The penthouse has never felt this small.
Glass walls, city lights, a skyline carved in frost and neon — all of it feels like a cage tonight. The snow outside drifts softly, deceptively gentle, like the city isn’t bleeding beneath it.
I’m standing in the dark, jacket still on, knuckles split, blood dried along my wrist where I didn’t bother to clean it.
Rogue is gone.
Adrian Cross remains.
And somehow, that feels worse.
My phone vibrates on the counter for the third time in two minutes. I don’t look at it. I already know what it says.
Unknown Racer Board:
Rogue Lives.
Prove it.
I exhale slowly, fingers curling against the marble.
They’re baiting me now.
The Syndicate doesn’t hunt — it provokes.
And Luna—
The thought of her is a blade under my ribs.
She hasn’t answered my mess
