Silas parked the bike three blocks out, killing the engine before it could echo through the maze of rundown apartments. He didn’t need to announce himself. Not when every instinct said Paul would bolt the second he smelled trouble.
He slid the key from the ignition and pocketed it. The morning air was sharp, tasting faintly of rust and exhaust. Silas kept to the shadows as he cut between buildings, jaw tight, boots silent over cracked pavement.
Paul’s place was a second-floor walk-up in a building that had been old before the town existed. Silas had been here once, years ago, back when he still thought Paul was a man worth trusting.
Not anymore.
He reached the stairwell, scanned the windows, then moved up slow—listening, watching. Nothing but the hum of a cheap hallway light and a dog
