Nyra didn’t go home.
Not because she didn’t have one.
But because “home” was a fixed point and fixed points were easy to find.
Instead, she kept moving.
The city changed as the night deepened, traffic thinned, storefront lights dimmed, conversations grew quieter, more private. It became easier to disappear not into darkness, but into routine.
Nyra walked without urgency, her route bending and folding in ways that looked aimless but weren’t, left turn, two blocks cross the street, Pause at a closed café window just long enough to study her reflection.
Nothing behind her.
No one lingering.
No repeated faces.
Still
Something didn’t settle.
It wasn’t the obvious kind of suspicion. No footsteps echoing too close, no shadow stretching too long. It was subtler than that.
A pattern.
