Chapter 4 – Silas - The Hunter’s Reflection
The safehouse reeks of solvent and gun oil. A chemical kind of silence clings to the concrete walls, interrupted only by the click of metal against glass as I strip my sidearm and lay it out piece by piece. Frame. Slide. Recoil spring. Barrel.
Each part earns its place on the velvet cloth like a sacred object.
I don’t need to do this. The weapon’s clean.
Has been since yesterday. And the day before that.
But my hands want something to occupy them—something predictable.
So, I dismantle the Glock anyway, letting the action swallow what’s left of my thoughts before they spiral too far in the wrong direction.
Too late.
Lydia’s face keeps cutting in, slicing through the static.
Not her voice. Not even her words. Just the way she sat in that bar with Dom standing beside her, flanked by danger but owning the room like she carved it from marble herself.
Untouchable. Except she isn’t. I saw it in her fingers, twitching around the glass.
In the way her body angled away from Dom, just enough to register as instinct. Revulsion, buried under polish.
And that last look she gave me. Defiant, but almost... questioning.
She knows, not who I am, not yet, but she knows I don’t belong to Dom. Which means she’s thinking about me. Which means she’s dangerous in a whole new way.
I line up the disassembled parts into perfect symmetry.
Behind my ribs, something bruises against bone.“You’re drifting.”
Naomi’s voice — saved for moments like this — plays back in my mind. Then, just as if cued, I hear the deliberate thud of her boots across the floor: military-precise, heavy with judgment.
Naomi Wells carries tension the way others carry scent: it fills the room before she steps in.
And when she appears, she’s clad in Bureau gray, a blazer over a blouse so stiff it could cut glass. Her eyes sweep the room, then settle on the table in front of me.
"You’re losing focus,” she says flatly.
I drag a cleaning cloth down the length of the Glock barrel, not looking up. “Didn’t realize you were keeping score.”
Naomi doesn’t laugh. She never does. She steps closer, takes in the barely-furnished space—the folding cot I haven’t used, the kitchenette I haven’t touched, the untouched tablet on the counter where Bureau updates gather dust.
“This place looks like a kill box,” she mutters.
“It is.”
She crosses her arms. “Then why haven’t you used it?”
My hand stills.
Naomi moves into my periphery. “You were supposed to bait Drazen. Not cozy up to his prize.”
“I haven’t touched her.”
“Not physically.”
She lets the words hang. Heavy. Intentional.
“She’s not part of your job, Silas.”
“Neither was Dom.”
“Dom got you close. Lydia’s getting you sloppy.”
I finally look at her. “Define sloppy.”
She throws a flash drive onto the table. It bounces once, then spins to a stop near the gun’s frame.
“Surveillance from last night. You followed her home.”
I say nothing.
Naomi steps closer, voice cutting now. “You watched her from a rooftop for two hours. You didn’t gather intel. You didn’t bug her apartment. You didn’t plant a tracker. You watched.”
My teeth grits, but I don’t argue. Because she’s right.
Because I couldn’t move. I stood in the dark with my rifle slung and my hand on the scope, watching Lydia pour herself a drink and pace her loft like she wanted the floor to break open.
She kept touching her lips like they tasted wrong.
Kept peeling off layers—jewelry, shoes, gloves—like she wanted to claw her own skin off.
She never cried.
That did something to me.
Naomi circles behind me like she’s stalking. “We embedded you for one reason—”
“Leverage Drazen’s inner circle. I remember the mission brief.”
“Then follow it.”
I nod once, more muscle memory than agreement.
Naomi leans in, voice down to a needle. “You don’t get to keep things, Silas. Not her. Not even the idea of her.”
Then she’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind her, and for a full minute, I just sit there staring at the parts of the gun like they might rearrange themselves into answers.
But they don’t.
So, I rebuild.
Each piece locks into place with a sound I can trust.
I leave the safehouse just after midnight.
The city has that washed-out sheen from earlier rain, like its skin’s too thin. Miramont never feels clean. Even the luxury looks borrowed, like a costume worn too long. I walk through it with my collar turned up and my thoughts jammed between two opposing walls: Naomi’s warning and Lydia’s eyes.
I keep thinking about the way she sat in that room. Her expression didn’t flicker, but her whole posture was restraint, pretending to be in control. There’s a difference. I know it because I live it.
The bar Drazen uses for his “select gatherings” is tucked beneath an abandoned freight terminal. No sign, no windows, no questions. The kind of place that swallows noise and makes sure it never echoes back.
The place smells like aged leather, sweat, and something too sweet to be just liquor. Drazen’s seated in a booth near the back, eyes move to my direction, and he gestures once. I close the gap and sit across from him.
He doesn’t speak right away, just lifts a tumbler of bourbon and watches me over the rim. The ice clinks like a dare.
“Tell me, Silas,” he says, “how would you collect from someone who owes you but likes to forget it?”
I lean back. “Depends on what he values.”
Drazen’s smile is slow and bloodless. “Good answer.”
He slides a folded slip of paper toward me.
A name. An address. I don’t ask questions.
This is yet another test. Not just a target.
This is about me.
I nod once and stand.
The guy lives in a mid-rise east of the river. Clean building, new paint. He’s trying to look like someone who never met Drazen.
He opens the door and I’m already inside.
He pleads. Stammers. Swears he’ll pay next week.
I don’t speak. I slam his face into the wall and press my forearm into the base of his skull until his knees give. He gasps when I let go. I don’t hit him again. I want him to feel the restraint.
“You’ll pay him,” I say. “On time. With interest.”
He nods like his life depends on it.
He’s right.
I’m back at the bar in no time, Drazen barely reacts when I return. The bourbon’s still sweating in his glass.
He glances at his watch. “Efficient.”
“I always am.”
He nods, pleased, then takes a slow sip. "You know what I appreciate about efficiency? It's rare. Most people need motivation. Fear. Incentive." He sets the glass down. "But some people—the right people—they just understand the job."
I wait. This isn't small talk.
"I had someone handle a different collection one time," he continues.
"Delicate situation. Client with connections, ego the size of this city.
Could've gone sideways a dozen different ways.
" He pauses, studying me. "Didn't. She walked in, said three sentences, and walked out with a signed contract and his gratitude. "
The air tightens.
I ask, "Who?"
His smirk sharpens. "Lydia."
He says her name like he's testing how I react to the sound of it.
I don't blink.
"She cuts cleaner than most men I've worked with. Knows how to make a lie feel like your own idea." He pauses, swirling what's left in his glass. "You've noticed that, haven't you?"
The question hangs.
I keep my face neutral. "She's efficient."
"Efficient." Drazen repeats the word like he's tasting it, deciding if he likes the flavour. Then he leans back, eyes narrowing with something close to amusement. "You know what I've noticed, Silas? You look at her differently than you look at everyone else."
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
He sees it. Of course he does.
"It's subtle," he continues, almost conversational. "The way you track her across a room. The way you hesitate half a second too long when she speaks. Most people wouldn't catch it." His grin widens. "But I'm not most people."
I say nothing. There's nothing safe to say.
"I don't blame you," Drazen adds, like he's being generous. "She's magnetic. That's why she's valuable. But here's the thing—" He sets his glass down with deliberate precision. "—she's my asset. And men who let themselves get distracted by my assets tend to make mistakes. Fatal ones."
The threat isn't subtle.
"I'm not distracted," I say, voice level.
"Good." He stands, buttoning his coat with slow, measured movements. "Because if I thought you were losing focus, I'd have to reconsider whether you're the right fit for this operation. And we wouldn't want that, would we?"
He doesn't wait for an answer.
He just walks toward the door, pausing only to glance back once.
"She's a tool, Silas. Sharp, effective, expensive. But still just a tool. Remember that."
The door closes behind him.
And I sit there, hands curled into fists under the table, hating how right he is about what he saw—and how wrong he is about what she is.
I should go back to the apartment. Recalibrate my approach. That's what a good agent would do.
Instead, I step out into the night.
The city air hits me cold and sharp.
My feet move before my brain catches up, carrying through alleys I know too well, past intersections I've memorized for extraction routes.
I tell myself I'm clearing my head.
I tell myself I'm doing a routine surveillance sweep.
I tell myself a lot of things that aren't true.
By the time I realize where I'm going, I'm already climbing the fire escape two blocks from her building. The metal groans under my weight, rust flaking onto my palms, but I don't stop.
Minutes later, I'm on the rooftop across from her apartment, crouched behind the chimney stack like I have any right to be here.
Her window glows warm against the dark.
And I can't look away.
She’s pacing.