Chapter 3

The thought lingered in the back of her mind, intrusive and unwelcome, as she stared at her reflection in the office bathroom mirror. The fluorescent lighting washed her out, casting harsh shadows under her eyes, making the exhaustion settle deeper into her bones.

She had slept, but it hadn’t been restful. Her dreams had been a tangle of flickering subway lights and jade-green eyes that refused to let her go. Every time she blinked, she saw it—the precise arc of his knife, the effortless way the man had crumpled. Like a puppet with its strings cut.

She swallowed against the dryness in her throat and turned the faucet on, splashing cold water against her face.

It was ridiculous. She had seen something she wasn’t supposed to see. That was all. It wasn’t a story, wasn’t a plot twist in one of the books she liked to read. It was real. Real violence, real death, real consequences. And she had walked away from it.

So why did she feel like she hadn’t?

She pressed her palms against the sink, staring at her reflection a moment longer. Her dark hair hung loose over her shoulders, strands curling slightly from the humidity outside. She looked the same. She felt different.

A knock on the door startled her, her pulse stuttering against her ribs. “Mika? You in there?”

She exhaled slowly, letting the tension ease from her shoulders before opening the door to find Sophia, her closest thing to a friend at work, standing there with an arched brow and two steaming cups of overpriced office coffee.

“You good?” Sophia asked, stepping aside to let Mika out.

“I’m fine,” Mika said, and if the lie felt heavy on her tongue, she ignored it. “What’s up?”

“Nothing, just checking in. You’ve been quiet today.”

Mika offered a small smile, taking the coffee Sophia handed her. “Just tired.”

Sophia hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t push. They walked back to their desks together, slipping into the comfortable silence of work mode. Computers hummed, keyboards clacked, the usual white noise of the office filling the space.

Mika tried to focus, to shove the memory of that night into a locked box in the back of her mind. But the more she tried to forget, the more she thought about it.

About him.

About the way he had looked at her.

And the nagging question she hadn’t been able to shake since that night:

Had he already forgotten about her?

Or was he thinking about her too?

By the time she left work that evening, the sun had dipped below the skyline, setting the city in a wash of deep blue and gold. She pulled her jacket tighter around her as she stepped onto the sidewalk, blending seamlessly into the flow of foot traffic. Her heels clicked against the pavement in time with a hundred others.

It was almost too easy to disappear in a place like this. No one paid attention to anyone. No one cared.

That thought used to comfort her.

But tonight, she found herself glancing at the faces moving past her. Searching. Looking for something—someone—without even knowing what she was looking for.

Mika exhaled sharply and picked up her pace, reminding herself there was nothing to find.

She took the subway home, just as she always did. The train car was packed, bodies pressed together, the same stale air heavy with the scent of sweat and cheap cologne. She found a seat near the window and let her head fall back against the glass, letting the rhythmic clatter of the tracks lull her mind into quiet.

The train stopped. People shuffled in and out. Another stop. Another shuffle.

And then, a ripple.

Subtle, but undeniable. A shift in the air, something unseen but felt.

Her pulse skittered.

She kept her gaze trained on the scratched surface of the subway window, willing herself not to look. Not to confirm the feeling crawling up her spine.

But then she did.

A man stood near the doors, far enough away that he blended into the sea of commuters, but close enough that she felt him. He didn’t look at her, but the weight of his presence was enough.

Her throat tightened.

It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. The lighting was too dim, his features partially obscured by the shifting crowd. But the build was the same—broad, powerful, relaxed in a way that only came with confidence.

The next stop came. The doors hissed open.

Mika stood and walked out without a second thought, her heart pounding as she wove through the station, taking a different exit than usual.

By the time she reached the street, the cool air hit her like a shock, but she didn’t stop moving.

She didn’t turn around.

And she didn’t look back.

Seamus knew better than to hesitate.

The moment the girl locked eyes with him on the subway, he had been aware of her. But he hadn't processed why until much later. He had cleaned up his mess, left the scene, and gone about his business as if it were any other night.

But she had stayed in his mind.

Not because she had screamed or made a scene—she hadn’t. That’s what made her different. She had seen him, truly seen him, and she had chosen to run rather than react.

That wasn’t normal.

Now, he was searching for her.

He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know where she lived. But he knew the subway station, knew the direction she had run in. New York was massive, but everyone had a pattern, a routine, a place they belonged.

And he was going to find hers.

Seamus sat in his car, parked in a space where the meter had long expired, watching the waves of people spilling in and out of the subway entrance. He wasn’t worried about getting ticketed. People knew better than to tow cars like his.

He was patient. He had to be.

Killing a man on a subway wasn’t personal. It was business. A contract signed, a job executed, a life erased. He had done it more times than he could count, and each time, he had walked away without a second thought.

But this time, there was her.

The way she had looked at him—steady, sharp. He had expected fear, panic. Instead, he had gotten something else.

Recognition.

And that intrigued him.

Seamus tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, his mind running through the details of the night. He could still picture the moment before she ran—the tension in her shoulders, the tightness in her jaw. She had decided to leave before the doors even opened. That kind of instinct couldn’t be faked.

She had been trained by something. Life? Experience? He wasn’t sure yet.

The problem was, if she had recognized him, she might try to find out who he was. Or worse—she might talk.

He had to eliminate the possibility. But that didn’t mean killing her.

Not yet.