He didn't take me back to my apartment.
That should've terrified me. Instead, it felt inevitable—like the story had already slipped its leash.
We drove in silence, the city thinning into darker streets, the kind that forgot your name the moment you passed through.
I watched the lights smear across the window and wondered how many wrong turns it took to disappear.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Somewhere without windows," he said. "You'll sleep better."
"I don't sleep around strangers."
He glanced at me. "You slept last night."
"I didn't."
"You closed your eyes at 3:12 a.m.," he replied calmly. "For four minutes."
My throat tightened. "You were watching me."
"Yes."
He said it like a confession and a warning all at once.
The building he stopped at looked abandoned—brick façade, boarded windows, a rusted sign with no name. Inside, though, it was clean.
Sparse. Safe in a way that felt intentional rather than comforting.
He handed me a glass of water. I drank it without thinking. Then I hated myself for that.
"Sit," he said, nodding to the couch.
I did. Again.
"You said you wanted answers," he continued, standing across from me.
"This is where you start asking the right questions."
I folded my hands to stop them from shaking. "Who are they?"
"Collectors," he said.
"They don't want money. They want leverage."
"And I'm leverage," I whispered.
"You were," he corrected.
The word landed heavy between us.
"Why?" I pressed. "What could I possibly have that's worth all of this?"
He hesitated.
It was the first time I'd seen him do that.
"You should know," he said finally. "But once I tell you, you don't get to pretend you're just a bystander anymore."
"I stopped pretending the moment you said my name in that café," I replied.
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded.
"Your father," he said. "Isn't dead."
The room tilted.
"That's not funny," I said.
"I don't joke about ghosts," he replied. "He disappeared owing the wrong people information. Names. Routes. Secrets that don't stay buried."
My chest ached. "You're lying."
"If I were," he said quietly, "you wouldn't feel it in your bones."
I did.
God, I did.
"He left you something," he continued. "Not intentionally. You were never meant to carry it."
"What?" I asked. "What did he leave me?"
He walked closer, stopping just out of reach. "A key," he said. "And no—before you ask—you don't know what it opens. But they think you do."
I laughed weakly. "So this is all a mistake."
"No," he said. "It's inheritance."
Silence swallowed us.
"And you?" I asked. "Where do you fit into this?"
His gaze darkened. "I was sent to retrieve you."
My heart dropped.
"You said you were protecting me."
"I am."
"You just admitted you were using me."
"Yes," he said, without flinching. "I planned to deliver you, clean and untouched. End of story."
"And now?" I whispered.
"And now I've killed three men to keep you out of their hands," he replied. "And I don't know how to walk away from that."
My breath caught. "You killed for me?"
"I killed because of you," he corrected. "There's a difference."
I stood abruptly, needing space, air, something solid. "You don't get to decide my worth."
"I never did," he said. "That's the problem."
I stopped pacing. "Then why are you still here?"
He met my eyes, something raw cracking through the control.
"Because somewhere between surveillance and strategy," he said, "you stopped being an assignment."
The truth hit harder than any lie could've.
"You're dangerous," I said.
"Yes."
"And you're obsessed."
His jaw tightened. "No."
I laughed bitterly. "That pause says otherwise."
He stepped closer, close enough that the air shifted, heavy and charged.
"If I were obsessed," he said lowly, "you wouldn't be standing."
My pulse raced. "Is that supposed to comfort me?"
"No," he replied. "It's supposed to warn you."
My phone buzzed then, sharp and sudden.
A message from an unknown number.
Unknown: He didn't tell you everything. Check the bathroom mirror.
I looked up at him slowly.
"Someone else is playing this game," I said.
His eyes hardened, scanning the room, already calculating exits and threats.
"Yes," he said. "And they're closer than I thought."
I turned toward the hallway, dread crawling up my spine.
Because whatever truth waited in that mirror—
I knew one thing for certain.
The lie he'd told me before was kinder than the truth I was about to see.