Chapter 4

He stepped out of the car, moving with the easy confidence of someone who belonged anywhere he went. The city was his hunting ground, and tonight, he had one goal: to find her.

He moved through the streets, tracing the invisible lines of routine, the well-worn paths of people who lived in the area. Coffee shops, small markets, the places people frequented without thinking. He studied the faces of passing strangers, looking for any sign of recognition.

She was here somewhere.

He just had to be patient.

Hours passed. Seamus had walked through different streets, pausing at intersections, scanning faces, blending into the crowd like a ghost. He studied the way people moved, how they interacted with their environment. People were predictable. Even when they thought they were unpredictable, they fell into patterns.

If she worked in this area, she would surface eventually. People were creatures of habit. They walked the same routes, took the same breaks, moved through the world in loops without realizing it. He had learned that early in his career—how to study patterns, how to predict where someone would be before they even knew themselves.

Seamus wasn’t impatient. He had spent his whole life waiting for the right moments, learning how to strike when the time was right. This was no different. He let his feet carry him through different streets, blending in, absorbing the energy of the city, waiting for the right moment to take action.

It wasn’t just about finding her. It was about understanding her.

What kind of person runs from a murder but doesn’t report it? What kind of person locks eyes with a killer and chooses to flee instead of freeze?

He smirked to himself. She was different.

That alone made her worth hunting.

His instincts told him he was getting closer, even if he hadn’t yet laid eyes on her. This was the right place. The right hunting ground. The city was a maze, but he was good at finding his way through the dark.

For now, he would let her remain a ghost, unaware of the shadow creeping closer.

He had time.

Because the game had only just begun.

The phone rang.

A number he recognized. A number he never ignored.

Seamus leaned against the hood of his car, the city breathing around him, neon lights flickering in the rain-slicked streets. He let it ring once more before answering, the device cold against his ear.

"Yeah."

Silence. Then, a slow, deliberate inhale.

"I was starting to think you were avoiding me, lad."

The voice carried the weight of familiarity, smooth yet edged with steel. Kiernan. A name that meant little to the world but everything to Seamus. His handler. His link to The Morrígan Syndicate.

"Not avoiding. Working."

A chuckle, dry and knowing. "Ah, of course. Always working."

Seamus didn’t respond. Kiernan enjoyed his games, but Seamus had never been one for idle conversation. If they were calling, it was for a reason.

"The job went clean?"

"Always."

Another pause. "Then tell me, why am I getting whispers about a loose end?"

His jaw ticked. They knew. He should’ve expected as much. The Morrígan Syndicate didn’t operate on assumptions. They operated on information.

"There’s no loose end."

"Is that so?"

Seamus could hear movement in the background—glasses clinking, low murmurs, the unmistakable hum of power being shifted behind closed doors. Kiernan wasn’t alone. He never was.

"You’re in New York longer than necessary."

"Finishing up."

"And the girl?"

His fingers curled around the phone. "Handled."

A lie. But Kiernan wasn’t the type to push. Not yet.

"Good," Kiernan finally said, voice dipping into something more thoughtful. "It’d be a shame if you started getting distracted, Seamus. The Syndicate doesn’t take kindly to distractions."

Seamus smirked, a slow, humorless thing. "I don’t get distracted."

A beat. Then Kiernan laughed, a low sound filled with amusement but not belief. "That’s what they all say."

Seamus didn’t respond. He could hear what wasn’t being said. The unspoken reminder. The quiet warning laced beneath the surface.

"You were raised better than that," Kiernan added, his voice taking on a softer edge—dangerous in its own way. "You remember where you came from, don’t you?"

Seamus’ grip tightened.

He remembered.

He remembered the orphanage, the cold beds, the hollow ache of hunger. He remembered the fights in the alleyways, the blood on his knuckles before he was even old enough to understand what it meant. He remembered the first time they found him, plucked him from the streets, gave him a purpose.

A weapon had to be forged before it could be wielded.

Seamus had been sharpened into something lethal. Something that belonged to them. A blade in the hands of a ghost.

"I remember," he said, his voice flat.

"Good lad."

The line went dead.

Seamus exhaled slowly, lowering the phone, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders.

They were watching him. Of course they were. The Morrígan Syndicate didn’t leave things to chance. And if Kiernan was calling, it meant they already suspected something.

A loose end.

A distraction.

Seamus pocketed the phone and pushed off the car, his mind shifting gears. The girl was becoming a liability.

Which meant he had a decision to make.

And he needed to make it soon.

The night was cold, but Seamus barely felt it. The streets of New York pulsed with life, but he was separate from it—watching, calculating, waiting.

The Morrígan Syndicate had taken him in when he was nothing. An orphan with bloodied fists and a survival instinct honed by necessity. They had given him a place, a purpose. In return, they had taken everything else.

He was not a man. He was a weapon.

And weapons didn’t hesitate.

Kiernan’s voice lingered in his mind, more than just a warning. It was a test. A reminder that no one left the Syndicate. No one walked away.

Disobedience was punished.

Failure was fatal.

Seamus had learned those lessons young. He had seen what happened to those who thought they could outmaneuver the Syndicate. The bodies left in alleyways, the messages sent in blood.

He had been raised by wolves. And wolves did not tolerate weakness.

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, rolling it between his fingers before lighting it. The glow of the ember flickered against the sharp lines of his face, the scent of smoke curling into the air. He took a slow drag, exhaling through his nose as he weighed his options.

Killing her would be easy. A simple solution. One that Kiernan and the Syndicate expected of him.

But there was something about her.

Something that had made him pause.

She had seen him. Truly seen him. And she hadn’t looked away in fear.

He tipped his head back, exhaling smoke into the night sky. A decision had to be made.

But for the first time in a long time, Seamus wasn’t sure which way he would go.