My head is pounding—like a heartbeat behind my eyes that I _wish_ would stop. A steady, pulsing throb that makes it hard to think, harder to move. I’m lying on my side, eyes closed, trying to figure out where the hell I am, when I hear something faint.

...Is that rock music?

Yeah. Definitely rock music.

I groan—a low sound that slips out before I can stop it—as I force myself upright. My limbs are stiff, but surprisingly, I’m not tied up. That’s the first good sign. The second? I’m alone in the backseat. But the third... the one that keeps my adrenaline simmering just beneath the surface?

I have no idea where I’m going—and I’ve got nothing on me. No weapons. No gear. If this turns into a fight, I’m underprepared.

I glance around the space. Empty bottle of tequila—gross. I hate tequila. A few snacks. A small crate. Then—bingo.

A champagne opener.

Not ideal, but it'll do.

I grab it and tap gently on the window, slow and careful. The music is loud enough that I can risk a few more taps—light at first, then harder, but not loud enough to crack the glass.

I’m betting there are two up front. I _hope_ there’s just one. I can take one. Maybe. But two? If they’re the burly bodyguard types, I’m not sticking around to find out—I’m running.

I tap again.

Then I hear it. A voice. "I think she’s awake."

The top of the divider begins to roll down with a soft mechanical hum.

I don’t move.

I drop back down into the seat and play possum, holding my breath and praying they still think I’m out cold.

I don’t remember how I got knocked out. That’s not like me—I _don’t_ get caught slipping like this. Which means someone must’ve leaked something. Someone knew just enough to set me up.

And here I am.

I’ve had a feeling for months now—someone’s been tracking me, maybe even trying to take me out. I don’t know who. I haven’t wronged anyone... at least not in ways that warrant this. I mean, sure—I’ve lied, used fake names, fake IDs, told stories that weren’t mine. I’ve gotten close to some dangerous people. But that’s the job.

And I’m _good_ at it.

I like the chase. The mystery. Slipping into luxury hotels under borrowed names, mingling with strangers I’ll never see again, who’ll forget my face before sunrise. I blur into the background. I _vanish_ when I need to.

But this?

This is sloppy. Not my style.

And it pisses me off.

Because I live by rules—rules that have kept me alive:

**1. No job lasts more than two weeks.** After that, it’s a mission. And I don’t do missions.
**2. I work alone.** Always. The only team I need is my comms crew—two, maybe three people. No more. Clean. Simple. No chaos.
**3. No repeat clients.** Ever. High-end targets remember faces. They dig into your past. You show up again with a different story, they’ll notice. And I don’t feel like explaining why they've met me twice under two different names and a fabricated childhood in Sweden.

That’s why this situation—it shouldn’t even be _possible_. I’m too careful.

And yet, here I am. In the back of a car, weaponless, bruised, and groggy—being driven to god knows where, by god knows who.

And the only thing louder than the music?

Is the voice in my head, screaming that I made a mistake. And I may or may not be paying for it.

The divider stops halfway down. I keep still, eyes barely cracked open—just enough to see a pair of eyes watching me in the rearview mirror. Sunglasses, even though we’re in a car and it’s dark outside.

Coward.

Then a voice. Calm. Measured.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore. We know you’re awake.”

I don’t respond.

“Fine,” the voice sighs. “You want conversation, let’s talk. Or I start dragging you out of the car in ten seconds.”

My fingers tighten around the champagne opener. Still hidden in my sleeve. Still sharp enough to do some damage if I have to.

I sit up slowly, keep my tone cool. “Conversation’s fine. Who are you, and where the hell are we going?”

The driver laughs. A dry, humorless chuckle. “You're asking the wrong questions.”

Another voice—this one from the passenger seat. Female. Smoky, smooth, familiar in a way that makes my stomach twist.

“I told you she’d wake up before we got there,” she says.

And then it hits me.

I _know_ that voice.

I lean forward just enough to glimpse her profile in the side mirror.

Black leather jacket. Copper hair tied tight. A scar cutting across her jaw like a signature.

“Rhea,” I say. Not a question. A memory.

She glances back, smirking. “Hello, darling.”

My stomach drops.

Rhea was one of the first people I ever trained with—back when this was just supposed to be a side hustle, before I realized I was good enough to build a career out of it. We did a job together in Monaco. She vanished after. Word was, she’d gone rogue—got greedy, got sloppy, maybe even dead.

But she’s not dead.

She’s in the front seat of the car I woke up in, and she’s smiling at me like we’re on our way to brunch.

“I thought you died,” I say.

“Almost did. Someone tipped off the wrong people. But don’t worry—I returned the favor.” She pauses. “Eventually.”

“Where are you taking me?”

Rhea shrugs. “Somewhere you’ll be useful. That’s all you need to know for now.”

“I’m not useful to anyone tied up in a trunk.”

“That’s why we didn’t tie you up,” she says. “Call it professional courtesy.”

“You abducted me with _courtesy_?”

That gets a grin out of her. But the driver’s still silent, hands gripping the wheel a little too tightly. He doesn’t like the chatter.

Good.

Means he’s nervous.

I lean back, trying to think. Rhea doesn’t do anything without a reason. If I’m alive, it's not by accident. And that means—

“I wasn’t your target,” I say slowly. “You didn’t want me for a job. You wanted me for information.”

Her smile fades.

Bingo.

She glances at the driver. He gives her a quick shake of the head.

“Say it,” I press. “Whatever this is—it’s not about me. It’s about someone else. And you think I know something.”

Rhea turns back toward me. “Still sharp. I’ll give you that. But this time? You’re in over your head. You’ve been helping someone. Someone who has something that belongs to people way above our pay grade.”

“I help a lot of people. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Don’t play dumb,” she says, voice suddenly hard. “Where’s _Vex_?”

The name punches the air out of my lungs.

Vex. My fiancée, Vex. The best hacker I know, my right hand that no one’s seen. The reason I’ve been paranoid for the past six months. The only person I’ve loved and _actually_ knows how deep the rabbit hole goes.

“Vex is gone,” I lie. “Haven’t seen him in months.”

Rhea stares at me for a beat too long.

Then she nods at the driver.

The window grows back up and that’s when the car screeches to a halt.

The locks click.

And the **back door opens**—but not on my side.

Someone else climbs in.

Tall. Dressed in all black. Hoodie pulled low. Gloved hands.

The door shuts.

And then the figure speaks.

“Hi,” they say. Voice modulated. “You’ve been looking for me?”

My heart skips.

Rhea’s head whips around. Her jaw tightens.

**Vex.** In the car. With _me_.

And the twist?

I didn’t bring him here.

They brought _themselves_.