The water in the safe house bathroom was lukewarm and the soap had no scent. Wade stood under the spray, his forehead pressed to the cool tile, letting the water run over the fresh, angry red line of torn sutures on his shoulder. The physical sting was a grounding counterpoint to the chaos in his head. He could still feel the heat of her skin under his palms, the exact weight of her hips settling against his. The phantom scent of her—vanilla and clean sweat—clung to him even now. He turned the water to cold, and sucked in a sharp breath as it hit him. Duty was a soaked uniform in a motel dumpster. Protection was a loaded gun on the bathroom counter. What he felt for Truenai was a live wire in his chest, sparking against every professional instinct he had left.

He found a plain grey t-shirt and sweatpants in a sterile drawer, federal issue. Dressing pulled at his shoulder. He didn’t care.

When he walked back into the main room, the light had shifted. Late afternoon sun cut a harsh line across the floor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the silence. Truenai was at the small kitchen sink, her back to him, scrubbing her hands. She’d put her clothes back on, the same soft sweater and jeans, but her hair was down, a dark cascade that hid her profile.

He watched the methodical, surgical way she scoured her skin. Over and over. The water ran.

“Truenai.”

She jumped, her shoulders tightening. She didn’t turn off the tap. “Just… washing up.”

He moved to stand beside her, not touching. He looked at her hands under the stream. They were pink, almost raw. “They’re clean.”

“I know.” Her voice was small. She finally shut the water off and reached for a paper towel, drying each finger with meticulous care. “It’s a habit. After… anything.”

“After patients?”

“After anything that feels like a contaminant.” She finally looked at him, her hazel eyes wide and unsettled. “Guilt is a pathogen, Wade. It gets under your nails.”

He understood then. This wasn’t about blood or germs. It was about him. About what they’d done. The lines they’d erased. He leaned a hip against the counter, facing her. “You didn’t infect me.”

“Didn’t I?” A bitter, tearful laugh escaped her. “I teased you. I pushed. From the very first moment in that break room, I looked at you and I saw a wall that needed cracking. I made it my personal mission. And now…” She gestured weakly between them, at the quiet safe house that felt like the aftermath of a blast. “Look what I created.”

“A moment of peace in a shitstorm,” he said, his voice low. “A reason to fight that isn’t just in a manual.”

“A compromised deputy.” She said it like a diagnosis. “Your captain was dirty because his daughter was broken. What’s your excuse going to be?”

The question hung there, sharp as a scalpel. He didn’t have a clean answer. He had the memory of her coming apart under his mouth. The sound of his name on her lips, broken and sure. That was his truth now.

Before he could form a reply, a key turned in the deadbolt.

They both stiffened, moving apart instinctively. Wade’s hand went to his hip where his gun wasn’t. The door opened and Anya Petrova slipped inside, sealing it behind her. She carried a brown paper grocery bag and the tense energy of the outside world. Her haunted eyes swept the room, missing nothing: the disheveled couch, the closed bedroom door, the three feet of charged space between Wade and Truenai.

“Reed is in a federal holding cell singing like a canary to save his own skin,” Anya said, dropping the bag on the table. She pulled out bottles of water, protein bars, a first-aid kit. “His information is useful. It also changes nothing. Viktor knows you’re both off the board. He will assume you are dead or in deep witness protection. His operation will go deeper underground.”

Wade crossed his arms, ignoring the pull in his shoulder. “So we’re back to waiting.”

“No.” Anya unwrapped a protein bar and took a mechanical bite. “We use what we have. We lure him out.”

Truenai folded her arms tight around herself. “How? You said he thinks we’re gone.”

“He thinks the witness is gone. And the dirty deputy who failed to kill her.” Anya’s gaze landed squarely on Wade. “But he doesn’t know about the clean one. The one who went rogue to save her.”

A cold understanding settled in Wade’s gut. “You want to use me as bait.”

“I want to use your story,” Anya corrected. She leaned over the table, her voice dropping. “Reed was your captain. His corruption is a stain on your department. You are angry. You feel betrayed. And you have the witness—the key to bringing down the man who ruined your boss—hidden somewhere only you know. You want to make a deal.”

Truenai shook her head. “Viktor would never meet with him. It’s too risky.”

“He might,” Anya said. “If the offer is audacious enough. If it comes from a place of genuine, reckless emotion. Not from a fed. Not from a calculated player. From a wounded, furious man who just lost his career and needs a new patron.” She looked at Wade. “You have to sell it. Your rage has to be real.”

“It is,” Wade said, the words gritted out. He thought of Reed’s confession, of Eleanor in a permanent twilight. He thought of Truenai, scrubbing her hands raw.