The motorcycle ate the distance of the alleyway, the engine’s scream echoing off the brick walls. The highway ramp was a rising concrete spine ahead of me.

As I rode, Emilio’s voice from the basement started to loop in my head. The words he had said about Julian. About what they did to him before the end.

I didn’t repeat the words to myself; I didn’t need to. They sat behind my eyes like a physical weight, the way a deep wound sits beneath heavy clothing.

Memory is a traitor. It waits until you are at your limit to show you what you’ve lost.

A flash hit me: A rooftop. A summer night four years ago. We were high enough that the city noise was just a hum. Two lukewarm beers sat between us, and a box of Chinese takeout was going cold. We were sharing a single cigarette.

Julian was leaning against the railing, looking out at the skyline. He was never afraid of heights. He was never afraid of the things that should have frightened him.

"People like us," Julian said, his voice quiet. "We don’t really get to choose, do we? You get your hands dirty, or you don’t survive."

He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. I could always see the part it didn’t reach. I watched him the way I always did, when he wasn’t looking, and quite often when he was.

Julian caught my gaze and grinned. "You’re going to burn a hole in my face, Cassian. What is it? Do I have something on me?" He tilted his head, his eyes bright. "You look like you can’t decide whether you want to hit me or kiss m—"

He left the rest unfinished. He always did that. He’d draw an invisible line with his humor, a boundary I wasn’t allowed to cross.

I didn’t answer. I just took the cigarette from him, took a long pull, and handed it back. The silence between us was never empty. It was full of everything we couldn’t say.

A shot from the sedan barked, snapping me back to the present. It was too close. I jerked the bike to the right, feeling the wind of the bullet. My left arm was throbbing now, the graze making its presence known with every vibration of the handlebars.

The sedan was visible again. I had reached the ramp. We were neck and neck, separated by a concrete barrier. I saw Emilio’s face through the tinted glass for a split second, wide eyes, pale skin. He was terrified. Good.

"You’re gaining," Reid said. "But he’s not stopping at the ramp. Wait, he’s going past it. Cassian, he’s heading for the port."

The mention of the port triggered another flash. An early mission we were given by the Mafia family we served, the Lorenzos. It was long before we understood how heavy the world was.

Julian was on the ground. It wasn’t dramatic; he was just sitting against a brick wall, his hand pressed firmly to his side. Red was blooming between his fingers. He looked calm. It was the most annoying thing about him.

I wasn’t calm. Fear was moving through me like a poison, and because I didn’t know how to hold it, it became anger.

"You weren’t where you were supposed to be," I snarled as I crouched beside him. I was ripping open his shirt, assessing the damage. "I told you to hold the position. You never hold the position. What is wrong with you?"

Julian watched me work. His expression was a devastating mix of fondness and pain.

"I’m sorry," he said, and I knew he wasn’t sorry at all. "Are you going to keep scolding me, or are you going to help me?"

"Both," I muttered, my hands shaking as I applied pressure. "You have no regard for yourself. None. It’s infuriating."

Julian laughed, then immediately winced. "Don’t... don’t make me laugh."

"Just shut up," I countered. "You’re too stubborn for your own good."

He grew quiet then, letting me work. The silence was different from the rooftop. It was heavier. More honest. He looked at my hands, then at my face. He had a painful smile on his lips, his eyes full of too much light.

"I feel lucky," he whispered. "To be cared for by someone like you."

The words landed somewhere I didn’t have defenses for. Julian always found those places. He was the only one who could.

"Shut up," I said, reaching for the field kit. "We’re getting you a medic."

He just kept smiling. He knew what the "shut up" meant. He always knew.

The memory faded into the smell of the docks. The industrial scent of stagnant water and rusted iron filled my lungs. The lights of the port were ahead, a maze of shipping containers and towering cranes.

Emilio’s car pulled in hard, tires screaming as it skidded toward a pier. The doors flew open before it even fully stopped. Men spilled out, guns raised, moving to intercept me.

I didn’t slow down. I didn’t even consider it.

I drove the motorcycle straight through the line. A shot hit the bike’s frame, a jarring clang, but I kept the throttle twisted. I past the guards, through the chaos, through every obstacle between me and the man in the fur-trimmed coat.

I took hits. I felt the impact of a shoulder-check, the sting of glass, the dull ache of a fall as I eventually had to ditch the bike when the pier narrowed. None of it stopped me. The thing driving me wasn’t about survival anymore. It was about an ending.

Emilio was running toward the edge of the dock. A vessel was moored there, a fast-response boat with its running lights on. Someone had been waiting for him. This had been his exit strategy all along.

I cleared the remaining men. I didn’t use finesse. I used the raw, unadulterated violence of someone who has run out of patience. I threw the last guard into the dark water and kept moving.

Emilio reached the edge. He turned, the water behind him, the boat just out of reach. There was nowhere else for him to go.

I stopped five feet from him. My chest was heaving, my clothes were torn and soaked with blood, mine and others’, and my jaw felt like it was made of broken glass.

The gap was closed. Finally.

I looked at Emilio, and for the first time in four years, the ghost of Julian felt quiet. I reached for the gun tucked behind me. The night was very still, the only sound the lapping of the water against the pilings and the heavy, ragged sound of my own breath.

"Cassian," Emilio stammered, his hands raised. "Wait. We can talk about this. I have money. I have—"