The hour before dawn was always the most dangerous. Not because of who might be out there—lurking in the shadows, waiting for his guard to slip—but because of the stillness. In silence, truth had a way of creeping in. And truth was a predator that Damian had spent years outrunning.

He sat alone on the edge of a rusted fire escape, the iron slick with dew beneath his palms. Below, the alley yawned into darkness, and the early stirrings of New York were just beginning to thrum beneath the concrete. Sirens wailed in the distance, their sound muted by the intervening buildings. A trash truck rumbled past, its hydraulic lift groaning under the weight of discarded lives.

The building behind him was rotting. Three floors up, its windows blinked with the dull yellow light of a failing bulb. Inside, behind that pane of glass smeared with time and grime, the one person left who didn't know the full weight of what he'd done—or worse, did and stayed anyway.

Damian adjusted the coat around his shoulders, leather creaking against the movement. It was old, the same one he'd worn the day he walked away from the Black Crown. Bloodstains had never fully come out of the lining. He never tried. They were a part of him now, like the ink twining his ribs, like the scars cut deep into his knuckles and over his throat.

He didn't flinch as the wind cut through him, carrying the sharp scent of rain and something metallic on the breeze. Cold didn't register the same way it used to. Not since he gave up warmth in every other form.

The compound had been a fortress—a labyrinth of secrets, locked doors, and whispered orders. To be Knight was to serve the King without question. And he had, once. Until the name on the list was hers.

He remembered it too well. The heavy envelope. The photograph. The gloved hand that passed it across the table with a nod and a command. The Bishop watching him with silent interest. The Queen laughing softly in the background, as if it were all a game. The King not even present. He never was, unless there was something in it for him.

She wasn't supposed to matter. Just a loose end. The governor's mistake. A message to send. A warning to others in power who thought they could fence with the Syndicate and walk away with clean hands. Damian had followed orders for most of his life. He'd broken bones, spilled blood, erased people like ink on wet paper. And he would have done it again.

Until he saw her.

And he didn't.

It was that simple. That fast. He lied. Said she was dead. Said the job was done. Buried the report in layers of false documentation and forged photos. Then locked her in his quarters and waited for the fallout. None came. Not immediately. The Syndicate was always stretched thin—too many territories, too many fires. They didn't look too hard. Not until he ran.

The escape had been a blur. Fire. Screams. A slit throat in a back hallway. A stolen car. Her in the passenger seat, blood on her cheek, not her own. The city swallowing them whole.

That had been three years ago.

Now, he lived in slivers. Thirty-two burner phones. Fourteen safehouses. A half-dozen fake IDs, each one worn at the edges. He watched the shadows for movement and memorized faces on the subway. He counted exits in every room. Slept with a gun under the mattress, a knife in the vent. His old life taught him how to survive. She taught him what survival was worth.

Damian exhaled slowly, watching the breath plume into mist before him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, tapping one out with a calloused finger. The match flared, briefly illuminating his face—the scars more pronounced in the orange glow—before he cupped his hand around the flame.

He took a long drag, letting the nicotine burn its way down. It didn't calm him, not really. But it gave him something to focus on besides the constant hum of fear that had settled in his bones.

He listened. Still no movement inside. She was a heavy sleeper lately. A consequence of exhaustion, or maybe safety finally making space in her bones. He hoped it was the latter. He hoped she never needed to be what he was.

He'd killed seventeen men to keep her hidden. He had names. Dates. Places. Kept them in a notebook tucked behind the heater vent. Some of them had begged. Some of them had run. None of them had left him feeling cleaner.

But he'd do it again.

Would do it now.

Damian stubbed the cigarette out against the brick. Watched the ember flicker out. A soft hiss. Gone.

He dropped back down through the window into the apartment, landing in a crouch, silent as muscle memory. The air inside was warmer, filled with the scent of dust and tea and the faint trace of her shampoo. He moved like a ghost, checking the locks, the bolts, the tripwire he'd strung near the hallway.

Everything secure.

The mattress on the floor barely shifted with his presence, but he crouched beside it anyway. His hand hovered over her shoulder for a second—just long enough to watch the breath rise and fall beneath the blanket. Then, with the softness of someone who had learned gentleness the hard way, he touched her shoulder.

"Hey," Damian said, voice low, rasped with smoke and sleep deprivation. "Time to wake up."

No urgency. But not casual either.

"We can't stay here. I saw someone yesterday—might've been nothing, might've been a tail. I don't like it."

He reached toward the duffel in the corner, already half-packed. Everything they needed could fit into two bags. It had to.

"I'll give you ten minutes," he added, pulling his jacket off the back of the chair and slinging it over his shoulder. "Then we disappear again."

He paused in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. Watching her.

Not the Syndicate. Not the past. Not the blood on his hands.

Just her.

His voice softened as he spoke again, almost too quiet to catch.

"I'll keep you safe."