---
They didn't go home.
Cass hadn't even slowed when Elara suggested it, her voice trembling with exhaustion. He just shook his head, jaw set, and kept walking.
"Not safe," was all he said.
And Elara couldn't argue. Their house—their father's house—had already been violated. The memory of drawers upturned, papers shredded, and that spray-painted threat on the gas station wall still made her stomach twist. Whoever the masked men were, they weren't finished. Home wasn't theirs anymore.
So they walked.
The city seemed hollow at that hour, as though it had been emptied of life and sound. The streets stretched long and bare, washed pale beneath lamps that hummed and buzzed. Their footsteps echoed louder than Elara liked, like they were broadcasting their presence to anyone who might be listening. Every shadow felt too deep, every parked car a hiding place for eyes watching them.
Elara kept glancing over her shoulder, heart punching at her ribs. She clutched the bag with the journal pressed close to her side, as if it were the only anchor she had left.
Cass didn't look back once. He moved with the stubborn, reckless confidence that always infuriated her—like the danger didn't apply to him. His hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders squared, he carried himself as though walking faster could outpace fear.
They wound through alleys, across an overpass, down cracked sidewalks littered with weeds. After nearly an hour, Cass stopped in front of a weathered brownstone on the edge of downtown. Its bricks were chipped and its gutters sagged, but warm yellow light glowed faintly from a few windows.
Elara frowned. "Here?"
Cass nodded. "Yeah. It's Miles's place."
The name landed like a weight in her chest.
"Miles?" she repeated. "You can't be serious."
Miles Bennett. Cass's best friend since high school. Loud, cocky, always in trouble with teachers, cops, girlfriends—anyone who got in his way. To Elara, he had always been a storm: unpredictable, restless, and dangerous to be near. Their father had never liked him either. And now Cass thought this was the person they should trust?
Cass must've read her hesitation because he added, "He's solid. We can lay low here until we figure out the coordinates."
Elara folded her arms tight. "And if he talks? If he brags to the wrong person? You know what he's like."
Cass met her gaze, eyes shadowed but unflinching. "He won't. He owes me."
Before Elara could press further, the door opened.
Miles stood there, framed in the dim yellow glow of a lamp from inside. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair sticking up in uneven tufts, like he'd been dragged straight out of bed. His face moved from confusion to recognition to surprise in the space of a breath.
"Cass? Elara? What the hell—"
"No questions," Cass cut in, pushing past him.
Miles blinked, staggered back a step, then barked out a laugh. "At two in the morning? Man, you don't call for months, and now you show up looking like you just outran the cops—"
Cass shot him a look that silenced the rest.
Miles's grin faltered. His eyes flicked between them, lingering for a moment on Elara's bag before he plastered the grin back in place. "Okay. No questions. Got it."
Elara lingered on the threshold, her whole body resisting. But the street behind her stretched empty and silent, and something about the light spilling from Miles's apartment—messy though it was—felt like a shield against the dark.
She stepped inside.
---
The apartment was small, cluttered, but lived-in. Mismatched furniture crowded the living room: a couch with threadbare arms, a sagging recliner, two crates stacked into a makeshift coffee table. Stacks of vinyl records leaned precariously against the wall, and the air smelled faintly of coffee grounds, old books, and machine oil.
Cass dropped onto the couch like he owned it. Elara stayed standing, bag clutched tight, eyes scanning every surface like the room itself might turn hostile.
Miles shut the door, locking it with a click. His eyebrows rose as he took them in. "So… whatever you're into, it looks bad. Want to tell me what's going on?"
"No," Cass said flatly.
Elara bristled. "We shouldn't even be here. This isn't his problem."
Cass leaned forward, voice sharp. "It is his problem if he's helping us stay alive."
The words hung in the air, heavy, dangerous.
Elara glared at him but bit back her retort. Cass always defended Miles, always trusted him too easily. She didn't. She couldn't.
Miles cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck. "Well, you can crash in my spare room. I'll keep my mouth shut. But, uh…" His eyes lingered again on Elara's bag. "…if you two dragged trouble to my doorstep, I'd at least like to know how bad it is."
Cass shot Elara a look, daring her to argue.
Her jaw tightened. But exhaustion weighed heavier than defiance.
"Bad," she admitted softly. "Really bad."
Miles's grin faltered for good this time. He nodded once, then gestured toward the hallway.
---
The spare room was barely larger than a closet, a futon shoved against one wall beneath a window that looked out on the street. A single lamp sat crooked on a nightstand.
Elara dropped her bag to the floor, sinking onto the futon. She felt like her bones were made of glass, fragile and cracked.
Cass sat cross-legged on the carpet, pulling the journal from the bag. He opened it carefully, like it might break apart under his fingers. The faint scribbles of their father's handwriting stared back at them, dense and urgent.
"You shouldn't trust him," Elara whispered, her voice cutting into the quiet.
Cass rubbed the back of his neck. "I do."
"You trust too easily."
"And you don't trust anyone."
They stared at each other, the silence stretched taut like wire.
For the first time, Elara saw it—how worn Cass looked. Beneath his recklessness, he was pale, his shoulders slumped, his eyes rimmed red from exhaustion. He looked older than nineteen. Older than he should have to be.
Her throat tightened. "I just…" She swallowed hard. "…I don't want to lose you too."
Cass's expression softened. For a moment, he let the mask drop. He reached across the space between them, squeezed her hand.
"You won't," he said. "I promise."
Elara wanted to believe him. She wanted the warmth of his hand to mean safety, to mean certainty. But the world outside the window stretched dark and silent, and somewhere in that dark, the masked figures were still hunting them.
And promises—she knew—were fragile things.
---
Later, when Cass's breathing deepened and his head dipped against the wall, Elara stayed awake. Her eyes traced the ceiling, the shadows cast by the crooked lamp. Sleep pressed heavy against her skull, but something else kept her sharp.
A sound.
Soft. Barely there.
A voice.
She sat up carefully, straining her ears.
It came from beyond the thin wall. Miles's voice, low and urgent. Not the lazy, joking tone he always wore—but sharp, clipped, deliberate.
"…they're here. Both of them… No, not yet. I'll keep them still until—"
Elara's blood ran cold.
She held her breath, heart hammering.
A pause. The sound of footsteps. A door closing softly.
The apartment fell silent again.
Elara's hands trembled as she pressed them to her mouth.
Cass stirred in his sleep but didn't wake.
She stared at him, then at the journal lying between them on the floor.
The safehouse wasn't safe.
And Miles—Miles wasn't who Cass thought he was.
---