His Dark Obsession

Chapter 2 — Run

"Don't answer it."

I freeze, phone already in my hand, the camera feed open, the buzzer still echoing in the quiet of my apartment. The voice comes from nowhere, from everywhere, a single line of audio through a burner I didn't give anyone this number.

I answer anyway.

"Who is this?"

"Someone who knows what happened tonight and is not currently standing outside your building." A pause. "The two men who are, however — look at them carefully."

I already am.

Dark clothing. No uniforms, no badges, no squad car in the slice of street behind them. They are standing close to the door but not pressed against it, not with that particular energy of someone who has a warrant and knows the law is behind them. These two are still in the way of people who are used to waiting because they already know how this ends.

Professional. That is the word my brain lands on and it does not make me feel better.

*Not police.*

The line goes dead.

I am already moving.

The go-bag is under my desk, right side, pushed against the wall where I can grab it without looking. I have packed and repacked it six times in three years, always the same things. Laptop. Two burner phones. Cash. One change of clothes. A hard drive with everything that matters. I sling it over my shoulder and I do not let myself think about what I am leaving behind, because thinking about that is how people slow down and slowing down right now is not an option.

I go out the window.

The fire escape is on the east side of the building, second window in my bedroom, the one I keep unlocked for this exact reason. Milo used to tease me about it. *You're paranoid, Lyra. Nobody is coming for you.* I never explained why he was wrong. I just kept the window unlocked.

The metal is cold under my hands and the city is loud the way New York is always loud even at one in the morning, traffic somewhere below, music from a bar two blocks over, the specific urban hum that never fully goes quiet. I take the stairs fast, three floors, my boots barely making noise because I practiced this too, because Cipher practices everything.

I hit the alley at the bottom and I am already moving toward the street, already planning the next three steps, subway entrance two blocks east, then a bus, then a cab, put as much distance between me and this building as fast as I can and figure out the rest after—

A man steps out of the shadows at the mouth of the alley.

He is not rushing. He is not reaching for anything. He simply steps into my path and stands there, hands loose at his sides, like he has been waiting in this exact spot for a specific amount of time.

I stop.

He is tall. Dark jacket. The kind of still that does not come from being relaxed, it comes from being trained, from spending years learning how to take up space without wasting any movement. He is looking at me the way someone looks at a thing they expected to see.

"Miss Voss." His voice is even. Not loud. "My name is Rafael Mora."

The name means nothing to me. The way he says it means everything. Like it is supposed to land. Like he is giving me information he expects me to file carefully.

"I don't know you," I say.

"No," he agrees. "But you know the name Dante Reyes."

My stomach drops for the second time tonight.

"Mr. Reyes would like a conversation."

I run.

Not away from him, there is no away from him, he is already between me and the street. I go left, toward the other end of the alley, because there is a gap between the buildings I clocked six months ago when I first moved in, barely wide enough to fit through, which means it is wide enough for me and probably not wide enough for him.

I am fast. I have always been fast. Running is the one physical thing I have always been good at, the one form of preparation that does not require a computer.

I almost make it.

His hand closes around my arm, not rough, not yanking, just present, and I spin into it the way my self-defense class taught me, turning the grip into a pull, using his hold as leverage to bring my elbow up and—

He blocks it.

He blocks it without looking. Like he saw it coming before I moved, like he has had this specific punch thrown at him enough times that his body answers it automatically. My elbow stops against his forearm and we are briefly at a complete standstill, face to face, close enough that I can see he is not angry. He is not even surprised.

He almost smiles.

I step back. He lets me. That is somehow more unsettling than if he had held on.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," I say. My voice comes out steady. I am grateful for that.

"I understand." He straightens his jacket. He does this calmly, the way someone straightens a jacket after sitting for a long time, not after blocking a punch in an alley at one in the morning. "That's your choice."

"Good."

"However." He reaches into his jacket pocket, moves slowly, and I watch his hand the whole time. He pulls out a phone. Sets it face up on the metal lid of the nearest trash can between us so I can see the screen without stepping closer to him. On it is a photograph. My building. Taken from street level, recent, the same coffee place on the corner that only opened four months ago visible in the background. "The men at your front door work for someone who is considerably less patient than Mr. Reyes. And considerably less interested in conversation."

I look at the photograph. I look at him.

"Mr. Reyes doesn't send police, Miss Voss." His voice is the same even tone it has been since the alley. No threat in it. Just facts, delivered the way someone reads a weather report. "He sends me. There's a difference." He picks the phone back up. Slides it into his pocket. "You should think carefully about which one you'd prefer."