that reminds them where they started, no matter what storm they're in. It always points you to the north. Don't forget that, Ethan. No matter how lost you think you are."

Ethan had not known then. He'd only enjoyed how the glass bent the light, how this tiny needle did seem to quiver like a living creature.

Now—an older man bruised by reality—he held fast to it. Not because he thought in terms of magic or destiny, but because it was the final bit of his father that hadn't gone to death or debts.

The compass was safe. The compass was home.

So when he pulled his hand from his pocket and realized it was gone, true fear cracked through him.

He reminded himself of Bella.

Bella dragged him out of bed on the night they buried their dad to conceal him under the blanket since debt collectors would not cease knocking on the door.

Bella worked herself raw, grinning with weary lips but ensuring he was never without sustenance.

Bella always had about her words, "I've got you, Ethan. Don't worry about the world—it can come through me first."

He loathed this. Loathed that she bore the world on a shield at her own cost so that he might be normal.

He hoped to be powerful enough to safeguard her back. But what did he possess? A backpack. A hoodie. A compass that he was unable to even keep track of.

He looked up nonchalantly, as he'd been taught by Bella: never make them think that you can be afraid but appear bored.

The man was once again present.

Tall. Broad shoulders. The hat brim was casting a shadow over his face. Nothing conspicuous. Nothing to cause a stranger to yell danger. Yet a lot was noticeable to Ethan—he always was. He hadn't picked up his phone once. The manner he was constantly changing cars whenever he did.

And the way, right now, his gaze was locked on Ethan like he was studying prey.

Ethan's heart raced.

As the train slid into his station, he slipped out into the throng. The station smelled like damp rock and metal, and buzzing fluorescent lights made soft sounds. He elbowed his way through commuters in sneakers echoing off tile.

The man proceeded

Ethan turned up the stairs two at a time, lungs burning. He burst onto the street, the city’s night air heavy with exhaust and fried food. He ducked down a side street, quieter, only a single flickering lamp casting a pale circle of light.

Next was a rustling sound of footsteps.

"Hey," some voice yelled out. Smooth. Wrong.

Ethan looked around. The man came toward him, a small object in his fist.

His compass.

Ethan's heart stopped.

You dropped this," the man stated. His smile was level, hollow. He flung it. Ethan took it reflexively, his hands gripping the cold glass.

When he raised his eyes, he was gone. Melted back into the shadows.

Ethan's breath was coming in ragged gasps. He gripped the compass harder, until he required its anchor—when he spotted the smudge of ink across the metal band.

A number, 13.

He longed to move home, right into Bella's arms, like he used to when he was a ten-year-old. But he was rigidly still, shame holding him.

She was vexed enough. What would she say if she discovered he'd been shadowed? That he could not even keep a basic compass?

He shoved it into his pocket and heaved himself forward.

It was his time to be strong. It was his time to be a protector this time.

Even if it meant keeping secrets.

Meanwhile, Bella rigidly took a seat in Alex's vehicle. Her phone buzzed again, another photo arriving. Each one hit like a dagger to the heart.

But her gaze was not on the phone. It was on Alex's hands gripping the wheel until his knuckles turned white.

You knew," she whispered.

His jaw flexed. “I told you. I know everything.”

She's trembling. "You knew somebody was tailing Ethan. And you didn't say anything to me."

Alex didn't look at her. "Because I wanted to be sure. And because if I told you too soon, panic."

She's angry. "You can't make that choice for me. He's my brother. My family. If you think—

It buzzed once again. Bella's stomach plummeted upon opening it.

A picture of Ethan under a dimly lit streetlamp. Holding his compass.

And behind him--blurred but unmistakable--the outline of the man in the cap.

Elsewhere, Miranda circulated her wine. A grin tugged at her lips as she watched a live feed on her tablet--grainy footage of a frozen-in-fear Ethan. "Good boy," she whispered. "The game's only begun."