Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Take him down,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “I want everything. IP logs, data pulls, browser history—anything that ties him to this.”
Arrow: “Already done. Trap’s closing.”
I watch the code stream across my secondary monitor. Mason’s machine fights back for a second, sending frantic pings to backup servers. But the script’s too fast, too precise. Cry.exe detonates cleanly, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs right to Cathedral’s admin logs.
Knight: “He’s locked out. Local IT’s gonna think it’s a hardware failure.”
Ozzy: “And Cathedral just booted his user. Account terminated. That’s one troll down.”
Render: “You want me to celebrate with a meme?”
Arrow: “Not yet. We’re still tracking where he got the footage in the first place.”
I lean back, exhaling slowly. It’s not enough. Nothing will ever feel like enough when I can still see the look on River’s face in my head—shocked, pale, humiliated. She looked like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin.
And she doesn’t even know she’s safe because of us. Because of me.
I minimize the window just as the front door opens. The noise of the office swells—keyboards, whispers, nervous laughter.
River walks in.
Her chin’s high, but I can see the exhaustion written in her shoulders. Her eyes are shadowed from no sleep, lips pressed tight like she’s holding herself together with sheer willpower. She’s wearing black again—her armor.
My chest loosens a fraction seeing her here. Alive. Breathing. Trying.
She heads straight for her desk. Everyone’s pretending not to stare. I want to fucking punch every single one of them.
I push away from my monitor and stand, forcing my tone into something neutral. “Hey.”
Her gaze flicks to me. Defensive. Wary. “Don’t.”
I stop mid-step. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t say you’re sorry. Or that people are awful. Or that it’s not a big deal. I can’t handle sympathy right now.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
Lie. I absolutely was.
She narrows her eyes. “Then what?”
I search for something—anything—to keep her here, talking. “Wanted to make sure you got home okay.”
“I did.” She sits down, opens her laptop. The tremor in her fingers betrays her. “I stayed at Tasha’s.”
Good. Safer than being alone.
“You should’ve called me,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her laugh is sharp, bitter. “Oh, sure. Let me just call the guy who steals my coffee and argues about semicolons.”
“I’d answer.”
“I bet you would.”
She’s trying to be flippant, but the cracks are there. I can hear them.
Before I can come up with something smart—something that doesn’t sound like please trust me—her phone buzzes. She freezes, glances down. Color drains from her face.
“What?” I ask.
She swallows hard. “It’s trending again.”
I move closer, ignoring her glare. On her screen, the fake interview is back on social feeds—different caption, same poison. It’s got over thirty thousand views.
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe. “They’re relentless.”
“Yeah.” Her voice shakes. “Guess I make good clickbait.”
“River—”
“I’m fine.”
She’s not fine. She’s breaking in real time.
I want to tell her we caught one. That Mason’s finished, his system fried, his Cathedral buddies scattering like rats. But that would mean admitting what I am. Who I am.
So I stand there and do the one thing I can do without revealing everything—I reach out and gently nudge a coffee mug toward her.
“Drink,” I say softly. “You’ll need it.”
Her eyes flick to mine, uncertain. She picks up the cup, takes a small sip. Her hand steadies a little.
Small victories.
Arrow’s voice buzzes quietly in my earpiece. “Mission complete. Mason’s fired. HR just pulled his access. He’s out.”
I can’t help the grim smile that touches my mouth. “Fuck yeah.”
River catches the expression. “What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Gage.”
I meet her eyes. For a moment, it’s like the room falls away. There’s only her—angry, beautiful, hurt—and me, trying not to do something stupid like tell her everything.
“Whatever happens,” I say, careful, low, “you’re not alone in this.”
She looks at me for a beat too long, then back to her screen. “I know.”
No, she doesn’t.
That night, I watch her again—because I can’t not. She walks home with her hood up, earbuds in, the city lights painting gold across her hair. She keeps her head down until she turns the corner by the old bakery.
She doesn’t look back, but I do. I follow the GPS ping Arrow set up on the background sweep, making sure no new threats are tailing her.
When she finally disappears into her building, I stay parked across the street for a few extra minutes, just watching the glow of her window. She moves inside—small, tired motions. Then the light turns off.
Arrow texts.
ARROW: She's safe. Go home.
I type back.
ME: Not yet.
Because I can’t shake the thought: she doesn’t even know someone’s fighting for her.
She doesn’t know I’m the one who put Mason on his knees.
She doesn’t know I’d burn the world before I let her cry again.
And maybe that’s for the best.
Because if she ever looked at me that way… she’d never forgive me for all the ways I’ve already crossed the line.