The neon sign of the fast-food place flickered as Cannon pulled in.

  Yellow light washed over the dashboard. Grease and wet asphalt replaced the whiskey and lilies that once filled the air.

  “I’m not driving another block,” Cannon said, shifting into park.

  Hayes turned to him. “Cannon, we can’t stop. We have to keep moving.”

  She checked the side mirror again. Then the rearview.

  Her hands were clenched under her coat.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not driving with you like this. You’ve been looking over your shoulder since we left the garage.” He paused, then added, lighter, “And besides, I’m hungry.”

  She stared at him like he’d just insulted the dead.

  “If we’re running,” he went on, “I want to know why.”

  For a moment, it looked like she might argue. Then something in her face gave way. She leaned back and let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped in her chest since the docks.

  “It’s the Captain,” she said.

  Cannon frowned. “What about him?”

  “I heard him,” she said quietly. “On the phone.”

  He waited.

  “He knew,” she muttered almost like a whisper.

  “He was arguing. About the casualties. About the merchandise.” She added more firmly. “He knew. He knew what they were bringing out there. He knew about their energy weapons.”

  Cannon stared at the windshield. “That’s a hell of an accusation, Hayes.”

  “I heard him.” she said. “I wish I was wrong, or being delusional… but I heard him.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  “And then said,” she continued, her voice tighter now, “that he’d take care of things on his end.”

  Cannon’s jaw set. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning us.”

  That did it. He opened the door.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s eat.”

  She blinked. “Eat?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Because if what you’re saying is true, I don’t want to be sitting in a car talking about it.” He nodded toward the restaurant.

  Inside, the place was half-empty. A tired cashier. A couple of late-night regulars with no one looking twice at them.

  They slid into a booth near the back.

  For a minute, neither of them spoke. Cannon unwrapped his burger but didn’t take a bite.

  “You’re saying Vance is dirty,” he said finally.

  “I’m saying he’s involved,” Hayes replied. “I don’t know how deep. But he knows who they are. He knows what they’re doing. And he’s protecting himself.”

  Cannon shook his head slowly. “He’s been on the force thirty years.”

  “Which means he knows exactly how to make deaths disappear,” she said.

  He rubbed his face. “And if he figures out you heard that call?”

  She met his eyes. “Then we don’t make it to next week.”

  “We?” Cannon said, letting out a strained sigh.

  “So what’s the play?” he asked.

  Hayes stared down at the laminated tabletop, as though for a split second she allowed herself to get lost in thoughts.

  “We don’t go back to the precinct,” she said.

  “Wouldn't that be suspicious?” Cannon asked.

  “Not yet.” she reassured.

  “And Dean?”

  “He’s already compromised,” she said. “Whether he knows it or not.”

  Cannon finally took a bite of his food. Chewed. Swallowed.

  “Congratulations,” he said quietly. “We’re officially on our own.”

  “we could add this to our list of pending conspiracy theories” he added, almost sarcastically.

  Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, until a bright voice cut through the gloom.

  "Do you two need anything else?”

  Hayes looked up, and for the first time that night, her face lit up with a spark of genuine joy.

  “Isabelle?” she said, surprised. “I didn’t know you worked here. How have you been?”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The waitress smiled. “Surviving.”

  Hayes turned to Cannon. “This is Isabelle. I used to babysit her when she was little.”

  Cannon raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What was she like back then? Was she always this much of a stickler for the rules?”

  Isabelle laughed, leaning against the booth. "Worse. She was a total stick in the mud."

  Cannon laughed, almost loudly. Hayes groaned. “That’s slander.”

  For the first time that night, they shared a small, rare moment of normalcy.

  “How’s your brother?” Hayes asked.

  “He’s good,” Isabelle said. “Still as stubborn as ever though. My shift’s almost over, actually.”

  Just as Hayes was about to respond, the bell above the door chimed. A man stepped inside, rain clinging to his coat. He was tall, moving with an easy, deliberate grace that felt wrong in a place like this. He didn’t glance at the booths. He went straight to the counter.

  “Two orders,” he said. “To go.”

  His voice was low. The kind that sent a quiet warning through Hayes’s spine. Cannon froze mid-bite. He studied the man’s back. Broad shoulders. Heavy coat. The kind that could hide anything.

  The man took a seat in a booth near the counter. As he settled in, his gaze swept the room. It passed over Hayes and Cannon without pause. Then it stopped on Isabelle.

  Isabelle leaned toward Hayes. “I’ll be right back. Gotta take Mr. Scary’s order.”

  She walked over, flipping her notepad open.

  “Hi,” she said brightly, not looking up. “Good evening. May I take your…”

  She looked up. Jackson froze.

  The face was wrong, identical to the woman in the portrait back in Russia. The same eyes. The same structure. The same quiet presence.

  “Valerie?” he said without thinking.

  Isabelle blinked. Then laughed lightly. “Oh. It’s you.” She smiled. “The guy who keeps calling me Valerie. Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

  Still visibly shaken, Jackson felt the ghost of Lady Atia’s words echo in his mind: “What you saw was nature resisting the damage done to it.”

  Jackson exhaled and found his composure.

  “I’m sorry,” he said calmly. “You just look like someone I used to know.”

  Isabelle tilted her head, amused. “Well… was she hot?”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re a spitting image.”

  She smiled, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and pulled herself back to the job.

  “Alright, mister cool guy. You ordering, or just haunting diners? And at least tell me your name!”

  Jackson scoffed, a genuine flash of amusement crossing his dark features. “Two of whatever’s best,” he said. “To go.”

  Then, almost as an afterthought, “The name's Jackson.”

  She nodded. “Jackson. Got it.”

  As she walked back past Hayes, she winked like she’d just won something. A few minutes later, Isabelle returned with a brown paper bag. Jackson stood, paid, and turned to leave.

  “Thank you,” he said to her quietly. “I hope I see you around.”

  He didn’t look at Hayes or Cannon as he approached the door. They noticed the bandage on his hand as he passed. A small dot of fresh red bled through the wrap. The door closed behind him. Fog swallowed his shape.

  Isabelle drifted back to their table, staring at the receipt in her hand, stunned. “Do you believe that guy tipped me a thousand dollars?”

  Cannon didn’t answer. He was staring at the door.

  “Hayes,” he whispered. “Tell me you saw his hand.”

  She didn’t respond. Her eyes flicked from the door to Isabelle.

  “Who was that, Izzy?”

  "I don't know," Isabelle said, her smile fading as she saw the look on Hayes’s face. “He said his name was Jackson.”

  Cannon choked, coughing into his napkin. “Jackson? As in… Jackson Blackwood?”

  Hayes leaned back slowly.

  “Jackson, huh?” she muttered. “Of course.”

  She exhaled, humorless. “This day really can get worse.”

  Outside, the neon sign buzzed and flickered, like it was struggling to stay alive.

  The elevator ride felt longer than it should have.

  Jackson leaned against the mirrored wall, staring at his reflection without really seeing it. Isabelle’s face kept intruding. The familiarity. The way it had hit him before he could stop it.

  “Could that be what Atia meant?” he muttered.

  Then he scoffed softly. “Nah. That crazy old woman would say anything to get me to leave.”

  A brief smile crossed his face.

  The doors slid open. He stepped into the penthouse and set the paper bags down on the bar. The city glowed beyond the glass, quiet and indifferent. He turned toward the bedroom.

  The bed was empty. The silk sheets were tossed aside, and the room was silent.

  Jackson’s instincts flared.

  He turned towards the elevator door, but wasn't fast enough. Something slammed into him from the side. A hand fisted in his coat and hurled him across the room. He crashed into the bar stand, a symphony of shattering glass following him down. Bourbon and expensive whiskey soaked into his shirt, the sting of the alcohol hitting his fresh gunshot wound.

  He lay there for a second, surrounded by broken glass, breath burning in his chest.

  “Well,” he groaned, more irritated than hurt, “you’re stronger than I expected.”

  He stood almost immediately, brushing glass from his coat. That’s when he saw her. The red-haired woman crouched low on the floor, moving on all fours. Her body was tense. Her teeth were bared. A low, animal growl rolled from her chest.

  Jackson raised his hands slowly.

  “Easy,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  He took a step forward. She backed away slowly, her eyes tracking his every twitch.

  “See?” he continued calmly. "Harmless.”

  Her posture softened, just a fraction. Enough for him to move closer. His hand hovered near her head.

  “You have nothing to fear,” he said. “Subject Eight-Six-Seven-Five-Two.”

  The reaction was instant. The woman’s pupils dilated until her eyes were nothing but twin pits of black fire. The growl deepened into something feral. She exploded forward, her nails raking across Jackson’s chest, shredding through his expensive shirt and drawing blood.

  Jackson hissed in pain and tried to restrain her, but she twisted free, planted both feet against his torso, and kicked with a force that sent him flying backward. His back slamming into the bedroom wall with enough force to crack the plaster.

  Before he could even catch his breath, he heard the sound of shattering glass. She hadn't run for the door. She shattered the glass and jumped. She had leaped straight through the floor-to-ceiling window, plummeting into the dark GrayHaven skyline.

  Jackson didn’t hesitate.

  The moment the window gave way, he was gone. White wings burst free as he dove after her, catching her mid-fall and pulling up hard. They landed on the roof.

  She stumbled back, terror flooding her face. She stared at him, wide-eyed, at the man she thought she had just killed. But then, her eyes traveled upward.

  His wings were fully spread. White. Massive. Her fear shifted. The violence drained out of her, replaced by a primal, childlike wonder.

  She approached him slowly, her focus entirely on the wings. She reached out to touch a feather, then snatched her hand back as if she expected them to bite

  Jackson exhaled. “I see you like the wings,” he said lightly. “I can keep showing them… if you promise not to attack me again.”

  She barely heard him.

  She circled him, eyes locked on the feathers, reaching out, withdrawing, fascinated like a child discovering fire.

  “So… Truce?” Jackson tried. “Subject…”

  Her eyes snapped back to him. The growl returned. Jackson immediately threw his hands up, his wings snapping back in a defensive posture. The sudden movement distracted her, and the growl died in her throat.

  “Alright,” he said. “No tag names. Got it.”

  She moved closer again, fingers brushing the air near his wings.

  “If you don’t like that name,” he said thoughtfully, “then what do I call you?”

  He rubbed his chin. Then looked at her pale face, her wild red hair, and the fierce spark in her eyes.

  “How about Eva?”

  She paused, her head tilting in confusion.

  “Eva it is then,” he decided with a faint smile.

  But as the words left his lips, the world began to tilt. Jackson’s vision blurred. The lights of the city smeared into streaks. He tried to steady himself… And failed.

  He collapsed onto the rooftop, wings spread wide, consciousness slipping away as darkness rushed in.

  Above him, Eva stood frozen, staring at the fallen angel who had just given her a name.