Chapter 5 Cassian’s Past
Ihead out at dawn in a plain hoodie, a ball cap pulled low, and the same worn running shoes I used before my deployment. Nothing special. Just another guy out for a morning jog. At least, that’s the impression I’m going for.
The streets are quiet at this hour, still shaking off the night. It’s the perfect time to move unnoticed. Just in case, I keep my head down, hands in my pockets, shoulders hunched like I’m fending off the morning chill. I look like someone with nothing to hide, just minding his business.
It’s been a week since Sabine showed me those messages.
Her stalker’s words are burned into my mind, like they were aimed at me.
The creepy texts. The little gifts. That sick obsession woven through every detail.
Some asshole’s been watching her, tracking her every move for God knows how long.
And now I can’t stop thinking about it. Doesn’t matter what I’m doing.
My mind keeps circling back to her face when she handed me that phone.
I don’t know how long I’m staying, but however long it is, I’m using it to find this bastard. I’m not letting him get any closer.
I take the familiar route down to the main road.
Every step is muscle memory, but my eyes are alert, scanning everything.
Parked cars that weren’t there before. Windows with curtains drawn tight.
Empty corners that would make perfect hiding spots.
I’ve walked this path a hundred times, but ever since Sabine’s revelation, I see it differently.
I look at it like he would. Like a predator, not the kid who used to live here.
Up ahead, the bakery’s already lit up. Small place, been around forever.
They start early, prepping the bread before sunrise, opening before most people are even awake.
I step inside and the warm air hits me—yeast, butter, sugar.
Quiet. Almost peaceful. A few trays of pastries cool in the back.
The girl behind the counter gives me a sleepy nod.
I give her a tight smile and order a coffee, then take it to the corner seat by the window.
From here, I can see the whole street. Sidewalks, parked cars, every angle. If someone’s been watching Sabine, they weren’t standing out in the open. They’d pick a spot with cover. Somewhere they could blend in. Somewhere like this.
If it were me?
I’d be sitting somewhere no one thinks to look.
This bakery’s too cozy for a creep to hang around unnoticed. He’d be recognized too fast. People would remember his face. Too easy to track. So I let my eyes wander, searching for somewhere more fitting.
Where are you hiding…?
Past the coffee shop, I spot a small gas station across the street. There’s a bench by the bus stop, half-hidden. Could work, but it’s too exposed, and the bus stop blocks the line of sight. Not ideal.
Then there’s the bookstore next door. Big front windows, plenty of places to sit and read while watching foot traffic. If he bought a book and camped out there, he could watch all day. Worth checking out.
But then I see something better.
A black sedan, parked just past the intersection. No plates. Lights on. Doesn’t belong. Not the kind of car people leave overnight. Not in a neighborhood like this. I take a slow sip of coffee, watching.
Then I see it.
A flicker. A shadow.
Someone in the driver’s seat adjusts the rearview mirror. Subtle. But enough.
They’re watching something.
Or someone.
I set the cup down, roll my shoulders, and make a decision.
Time to say hello.
I cross the street like I’ve got nowhere to be, keeping up the runner act. But once I’m close, I slip between parked cars, moving fast, coming in from the blind spot of the side mirror. By the time the driver notices me, I’m already at the window.
I knock. Hard.
He jumps. Then—too late—he tries to play it cool, like I didn’t just catch him doing exactly what he was doing.
But I know the look in his eyes.
He’s been caught.
“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice casual. Like we’re just two strangers passing time. “You waiting on someone?”
His fingers twitch on the steering wheel. He’s younger than I expected. Mid-twenties, clean-shaven, trying to look forgettable in a cheap windbreaker. If he weren’t so jumpy, we might even pass for the same type. Gross, but yeah. I’d fit right in with some messed-up stalker if I let myself.
I’m a monster too.
“Just parked,” he says. “Waiting for a friend. Why?”
He’s got middle-length blond hair, dark blue eyes, and those kinds of features that make people trust him. Harmless. Believable. Even my radar’s not screaming. But guys like him, or me, don’t always set off alarms.
I lean against the car like I own it, arms crossed, half-smiling.
“Funny,” I say. “I’ve been sitting in that bakery a while. Haven’t seen you pick anyone up.”
He shifts. Fingers flex on the wheel. He glances past me like he’s looking for an exit. His jaw twitches.
“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, feigning casual. “Maybe my friend’s running late. What’s it to you?”
I don’t answer.
“No plates,” I say, nodding at the blank spot where his tag should be. “That’s weird, isn’t it?”
He swallows. There’s a flicker—a tell—before his face smooths over. He forces a crooked smile.
“Oh, that?” he says. “Yeah, someone stole ‘em a couple weeks back. Reported it and everything, but you know how the DMV is. Still waiting on replacements.”
He even throws in a laugh, trying to make it sound easy.
Bullshit.
I don’t blink. “You report it to the cops?”
There’s a beat. Just a breath. Then he nods.
“Yeah. Filed it online. They said it happens all the time.”
It’s a decent lie. Most people might believe it.
But I’m not most people.
And I don’t believe a damn word.
Because here’s the thing. Guys who actually report stolen plates? They don’t sit in unmarked sedans hoping no one notices. They’ve got a copy of the report on the dash. A temporary tag taped to the window. Something.
More importantly, they don’t park across from my sister’s home when she coincidentally has a stalker at the same time.
So I press.
“That right?” I ask, tilting my head. “Mind if I see the report?”
The guy stiffens. His hand twitches toward his pocket like maybe, maybe, he’s about to show me something that'll make me back off. But then he hesitates. Rethinks it. Switches tactics.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair, just frustrated enough to look legit. “Look, man. You a cop or something? Because if so, you should show a badge. If not, then kindly mind your own fucking business.”
“Oh, I am,” I say calmly.
He scoffs. “How’s that? By harassing the first guy you saw?”
“By spotting something shady on my street and not looking the other way.”
Silence settles between us. His knuckles are pale on the steering wheel now, and mine are itching for a reason to act. But I don’t make the first move.
I wait.
He exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to let go of something violent.
“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he mutters. “Just waiting. That’s all. My friend lives here. She’s coming out any minute.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
He stares at me, incredulous. “Are you fucking serious?”
I smile without warmth. “Dead serious.”
Another pause. A flicker of tension.
“…Sabine,” he says at last.
And my blood goes cold.
I lock it down before my body can react, but it’s already there—that shift. The one I used to feel overseas, when something snapped sideways and the air went too quiet right before everything went to hell.
“How do you know her?” I ask.
He exhales through his nose again, gaze sharpening. “Told you. We’re friends.”
I log everything. The way he doesn’t blink. The lack of nervous tells. The irritation in his voice. Not fear, not guilt. Just annoyance, like this conversation is wasting his time.
I narrow my eyes, searching his face.
He doesn’t look away.
Shit.
Maybe I got this wrong.
Still, I don’t move.
“You know who I am?”
He blinks. “Her neighbor or something?”
“I’m her brother.”
Something shifts in his face. Just a flicker. He leans back, just slightly.
“Didn’t know she had a brother,” he says, and this time, his voice has something new in it.
Caution.
“She does,” I say. “And he doesn’t like strange men sitting in unmarked cars outside the house she sleeps in.”
He huffs out a humorless laugh. “Okay. You’re protective. I get it. But you’re coming in hot over nothing. I told you. I’m just waiting for her.”
“Without plates?”
He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, man. They got stolen. I reported it. Didn’t think I’d get grilled over it.”
“And no temp tags? No paperwork in the window?”
“I wasn’t planning on being parked here long.”
We stare at each other.
Then I take a step back, not letting up. “Call her.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You say you’re friends. Prove it. Call her.”
“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” he says.
“You don’t,” I agree. “But when the cops show up and you’ve got no plates, creeping in the neighbourhood? You’ll wish you had.”
His jaw tightens.
“I don’t like being pushed,” he mutters, not looking at me.
“And I don’t like creeps near my sister.”
“I’m not calling her,” he says finally. “Not out here. I don’t want to drag her into this.”
“You already have.”
He hesitates, rubbing a hand over his mouth. His breath fogs the window for a second.
Then: “You really her brother?”
“Yeah.”
He lets out a long exhale. Then finally, grudgingly—
“…Then let’s go inside, yeah? I’ve been trying to call her. She’s not answering. I’ll show you we’re friends. Face-to-face.”
It’s not an admission. Not surrender.
Just a pivot. A way to keep this from escalating into something neither of us wants to explain to a cop.
I think about it.
If he is the creep… If this is just some clever angle to get through the front door, then fine. I’ll catch him in the act, note his name, face, who he is. I’ll have caught him red-handed. He won’t be able to talk his way out of it later on.
“Alright,” I say. “Let’s go.”
He gets out of the car. The door slams shut with more force than necessary, like he’s trying to send a message I won’t bother decoding. He falls into step beside me and we walk toward the house.
I don’t let him take a single step without my eyes trailing over him. Head to toe, back to front. Every twitch, every hesitation, every breath.
Because if he tries anything?
He won’t get a second chance.