"Leave."
Castiel's head snapped toward Jessel. The sirens were no longer distant, no longer theoretical. Red and blue lights flickered faintly against the warehouse walls, bleeding through broken windows like a warning. Smoke from spent gunfire clung to the air, thick and acrid, making Jessel's throat itch.
"What did you say?" Castiel asked, voice low and lethal.
Jessel stepped forward despite the blood still seeping through her torn sleeve. Her arm throbbed, but pain was manageable. This—this wasn't.
"Leave," she repeated, firmer now. "All of you. Now."
Daniel's gaze sharpened, the cold, calculating edges of his face softening slightly in concern.
"Jessel—"
"If you stay," she said quickly, eyes locked on Castiel, "they'll connect everything. The warehouse. Lucas. You. Thalassa. Me." Her voice dropped to a low hiss, measured, rehearsed. "You can't afford that."
Castiel's jaw clenched. The storm in his eyes made her stomach twist, but she didn't flinch. Not this time.
"I'm not leaving you here."
She laughed—short, breathless, bitter, almost mocking. "You don't have a choice."
Before anyone could stop her, Jessel reached up and ripped the bandage from her arm.
Blood welled instantly, red and vivid against her skin. A sharp sting spread across her forearm, reminding her she was alive, reminding her that pain was something she could use.
Daniel swore under his breath. Castiel grabbed her wrist.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Saving you," she said quietly, almost under her breath.
She pulled free and took a step back, already rehearsing the fear into her face, the tremor into her hands. Years of surviving had taught her how to perform vulnerability when needed. Her breath came in shallow, controlled gasps, as though she were trembling with fear rather than calculated intent.
"Go," she said once more, softer this time—but it was still an order.
For a split second, something unreadable passed through Castiel's eyes. Something like… concern? Regret? Or was it admiration? She didn't have time to analyze it.
Adrian's voice cut sharply through the tension.
"They're too close. We move. Now."
Castiel held her gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. A storm of fury and something else flickered there, something Jessel didn't dare name. Then he turned. Daniel hesitated—but followed.
The darkness swallowed them just as the first police car skidded to a halt outside the warehouse. Its headlights split through broken walls, casting harsh shadows across the crates, the barrels, the spent shell casings. Jessel dropped to the ground the moment she heard footsteps, heart hammering like a drum inside her chest.
She clutched her bleeding arm, gasping, shaking, tears spilling freely now—not all of them fake.
"Help!" she cried out. "Please—someone help me!"
Flashlights blinded her, slicing the dark like knives.
"Ma'am! Don't move!"
She sobbed harder, letting fear take over her voice.
"I—I heard gunshots. I was just passing by—I got scared—I didn't see anything, I swear!"
A police officer crouched beside her, voice calm but firm.
"You're hurt."
"I'm a nurse," she said between shaky breaths, voice trembling, carrying the edge of someone on the verge of collapse. "I—I panicked. I shouldn't have come closer."
They exchanged looks.
"A nurse?"
She nodded frantically, fumbling in her bag with trembling fingers before pulling out a fake hospital ID—clean, convincing, perfect. One of her quiet safeguards. One of many.
They took it, questioned her, looked for inconsistencies. She met every gaze, every suspicion, every searching glance with a practiced calm.
"What did you see?"
"Nothing."
"Did you recognize anyone?"
"No."
"Did anyone follow you?"
"I don't know. I was terrified."
Her story never wavered. She gave them fear, weakness, helplessness—but never truth.
Eventually, they let her sit in the back of the patrol car, wrapped her arm lightly, offered to take her to the hospital.
"I can do it myself," she said softly, eyes glassy, voice trembling with the edge of reality and performance. "I just… I need a moment. I'm overwhelmed."
They believed her. People always did. And she had learned, very early, how to make them.
The moment she stepped out of the station, the night air hit her like a wave. Damp and heavy with the scent of asphalt and distant rain. Her phone felt heavy in her pocket, buzzing faintly. She didn't call Castiel. She couldn't. One call—one trace—and everything she'd built would collapse.
So instead, she walked. Back to the hospital. Back to Thalassa.
The ward was quiet when she entered, the beeping of monitors steady and calm in contrast to the chaos still echoing in her chest.
Thalassa lay pale against the white sheets, bandages wrapped around her head, lashes resting softly against her cheeks. She looked younger like this. Fragile. Human. Vulnerable. Jessel felt a pang—a strange, protective ache she didn't expect.
She sat beside her, finally letting her shoulders slump. Alone. Vulnerable in her own right. The weight of the night, the warehouse, the gunfire, Castiel's fury—all pressed down on her.
She rewrapped her own arm slowly, methodically, the red stark against the white bandage, the pressure of the cloth grounding her in the moment. Her fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but from adrenaline that refused to leave her system.
For the first time since the nightmare had begun, silence wrapped around her. But it didn't bring peace. It brought questions.
Who had called her? Who knew Castiel so well? Who had orchestrated the warehouse… the police… the timing?
And why did it feel like she was standing directly in the center of someone else's game?
She let her gaze drift toward Thalassa, unconscious and unaware, and felt a chill crawl down her spine. Protecting her wasn't just a duty now. It was a risk. A responsibility. A trap waiting to snap shut.
Jessel leaned back in the chair, letting herself exhale slowly, though the tension never fully left her muscles. Her mind raced with contingencies, with next steps. Police could trace her lies, someone could follow her, Lucas's men could regroup, and the mysterious caller—still unknown—loomed over everything.
Even here, in the quiet, sterile hospital ward, Jessel felt the pulse of danger threading through the air. It had never been this real. This immediate.
She glanced down at her phone, heavy in her pocket. She didn't answer it. Not yet. Not until she knew more.
A slow shiver ran down her spine, unbidden. This wasn't just the end of a night gone wrong. It was the beginning of something far larger, far darker. Someone had moved pieces on the board, and she was squarely in the middle of the game.
And she wasn't sure she wanted to know who was playing.
Whatever was coming next—
It wasn't over.
Not even close.
The night pressed in through the windows, shadows flickering in the corridor. A single monitor beep punctuated the silence, steady and relentless, marking time in the midst of a storm.
Jessel closed her eyes, took a slow, steadying breath, and prepared herself. Because the next move would come soon. And when it did—she had to be ready.