An open sore that seemed to beat with an unsettling rhythm of tension and apprehension, the evening slipped past us. The alley that closed in on us was freezing, and the air was heavy with the distinct smell of wet cement, mingled with the faintly acrid, far-off smell of gasoline that came from a nearby dumpster, making us uneasy.
Sensing the edges of the small piece of frayed napkin, which had been passed from so many different hands over the years, had become soft and frayed, I held it firmly in my fingers. While the ink on it was smudged in a few places from wear, the address that had been scribbled hastily on it still was readable and clear enough to make out. It depicted a warehouse, which could well be a useful lead in my search.
We finally had something.
Lorenzo towered over me, his stance incredibly stiff and rigid, and his eyes fiercely fixed on the napkin between us. Even though his face was completely unreadable and hidden from sight, I could easily see the tension under him as it expressed itself in the manner in which his jaw locked tightly, and the manner in which his fingers lay precariously close to the gun that lay at his waist.
This was it.
Days of dead ends. Hours of sorting through reports. Sleepless nights spent chasing shadows. And finally, someone—an informant, barely brave enough to say it—had given us a location before vanishing into the night It should have been a victory but it wasn't.
A shiver of unease clamped around my ribs, its grip tightening with every passing second.
Something was not right.
I couldn't put it into words. Couldn't describe it. But it teased the edge of my mind, and I couldn't shake it off.
"We just have to examine this more closely," I whispered quietly, my voice low but insistent.
Lorenzo did not respond immediately. He let out a slow breath, putting his phone away in his pocket. "Tomorrow."
I scrunched up my face. "Tomorrow?"
"We can't go in blind," he said, voice leaving no room for debate.
Logic. I knew he was right. I didn't appreciate that he was right.
But waiting—waiting—was unbearable.
What if, by sheer luck, Sophie were in that warehouse at the moment?
What if, in theory, every single second we wasted or spent doing nothing was basically a second that was too long?
The idea was suffocating. But I knew better than to respond based on emotion. I gritted back my frustration, nodding tightly.
"Fine." The word was bitter to the tongue.
Lorenzo nodded once, slowly, his eyes scanning down the street as he evaluated the scene before him before he backed away slowly. "Let's get out of here before—"
He abruptly halted.
Each individual muscle throughout his entire body became rigid and hardened.
I knew that expression right away.
Risk.
My heart missed a beat.
Slowly, I glanced in the direction he was looking.
And then, all of a sudden, I finally saw it.
There was a person concealed at the end of the alleyway.
Still. Watching.
The man was partially blocked by the edge of a nearby building, but even with the dim and shadowy light pervading the general area, I could discern the slight angle of his head, as well as the subtle angle of his body leaning forward, intensely observing us with keen curiosity.
The mask covered his face.
But I caught a glimpse of bright metal that was quite noticeable in his hand.
A gun.
My stomach knotted itself up into a small, tight ball.
I had not drawn breath.
Didn't blink.
He was waiting.
For what, I did not know.
Are we contemplating making the initial move? Is it intended as a precautionary measure? Or—if things take a turn for the worse—are we simply waiting for the most opportune moment to take decisive action?
Lorenzo made the first move and initiated. His hand touched against mine, a fleeting touch that was swift but intentional.
"Move," he whispered.
And then we did.
The moment we moved, the masked man turned around and ran away.
An open sore that seemed to beat with an unsettling rhythm of tension and apprehension, the evening slipped past us. The alley that closed in on us was freezing, and the air was heavy with the distinct smell of wet cement, mingled with the faintly acrid, far-off smell of gasoline that came from a nearby dumpster, making us uneasy.
Sensing the edges of the small piece of frayed napkin, which had been passed from so many different hands over the years, had become soft and frayed, I held it firmly in my fingers.
"Shit!" I hissed, already taking off after him.
Lorenzo was immediately behind me, and I could hear the definite and resolute step of him as he marched close behind.
The pursuit was extremely fast, with our legs thumping the hard ground as we dashed at full speed along the dark maze of narrow alleys.
He was quick. But I was quicker.
Each tough corner, each shadowy alley—I handled the car more aggressively, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
He was not escaping.
I was close now.
He was standing close enough that I could distinctly see the manner in which his breathing produced a mist in the chill of the air that surrounded us.
Close enough to—
Missing.
I skidded to a halt, chest heaving, eyes frantically scanning the alley before me.
Blank.
I turned, searching—nothing but old brick walls and locked doors. No exits. No way out.
But he was no longer there.
A ghost.
Lorenzo caught up with me, his own weapon still tightly gripped and at the ready, and his breathing still astonishingly controlled and steady. His face was set in a scowl or look of intense frustration, a mask to hide what he really felt, and his eyes were bright and watchful as they scanned the ground, searching for any sort of peril.
"Where the hell did, he go?" I muttered, my pulse pounding in my ears.
There is no answer.
Since there was no response.
There was simply no room for him to vanish into. There were absolutely no trapdoors to be found. There were no hidden passages anywhere to be found either.
And yet—
I swallowed hard, my flesh crawling.
Lorenzo, after a strained moment of intense focus, finally decided to holster his gun, but not all the way. His shoulders were locked and immobile, and his entire body was coiled tighter than a spool of barbed wire with tension, the stance of an animal that can sense the presence of some other animal not too far away.
"He was watching us closely, Reina," he then added after a pause.
I nodded, my locked fingers still. "I know."
Not just observing or beholding.
Waiting.
And now, at this moment, he was gone.
But one thing was definitely clear and unmistakable. They knew we were getting closer.
What do we think about the masked man? is he a stalker or something and if so why is he stalking them?🤔
Toss me your reviews, your wildest crackpot theories, your "wait, WHAT?!" moments
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