Harper
We heard him before we saw him. Boots on wet concrete, fast and deliberate, echoing up the east stairwell. Not the rhythm of someone checking a building. The rhythm of someone done waiting.
Lyra was two flights up, mid-step, frozen. I saw the instant she understood, because the color left her face all at once, like someone had pulled a plug.
No time. The trap wasn't set, the positions weren't marked, and the man climbing toward us had just torn up the schedule we'd built our survival on.
Vane moved first. He stepped between me and the stairwell opening with the economy of a man who'd been doing this his whole life, and the collar at his throat went from banked green to deep, glowing amber in under a second.
Joe rounded the landing.
He saw Vane. He saw me behind Vane. His face
