Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Arrow acts offended. “It wasn’t trickery, Juno. I was keeping you from doing something far more dangerous.”
Juno rests her dark eyes on me. “She’s gonna find out.”
“I know.”
Juno crosses her arms. “She’s smart. Fierce. But she’s tired of running. Don’t let her think she has to run from you, too.”
That hits harder than I expect.
Arrow brushes a hand down her back. “She’ll come around.”
Knight slaps me on the shoulder. “And until then, we make damn sure no one touches her.”
I nod, slowly, and look around the space we’ve rebuilt from trauma into protection.
The bed is made. The walls are cleared. The light bulb hums gently overhead.
River’s safe house is ready.
Now I just have to convince her to trust it.
To trust me.
Even if I can’t tell her what it’s costing me to keep my distance.
Even if I’m already falling.
Hard.
Silently.
And praying I don’t hit the ground alone.
SEVEN
RIVER
For the first time in weeks, I wake up without the feeling that something’s sitting on my chest. No new messages. No emails from fake accounts. No one whispering about me in the hallway—at least, not that I can tell.
Mason Reid is officially unemployed.
I still can’t believe it. One day he was swaggering into the office like he owned the place, and the next, IT walked him out mid-morning with a cardboard box and zero eye contact. He didn’t even glance my way. Just kept his head down while HR muttered something about “violation of company policy.”
Good.
He can go violate it somewhere far, far away.
I’ve spent months waiting to breathe again, and today… I finally do.
It’s almost unnerving how quiet the internet’s been since. No new comments. No pictures. No fake videos. It’s like someone finally pulled the plug on the nightmare. I half expect an apology letter from the algorithm gods.
So when I walk into NovaPlay that morning, the sunlight actually looks golden instead of apocalyptic gray. My reflection in the lobby glass doesn’t look haunted. Just tired, and maybe a little hopeful.
I drop my bag on my desk, boot up my computer, and make a silent promise: no doomscrolling, no crying, no spiraling. Just work. Normal and quiet.
And then Gage does something that short-circuits my brain.
He hands me the first cup of coffee.
No smirk. No taunt. Just… coffee. Steaming, perfect, in my favorite mug—the one he usually steals.
I blink at it. “Are you dying?”
He leans on the edge of my desk, casual as ever, like this isn’t the weirdest thing he’s ever done. “What, I can’t be nice?”
“No,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Not without an ulterior motive.”
“Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.”
I take the cup slowly, suspicious. “You’re incapable of personal growth.”
He grins, and tilts his head. “You wound me, Quinn.”
“You’ll live.”
But my lips twitch. Just a little. It’s the first genuine smile I’ve felt in weeks.
He nods toward my screen. “You diving into that new patch?”
“Yeah. Gameplay update for the combat AI. Trying to fix the targeting system before beta.”
“Need help?”
I glance up, ready with a sarcastic reply, but something in his expression stops me. His voice is softer, less… sharp. Concern flickers behind his eyes before he covers it with his usual smirk.
I shake my head. “I’ve got it. But thanks.”
“Anytime.”
And just like that, he’s gone—back to his desk, back to pretending we’re not locked in the world’s most confusing workplace dynamic. Except today, it feels different. Lighter. Maybe we’re both tired of fighting.
Maybe we both needed a truce.
The day moves in a rare, glorious rhythm. No breakdowns. No HR check-ins. My code compiles cleanly, and the test server behaves for once. By lunchtime, I’ve almost convinced myself that everything’s normal again.
Then my phone buzzes.
At first, I ignore it. Probably a system alert or one of Tasha’s endless group chats about company yoga. But it buzzes again. And again.
I glance down.
Unknown number: “Bet you miss him already.”
Then another:
Unknown number: “Don’t get too comfortable.”
My stomach twists.
No. No, it’s over. It has to be over.
I glance around the office, trying to breathe. No one’s looking at me, but the hairs on the back of my neck stand up anyway. I open the message details. It’s coming from a masked IP. Private proxy. Encrypted.
The coffee turns to acid in my stomach.
My phone buzzes again. A photo this time. Blurry, taken from a distance. My apartment building. My floor. My bedroom.
Oh my god.
They’re inside my apartment.
I stand so fast my chair rolls backward into the partition wall. Heads turn. Gage looks up immediately from across the aisle, eyebrows drawing together.
“Everything okay?” he calls.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just—uh—coffee spill.”
I grab my phone, my bag, and speed-walk toward the hallway before he can ask anything else.
In the empty corridor outside the conference rooms, I pull up the secure app—the one Mask used the first night he found me.
My fingers tremble as I type.
ME: They’re back. They’re in my apartment.