The first thing I heard was the metallic clatter of something hitting concrete.
The second was a man saying, too calm, "You drop one more crate and you don't walk out of here, understand?"
I froze halfway into my car.
The parking garage was supposed to be empty—Saturday night, downtown, my building's lower level that always smelled like oil and damp plaster. I’d stayed late at the studio to finish a last‑minute logo, my shoulder bag heavy with my laptop and sketchbook. All I wanted was my bed.
Instead, there were voices echoing down the ramp, undercut by the squeak of cart wheels and the soft, ugly clunk of boxes set down too hard.
You're overreacting, I told myself. Maintenance. Storage. Anything but what it sounds like.
Then someone laughed. A short, humorless sound.
"Kane wants the numbers right this time. You screw the count, he'll notice." Another voice. Rough silk. "You don't want him to notice."
Kane. The name hit a place I didn't know I had, all the little half‑heard news stories and true‑crime podcasts I listened to while working. Victor Kane. Black Sun Crew. The city's shadow.
My hand slipped on the car door handle.
I should have gotten in, shut the door, driven away. That would have been the smart thing. The safe thing.
Instead, I eased the door almost closed and backed into the shadow of a concrete pillar, my sneakers whispering against the floor. My heart hammered against my ribs, sound too loud in my ears. I told myself I just needed to see. Just enough to convince myself it was nothing.
Just enough to ruin my life.
The ramp down to Level C gaped like a concrete throat. Light spilled up in a sickly yellow wedge, cutting across the dim floor where my compact little hatchback sat alone. The voices were clearer now—three, maybe four men, one of them barking out quantities and serials that didn't sound like anything to do with cleaning supplies.
Gunfire in my earbuds was one thing. Gunmetal on a real pallet jack was entirely another.
"Twenty‑four on this stack. Elias wanted them separate," someone muttered.
Elias. Another name from late‑night rabbit holes.
I edged closer to the ramp. The air felt colder there, a draft sliding up from the lower levels. I had a clear shot to the exit gate behind me; if I bolted now, maybe they wouldn’t—
"Hey!"
The shout ricocheted around the concrete. My stomach plunged.
For one stupid, stretched‑out second, I thought they were talking to someone else.
"You. By the pillar."
I turned my head. A man stood halfway up the ramp, framed by the light below. Dark hoodie, gloves, something long and lethal cradled against his chest. The barrel was pointed at the floor—for the moment.
I couldn't make out his face, just the outline of it, the coiled stillness of his body.
Run, my brain screamed.
My legs didn't move.
He took two sure steps up, and the light caught his eyes. Pale, sharp, cutting straight through the space between us. Not surprised. Not rattled.
Calculating.
"Come here," he said.
I did run then. Instinct snapped the paralysis. I spun toward my car, bag bouncing off my hip.
"Don't." His voice didn't rise. It flattened, turned into something hard enough to skin my nerves. "Lila. Stop."
