RYAN'S POV
My apartment on Capitol Hill was never meant to be a fortress. It was a 450-square-foot sanctuary of mid-century modern furniture, overflowing bookshelves, and a window that looked out onto a brick alleyway that smelled vaguely of rain and expensive trash. It was the home of a man who lived in the margins, a Junior Analyst who faded into the beige walls of the CSI by day and disappeared into high-resolution city-builders by night.
But as I stood in the hallway, the key heavy in my hand, the apartment felt like a tomb, and I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't need to. I knew every inch of the floorboards that creaked, every shadow cast by the streetlamp outside. I moved through the entryway with the practiced silence of a man who had spent three years learning how not to be noticed.
My heart was a frantic bird against my ribs. The message from Nate was still burning a hole in my pocket. The coffee at St. Jude's is better. See you soon, Ryan.
