Chapter 13 Cassian’s Past #2
The screen stutters. Then fuzzes. Then skips.
Exactly four seconds gone.
Four seconds is enough time to plant something. To break a lock. To watch.
I rewind. Frame by frame.
There, right before the glitch. One frame. A blur, barely distinguishable. Human height. Standing just behind the fence. Gone in the next second.
Could be a trick of the light.
Could be.
But doubt is a luxury in this situation.
I lean back, eyes still fixed on the frozen frame. A faint pulse drums at the base of my skull. That slow, building pressure I’ve learned to trust. The kind that shows up right before something breaks loose.
That fucker made a move again, huh?
I close the laptop. Pack everything back into the box. Lock it. Slide it into its place behind the panel.
Fifty minutes later, I’m across town, sitting in a corner booth of a pop-up diner.
It’s one of those trendy places that looks like it’ll disappear in a month but somehow hasn’t yet.
It sits across the street from Sabine’s job, close enough that I can track every angle of her building without being obvious.
I’ve been here enough times that the waitress doesn’t even ask anymore.
She knows I won’t touch the coffee and learned not to ask about it anymore.
From this seat, I can see the entrance to Sabine’s building as well as everything around it.
Crosswalk, intersection, mailbox, the flow of foot traffic two blocks down. Iit’s all on display.
It’s a rhythm I know by heart. Predictable. Repetitive.
But today, something’s off.
There’s a man standing by the mailbox across the street.
He’s wearing a long black coat, the kind that hangs heavy and sharp at the edges. A curved-brim hat rests on his head. It's sleek, expensive, probably worth more than Mom’s car. He’s not on his phone. No earbuds, no briefcase, no dog leash. No newspaper. No coffee.
No reason to be there.
He doesn’t check the time. Doesn’t pace. Doesn’t glance around like he’s waiting for someone.
He just stands.
Five minutes go by.
He doesn’t move.
I slide out of the booth, drop some bills on the table without counting, and step outside. My footsteps are calm. Measured. I cross the street without hesitation, veer slightly left, like I haven’t seen him at all.
But I’ve seen everything.
The scuffed boots Years of wear.
The cigarette burn near the cuff. Right sleeve, just above the wrist.
The uneven weight in the coat, too heavy on one side. Could be a wallet. Could be a weapon. Doesn’t feel like either.
His jeans are new. Wranglers. Still creased, stiff at the knees. But those boots have seen more than just sidewalks. They’ve been through mud and concrete and maybe blood.
The details don’t match. Nothing about him adds up.
My pulse ticks faster. Not panic. Not yet. But something older.
Something primal.
Could it be him?
I didn’t feel this way when I saw Eli. That was nerves. Uncertainty.
This is different. This buzzes low in my spine.
This feels wrong.
I keep walking. Calm. Head down. I pass the alley and angle just enough to catch the reflection in the diner window beside me. The glass is streaked with grease and sun-warped grime.
Just enough to catch a glimpse of—
Nothing.
He’s gone.
The street is empty.
What the hell…?
How is this possible?
I had him.
My brain goes into overdrive.
My thoughts kick into overdrive. He must’ve clocked me the second I stepped out. Counted my pace. Timed every movement. Watched how long it would take me to walk past him without catching his face.
Then vanished.
That’s the only fucking way.
A jolt snaps down my spine. It's cold and tight, like wire pulled beneath skin.
This wasn't a coincidence.
I spin fast, scanning the street.
Nothing.
No coat slipping around a corner. No echo of footsteps in the alley. Just the ordinary blur of people. Faces buried in phones, chasing schedules, completely unaware a predator just brushed past them like wind.
“Fuck,” I mutter, barely audible.
It had to be him.
I force the panic down.
Inhale. Exhale.
Breathe cold. Breathe sharp.
Focus, Cassian.
I slip a hand into my pocket and flick the black switch on my keyring. A silent ping shoots to Sabine’s phone. It's a fail-safe I wired earlier this week. Not invasive. Just a trigger. If she leaves her shift early, if she strays from her route, I’ll know.
Then I text Grayson.
He’s back.
Need access to local cameras.
Timestamp: 11:43 – check diner exit.
Only after I hit send do I loop around the block, retracing every step, scanning every shadow, every blind corner. I know I won’t find him. He’s too careful for that.
Still, I look.
And then I stop.
Something catches in my chest. A flicker, then a freeze.
My burner buzzes.
Not the one I use for ops. The other one. The one no one’s supposed to have the number for.
One new message.
No contact name. No timestamp. No reply thread. No trace of origin. Not even the ping that should register the send.
That’s impossible. I rotate SIMs, cycle encryption hourly, store nothing locally. There’s nothing to breach.
And yet… it’s there.
Two lines.
You make the game more fun, Little Soldier.
Let’s see which one of us wins.
That’s all it says.
But it’s enough.
More than enough.
It confirms what I’ve been trying not to believe since I saw him on the street.
It was him.
And he wanted me to see him.
Worse, he just invited me to play.