Raven's bare feet hit the cold asphalt outside the side gate. 1:49 a.m. The floodlight flickered once, then died. She didn't pause.
She had let him run. Long enough to see exactly where he was going.
Now he was already gone, coat flapping like a wounded bird into the alley mouth. No shout. No alarm. Just the soft snick of the latch and the knowledge that another rat had smelled the ship going down.
She followed.
No call to Vincent. No waiting for orders. The night swallowed her whole and she let it.
The first alley bit her soles—gravel, shattered glass, old oil. Each shard registered. Good. Kept the edge sharp. Elias knew these streets the way she once had. Caruso muscle memory. He cut left into the maintenance tunnels beneath the old textile district, the ones the city forgot after the floods. Pipes dripped steady. Rats scattered like spilled shot. His footsteps echoed ahead—fast, sloppy, already sucking air like a man who thought distance could save him.
