Lucas
The city feels different when you stop pretending it belongs to you.
We take separate routes, staggered timing, no visible coordination. On the surface, it looks like nothing—four people going about their night. Beneath that, everything is calibrated.
I feel eyes on me twice.
Both times, I let them see me.
I walk too casually. Pause at a crosswalk. Check my phone like a man with nothing to hide. I want them to think I’m late. That I don’t know yet.
That illusion costs me something physical. My chest burns with the effort of not accelerating, not scanning for threats, not breaking pattern. Every step is a negotiation between discipline and instinct.
By the time I reach the perimeter, the building looks exactly as Zara described.
Condemned. Hollow. Quiet.
The front entrance is
