The silence in the car is suffocating.
Not the kind that comforts or soothes. No — this kind hangs between us like a loaded weapon, one twitch from going off. Alejandro drives like he owns the world, one hand on the wheel, the other casually resting near the gear shift. His knuckles are still stained faintly red. Not from Kessler — that blood washed off. This is older. Faded. Like it's part of him now.
"You've been quiet," he finally says, glancing over at me.
I don't look at him. "So have you."
He smirks. "Isn't this what you wanted? Me not talking?"
"What I want," I say flatly, "is to get to Dock Nine without your usual bullshit."
He tsks, tongue against teeth. "If I had a dollar for every time a woman said that to me..."
I turn to him slowly, gaze like ice. "You'd still be bleeding out on that warehouse floor."
His laugh is deep and genuine. Infuriating. "You're in a mood this morning."
"No. I'm in reality. Try it sometime."
Alejandro grins, but there's something harder behind it. I don't miss the way his jaw flexes, the way his eyes flick to the side mirror — not paranoia, but instinct. Always assessing. Always reading.
"We don't know who this contact is," he says, voice shifting from amusement to something graver. "Could be anyone. Could be no one."
I nod. "Phoenix knows. He said the contact goes by Mercer. Ex-mercenary. Freelancer. No one's seen his face in five years."
Alejandro whistles low. "Sounds like your type."
"He's not."
He chuckles again. "What is your type, Raven?"
"You're not it."
"That hurts."
"Not enough."
We lapse into silence again. I stare out the window, the docks drawing closer. Gray metal cranes loom in the fog like the skeletons of extinct giants. The air is thick with salt and smoke and something sourer — the scent of desperation. Deals are made here in the dark, the kind no one talks about.
The kind that killed Robin.
"You keep looking like that," Alejandro murmurs, "and I'll start thinking you're sentimental."
"I'm not."
"No," he agrees softly. "You're not. But you loved him."
I stiffen.
He doesn't press.
Instead, he pulls the car into a shadowed space between two shipping containers and kills the engine. For a moment, neither of us move.
Then I exhale, slow and steady. "How do we play this?"
"You let me lead," he says. "And you keep your hands off your gun unless I tell you otherwise."
"Not how I operate."
"It is today."
I glare at him, but I nod. Because no matter how much I hate it — he's right. This is his world. These are his ghosts. And if we want the Viper, we need this contact alive.
For now.
We step out into the fog. My boots crunch over gravel and broken glass as we weave through the narrow paths between shipping crates. Alejandro walks like he knows exactly where he's going. I trail behind, scanning the shadows, listening for the sound of a breath out of place.
Then I see him.
A man leaning against a crate near the edge of the dock. Hood up. Face shadowed. Cigarette glowing red in the dim light.
"That's him," Alejandro mutters.
"How can you tell?"
"He doesn't flinch when I look at him."
I feel my pulse pick up.
We approach slowly, weapons still holstered, though every nerve in my body screams to be ready. The man — Mercer, I assume — drops his cigarette and crushes it beneath his boot.
"You're late," he says.
His voice is gravel, thick with a northern London accent. Dry and cutting.
"And yet," Alejandro replies smoothly, "here we are."
Mercer glances at me. His eyes are dark and empty, like he's seen things most people can't survive. "She's new."
"She's deadly."
"I bet." Mercer's gaze lingers a second too long before turning back to Alejandro. "You're lucky I stayed. The Viper doesn't like delays."
"The Viper," I echo. "You've met him?"
Mercer's mouth curves, just slightly. "We don't meet. He summons."
"And?" Alejandro prompts.
"He summoned. Three hours from now. End of the docks, warehouse twelve. Just him. Just you."
"Just me?" Alejandro raises a brow.
Mercer nods. "His terms."
Alejandro doesn't blink. "He's expecting me to come alone."
"Then come alone," Mercer shrugs. "Or don't. Either way, he won't wait."
I step forward. "What's the catch?"
"No catch." Mercer grins — and it's not pleasant. "But he knows things. About Robin. About all of you. He says the story isn't what you think."
The air shifts.
I feel the blood leave my face.
Alejandro leans in slightly. "And how do we know this isn't a trap?"
"You don't," Mercer says. "That's the fun part."
And with that, he turns and walks away, disappearing into the fog like a ghost with no name.
Alejandro doesn't move.
Neither do I.
Until finally, he says, "Three hours."
I nod. "We need to call Phoenix."
He reaches into his coat, pulls out his phone, and tosses it to me.
"Do it," he says. "Then we get ready."
The phone trembles in my grasp. I switch it on, tapping through the quick-dial list until Phoenix's name lights up the screen.
"Raven." His voice is clipped, businesslike.
"He's meeting the Viper tonight. Warehouse Twelve, end of these docks. Three hours."
"Three hours." His tone stiffens. "Don't go alone, and do not trust Alejandro."
I clench my jaw, weight settling around me like a shroud. Alejandro steps forward, tall and motionless, smoke curling from his cigarette.
"Noted," I reply sharply. "
I lock the phone and flick it shut.
Alejandro's eyes flick to mine.
"Three hours," he repeats, as if confirming something beyond the Viper's terms.
I nod, folding my arms. "Our time."
He smirks. "Glad you're excited."
I give no answer.
"You have twelve hours left best hope we catch him or I'm putting a bullet through your skull."
With that I turn and walk away.
The safehouse isn't much. A crumbling warehouse tucked behind two freight crates and an old seafood truck that smells like rot and rust. There's a door with no lock, a busted window half-boarded, and one single light bulb swinging from the exposed ceiling beam like a noose.
I step in first, boots crunching over broken glass, and take inventory. One rickety table. A cracked leather couch that probably has more bloodstains than upholstery. No cameras. No obvious traps. It's quiet, cold, and abandoned.
Perfect.
Alejandro walks in behind me, closes the door, and leans against it with the same casual arrogance he always carries. As if we aren't hours from walking into a trap. As if he's still in control of every beat of this narrative.
"I've slept in worse," he says, brushing dust off the arm of the couch before sitting like it's a throne.
"I bet you have," I mutter, pacing past him to the far window, where I can keep watch. The sea is just a faint smear of black outside, the sky above it bruised with stormlight. Fog thickens by the second. It feels like the world is holding its breath.
He watches me from his seat. I can feel it—his stare like a hand dragging down my spine.
"You think it's a trap?" I ask without turning.
"I think it's the Viper," he answers. "So yes."
"Then why are we still going?"
He shrugs. "Because people like him only surface once. You don't get second chances with ghosts."
I glance back at him. "You sound like you admire him."
He smiles, slow and dark. "I respect him."
"That's not the same."
"It is when survival's the goal."
There it is again. That slippery calm, like every word out of his mouth is part of a larger game I haven't been invited to play. I should hate him for it. I should shoot him for it. But instead I sit on the windowsill, arms folded, the weight of the upcoming hours dragging at my bones.
"How long have you worked for him?" I ask suddenly.
Alejandro doesn't blink. "I don't."
I give him a hard look. "You know him. You know things about Robin. You knew what Mercer would say before he said it."
"I never said I didn't know him." His gaze meets mine. Still, unreadable. "But I don't work for him."
"Then what do you do?"
A pause.
"I navigate people like him."
Cryptic bastard.
I rise and cross the room slowly. There's a thin silver flask on the table near the couch. He's poured something into one of the cracked mugs—a liquid the color of old honey. I pick it up without asking and take a sip. It burns on the way down, harsh and bitter.
He watches me drink it, amused. "Careful. I poisoned that one."
I deadpan. "Finally. Romance."
Alejandro laughs. A real one this time. Not mocking. Not sharp. Just low and warm like smoke curling off something that should've burned out long ago.
"You always this charming before battle?" he asks.
"No," I say quietly. "Usually I'm worse."
We fall into silence again, but it's different now. Less barbed. Less toxic. The quiet starts to stretch between us like thread—thin, trembling, but connecting us all the same.
"Why did you say yes?" he asks suddenly.
I tilt my head. "To what?"
"To coming with me. To staying. To risking everything on this fucked-up three-day marathon of blood and ghosts."
I don't answer right away. Instead, I go back to the window. The fog's swallowed everything now. Even the sea's gone quiet.
"Because he killed Robin," I whisper. "And no one else is doing a damn thing about it."
A pause. Then—
"You sure it was the Viper?"
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn. "What?"
Alejandro stands now. His tone doesn't change, but his body does—shoulders stiff, jaw set, tension bleeding into every line of him.
"I'm asking if you're sure. That it was the Viper who ordered the hit."
"I saw the aftermath—"
"You saw what someone wanted you to see."
I cross the room and get in his face, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. "Say what you're trying to say, Alejandro."
He doesn't back down. "What if you're wrong? What if your family lied to you? Or left something out?"
"No." My voice cracks, but I don't care. "Phoenix—"
"Phoenix sent you to me knowing full well who I used to work for. You think that was coincidence?"
"I don't care," I spit. "The Viper knew Robin. That's all I need."
Alejandro steps back, just slightly. Enough for breath to reach between us.
"You're not ready for the truth," he says.
"And you think you are?" I whisper.
"No. But I'm not the one holding a blade to the throat of every answer."
Something in me trembles. A piece I've held tight for too long shifts. Cracks.
I step away, pacing, trying to push the fury back down.
"I loved him, you know," I say suddenly. "Robin. More than anyone. He was the only thing left in me that was good. And they took him."
Alejandro says nothing.
"I dream about him," I admit, voice breaking. "Not the way he died. The way he looked at me before he did. Like he hated me."
Alejandro's footsteps are slow and deliberate as he moves behind me. Not touching. Just near enough to feel.
"He didn't hate you."
"You didn't know him."
"I don't have to. No one who looked at you with hate would haunt you like this."
Silence.
I turn, slowly, my voice barely a whisper. "Why do you want to help me?"
He exhales like the question surprises him.
"For once," he says, "I want to be the blade in someone else's hand. Not the hand that holds it."
I don't understand what that means.
I don't think he does either.
The tension between us simmers. The kind of tension that doesn't end in a kiss. The kind that ends in blood or silence or something worse.
Then, a soft knock.
Alejandro's eyes flash. His gun's already drawn.
I move to the side, knife in hand.
Another knock. Two sharp taps.
He relaxes a little. "It's Mercer's man. Probably dropping gear."
He opens the door and takes the bag. A black duffel. Weapons. Comms. Earpieces.
I step closer, rummaging through the contents. My hand closes around the familiar weight of a compact blade.
"You take left flank," Alejandro says. "I'll go front. We hit hard and clean, but not lethal unless it's him."
I nod. "And if it is?"
His smile is pure wolf.
"Then we paint the docks red."