The first time they saw her, it was just a flicker of color in their peripheral vision. A woman in a vibrant red scarf, sitting in a cafe across the street, her face hidden behind a newspaper. Liam had dismissed it as nothing.
The second time, it was more deliberate. She was standing at a bus stop down the block, not looking at the bus schedule, but up at their rooftop, her gaze sharp and analytical before she turned and melted into the boarding crowd.
By the third sighting, paranoia had set in. She was in an office building opposite them, partially obscured by window blinds, but there was no mistaking the scarf. She wasn't a random civilian. Her appearances were too calculated, her attention too focused. She was a professional.
"She's made us," Liam hissed over the comms, pulling back from the ledge. "She has to be Legion's counter-surveillance. She's been playing with us this whole time."
"Or she's a third party," Ronan countered, his hand instinctively going to the dice in his pocket. "Let me get a reading."
"No," Liam snapped. "Your last reading almost gave you an aneurysm. And if she's as good as she seems, she might be sensitive enough to feel you probing."
That afternoon, they took a break, heading down to a street-level noodle shop for a quick meal. As they sat hunched over their bowls, the bell above the door chimed. The woman in the red scarf walked in. The cafe was small, and for a heart-stopping moment, it seemed she would take the table right next to them. Their hands tensed, ready to move. She gave them a fleeting, unreadable glance—a look that held a universe of unspoken knowledge—before choosing a table by the window, her back to them.
She wasn't just watching them; she was letting them know she was watching them. It was a power play, a deliberate move on a chessboard they were only just beginning to understand. The hunter had become the hunted.