The syringe cap in the evidence bag was a cold, hard square against Wade's palm where Truenai's fingers had just been.

Viktor Sokolov’s laughter was a dry, brittle sound in the sterile air. “A pharmacy stamp. How quaint. It proves you bought aspirin.” His gray eyes flicked to the stairwell door. “My men downstairs have proof you assaulted me. The narrative is already written, Deputy.”

Anya’s voice, thin with panic, cut from the stairwell shadows. “He is not bluffing. The signal will be a phone call. When it comes, they shoot.”

Wade didn’t look at Viktor. He looked at Truenai’s hand, still resting over his on the evidence bag. Her skin was warm. His was cold. Duty was a screamed order in his skull: secure the witness, establish a perimeter, call for backup. Every single rule said to let go of her hand.

He closed his fingers over hers instead. “Reed. Now.”

He moved, pulling Truenai with him, not toward the elevators or the main stairs, but backward, shoving through the double doors marked ‘AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL’ into a supply corridor lit by flickering fluorescents. The door swung shut, muffling Viktor’s final taunt. The hallway was a narrow gullet of linoleum and steel shelves stocked with bleach and bedpans.

“This way,” Anya whispered, materializing from a cross-corridor, her face pale. “Service elevator to the loading dock. My car is there.”

They ran. Wade’s grip on Truenai’s hand was iron, his other hand on his service weapon, head on a swivel. The service elevator groaned its descent. Truenai’s breathing was quick and shallow beside him. She hadn’t let go of the evidence bag.

The loading dock was a cavern of concrete and the sharp smell of diesel. Anya’s car was a nondescript sedan, parked between two delivery trucks. Rain misted the air, catching the yellow security lights. Wade shoved Truenai into the back seat, following her in. Anya slid behind the wheel, the engine coughing to life.

“Seatbelt,” Wade said, his voice rough. He was scanning the dock, the exits, every shadow.

Truenai fumbled with the clasp. Her fingers were trembling. He watched her struggle for three full seconds before he reached over, his larger hand covering hers, clicking the belt home. The click was loud in the quiet car. His hand didn’t move. He felt the fine tremor in her knuckles, the rapid beat of her pulse under his thumb.

“Go,” Wade said to Anya, and the car peeled out into the alley.

The city blurred past the rain-streaked windows. Wade kept his eyes on the side mirror, watching for tails. His body was a coiled spring, every muscle locked. He could still feel the phantom pressure of Truenai’s lips from the break room, a brand over the professional protocol that was supposed to armor him. In the mirror’s reflection, he saw her watching him. Not the scene outside. Him.

Anya drove with nervous precision, taking turns at the last second, doubling back twice. “We are clear, I think,” she finally said, her voice unspooling with tension. “The safe house. Captain Reed arranged it.”

It was a small, weathered bungalow on a street of identical houses, tucked behind an overgrown laurel hedge. Anya parked in the detached garage, pulling the door shut behind them with a rattle. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the patter of rain on the roof.

Inside, the air was stale and cold. The living room held a sagging couch, a dead television, and a single floor lamp. The curtains were drawn. It felt like a tomb.

“I must go,” Anya said, hovering by the interior door to the kitchen. “I cannot be seen here. Reed knows the address. He will come.” She looked at Wade, her haunted eyes full of a warning she didn’t voice. Then she was gone, a shadow slipping out the back.

The lock clicked. And then it was just the two of them.

Wade methodically checked the house. Front door, deadbolted. Back door, chain locked. Windows, latched. Each action was ritual, an attempt to summon the deputy back to the surface. He ended up in the small, galley-style kitchen, bracing his hands on the chipped countertop, head bowed. The adrenaline was leaching away, leaving a hollow, shaking fatigue. And underneath it, a low, insistent hum.

He heard her footsteps on the thin carpet. She stopped in the kitchen doorway.

“It’s quiet,” Truenai said. Her voice was different now. Softer. Exploring the silence.

“It’s supposed to be,” Wade answered, not turning around.

“Safe, you mean.”

He didn’t answer. He listened to her approach. She didn’t touch him. She leaned against the counter opposite him, her arms crossed over her scrubs top. When he finally looked up, her hazel eyes were on him, that teasing glint present but softened with something else. Curiosity. A shared, dangerous secret.

“Back there,” she said. “In the hall. You covered my hand.”

“I remember.”