The streetlights blinked against the windshield as Ayla steered the car into a narrow lane. Her hands tightened on the wheel, pale at the knuckles. Her heart pounded—partly from the speed, mostly from the man beside her. He was drenched in sweat, breathing hard, eyes alert.
Silas leaned forward, checking the mirrors. "They're still hunting," he muttered under his breath.
Ayla cut him a sharp look. "Who's looking? And what the hell did I just get pulled into?"
Silas didn't respond immediately. His eyes were locked on the mirror again, as if he expected bullets to come screaming through the rear window. "Keep driving," he said finally. "I'll tell you everything—just not out here."
"Wrong answer." Her voice was low, deliberate. "You hijack my car, bring a chase to my doorstep, and expect blind obedience?"
He turned to her then, really looked at her.
"If you stop this car, you won't get the chance to ask again."
Ayla opened her mouth to speak but stopped. His voice was quiet but carried weight, like he'd been through worse. She clenched her jaw and pressed the gas. The car surged forward, cutting through the neon-lit rain.
"Fine," she muttered. "But you're explaining. Now."
A beat of silence. Then he nodded.
"You know my name. Silas. I saw something I shouldn't have. Snapped a photo. That was enough."
Ayla glanced sideways. "A picture? That's it?"
Silas gave a dry laugh. "That's how it always starts, right? One wrong second. One wrong truth."
The way he talked caught her off guard. Not panicked, not shaken—controlled. Like he was already running through a dozen next steps.
"You're bleeding," she said, glancing at the torn sleeve and the cut underneath.
"Just a scratch."
"That scratch almost got me killed back there."
"You could've just left," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "And leave a bleeding stranger in my seat? Still not sure if that makes me soft or just dumb."
Silas let out a breath—half-laugh, half-fatigue. "Depends on how tonight ends."
The tension in the car was thick enough to choke on. The city was beginning to thin out as they moved toward the industrial edge. Warehouses loomed in the distance like sleeping beasts.
Then a flicker in the mirror—headlights. Low and steady.
Gaining.
Silas sat up straighter. "We've got company."
Ayla's stomach dropped. "That black sedan?"
He nodded. "That's them."
"How many?"
"Enough."
Ayla didn't wait. She swerved hard onto a side road, nearly clipping a hydrant. The tires squealed. The black sedan behind them kept pace.
"Hold on," she muttered, twisting the wheel again, cutting through a narrow alley.
Silas gripped the dashboard. "Wellington's dogs are persistent."
The word hit her like a gut punch. Ayla slammed the brakes and turned to him, shock written across her face. "What did you just say?"
Silas blinked. "Wellington. Why?"
She stared at him, stunned. "You know that name?"
His posture shifted. He could feel the electricity in the air, the change in her. "Why do you?"
She shook her head slowly. "You need to start talking, Silas. Now."
He hesitated, then leaned back. "The meeting I walked into—it was Wellington's men. They were making a deal with someone high-profile. Military-grade equipment. Surveillance tech. Illegal. I snapped one photo before they spotted me."
"And that's what this is all about? A photo?"
"No," Silas said quietly. "It's about what that photo proves. That someone in this city is selling weapons and tech to people who shouldn't have them. And that Wellington is orchestrating the whole thing."
Ayla was silent for a long moment, her knuckles white around the wheel. The name Wellington wasn't just a criminal in her world—it was ascar. Her father's death, officially deemed an accident, had whispers around it. Whispers about threats, payoffs, and a name that had shown up once in a private investigator's file: Wellington.
"This is crazy," she said, almost to herself. "It can't just be chance."
Silas narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
She shook her head. "Later. First, we lose them."
She slammed her foot down. The engine howled as they tore through narrow streets lined with crumbling walls and spray-painted signs. The
sedan stayed close.
"Up ahead," Silas said, pointing. "That underpass—if we make it there, I know a route through the train yard. They'll hesitate."
Ayla didn't question it. She turned sharply, narrowly avoiding a parked van. The tires howled as the car flew under the overpass. Behind them, the sedan followed—but hesitated at the entrance to the yard. Silas was right.
The car slowed. Ayla pulled them behind a rusted shipping container, engine off. Silence swallowed them.
They sat in the dark, breathing heavily.
Ayla turned to him, voice low. "You said Wellington. That name—my father… I think his death wasn't an accident. And now you show up in my car, running from the same name."
Silas met her eyes. "Then maybe we're in this together. Whether we like it or not."