Scene Eleven The Street That Feels Wrong
Wren didn’t go back inside her building. She couldn’t. Not after the man in the hallway said Kade’s name like he had a right to it.
She walked fast, heading toward the bus stop, her breath tight, her pulse uneven. The morning light felt thin, like it wasn’t strong enough to keep anything away.
She reached the corner and slowed.
Something felt off.
Not wrong in a loud way. Wrong in a quiet way — the kind of wrong you only noticed if you’d spent a night watching shadows move.
The street was too empty. Too still. Too aware.
Wren scanned the houses, the parked cars, the stretch of sidewalk leading toward the main road. Nothing moved. Nothing shifted. Nothing stood out.
But she felt it.
A presence. A weight. A watching.
She took a step forward.
A car door clicked shut behind her.
She spun, heart slamming.
A man stood beside a faded sedan, pretending to check his phone. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t acknowledge her. He didn’t move toward her.
But he wasn’t checking his phone.
He was watching her reflection in the window.
Wren’s stomach dropped.
She turned away, walking faster now, her breath shallow. The man didn’t follow. He didn’t speak. He didn’t break his act.
But she felt his eyes on her until she reached the next block.
She exhaled shakily, trying to steady herself.
Then she saw it.
Across the street, parked half-crooked near a fire hydrant, was a motorcycle.
Not Kade’s.
Not matte black.
Not quiet.
This one was loud even when it wasn’t running — chrome, red, aggressive, the kind of bike that belonged to someone who wanted attention.
Someone who wanted to be seen.
Someone who wanted her to see him.
A man leaned against it, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He wasn’t pretending to check his phone. He wasn’t pretending to be part of the street.
He was waiting.
For her.
Wren froze.
The man tilted his head slightly, acknowledging her without moving, without speaking, without breaking the distance between them.
His eyes were sharp. Focused. Too familiar.
Not familiar to her — familiar to the danger she’d felt last night.
Her pulse spiked.
She stepped back.
The man didn’t follow.
He just watched her — steady, patient, like he had all the time in the world.
Then he smiled.
Not friendly.
Not warm.
Not kind.
A smile that said he knew something she didn’t.
A smile that said he wasn’t done.
Wren’s breath caught.
She turned and ran.
Not because she wanted to — because her body decided for her.
She didn’t stop until she reached the main road, the noise of traffic swallowing the quiet danger behind her.
She bent over, hands on her knees, trying to breathe.
A motorcycle engine hummed nearby.
Low. Quiet. Controlled.
She didn’t have to look to know whose it was.
Kade pulled up beside her, eyes already scanning the street she’d come from.
He didn’t ask why she was shaking. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t ask who she saw.
He just said, voice low and steady:
“Get on.”
Not a question.
Not a request.
A decision.
And she realized something she shouldn’t have:
Whatever was watching her wasn’t afraid of daylight — but it was afraid of him.