By the time Cassian reached the Chartres warehouse, the sun was only a rumor behind clouds the color of iron. The air smelled of rain and rust. His boots scraped across the cracked pavement as he eased open the side door, pistol drawn.

The Sight was quiet tonight—too quiet.

It always went still right before things turned bad.

Inside, rows of crates filled the gloom like tombstones. Someone had gutted the place recently; fresh dust cut across older footprints. Cassian’s light caught the edge of a painted symbol on one of the boxes: an eye inside a serpent.

Same as the bodies.

Same as his nightmares.

He moved deeper, listening. The building breathed around him—creaks, water dripping, the hum of the city beyond the walls.

Then a voice behind him:

“You really should lock the door when you break into other people’s property.”

Luca.

Cassian didn’t turn. “You followed me.”

“Followed is such an ugly word.” Boots echoed closer. “Think of it as professional curiosity.”

Cassian finally faced him. Luca was a smear of shadow and gold under the hanging light, coat half-open, tattoos slick with rain. He looked both out of place and exactly where he belonged.

“I told you five minutes,” Cassian said.

“Yeah. I took the scenic route.” Luca’s gaze flicked to the crates. “So, prophet, what do the ghosts say?”

Cassian ignored the jab and pried one box open. Inside: military-grade rifles, stacked neat and clean, stamped with serial numbers that belonged to both syndicates.

A trap.

“They’re pitting us against each other,” Cassian said quietly. “Whoever runs this symbol—”

“—wants a war,” Luca finished. He stepped closer to peer inside, the edge of his shoulder brushing Cassian’s. The contact was brief, hot, distracting. “Question is, why share the supply? That’s sloppy.”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “Unless the guns are bait.”

He didn’t get to explain. The Sight hit him like a flash grenade—white light, a scream, Luca’s body hitting the floor. He staggered, hand flying to his temple.

“What is it?” Luca demanded.

“Move.”

Cassian shoved him sideways just as the first explosion ripped through the eastern wall. Crates splintered; dust turned to smoke; the floor buckled under the shockwave.

They hit the ground hard. Cassian’s ears rang, the world spinning. Through the haze he saw movement—figures in masks, guns up, moving in sync. Whoever had set the trap was here to finish it.

He grabbed Luca’s arm. “Back door!”

They ran. Bullets chased them through the narrow aisles, ricocheting off steel and concrete. Cassian fired over his shoulder, precise, controlled; Luca covered him with wild, beautiful chaos, moving like he was born to fight in confined spaces.

When they burst into the night, rain poured in sheets. They dove behind a rusted truck as rounds slammed into the metal.

Luca barked a laugh, breathless. “You sure know how to pick date spots, Voss.”

Cassian reloaded, grim. “Next time, you drive.”

The shooting stopped as suddenly as it had started. Silence, except for rain drumming on the roof above them. Cassian risked a glance—empty street, no movement.

“They’re gone,” he said.

“For now.” Luca leaned back against the truck, closing his eyes, chest rising and falling. “So, what’s your Sight telling you this time?”

Cassian met his gaze. “That this was meant to kill both of us.”

Luca’s grin faltered. “Which means whoever’s behind it isn’t working for my family or yours.”

“Exactly.”

They sat there for a moment, the truth settling between them, heavier than the rain. Partnership wasn’t a choice anymore; it was survival.

Cassian stood first, offering a hand. Luca hesitated, then took it. His palm was warm despite the cold, the grip firm, unguarded for once.

“Truce?” Cassian asked.

“Temporary,” Luca said. But the corner of his mouth curved anyway. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”

Cassian almost smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They started walking, side by side, steam rising from their coats. Somewhere behind them, the warehouse collapsed into itself, fire licking up through the rain.

A deal had been struck—unspoken, dangerous, inevitable.

And for the first time in years, Cassian didn’t see death when he looked at Luca.

He saw trouble.

Maybe worse.

Maybe something he couldn’t stop.