CHAPTER 288: A DIRECT CONFRONTATION

The morning light filtered through cloud-smudged glass as I rode the bus northeast. The city hadn’t quite woken up yet—not fully. People moved with that slow kind of urgency that came from routine rather than necessity. Coffee cups in hand. Eyebrows furrowed, but not alert. I was the only one watching everything like it might burst into flames.

The footage I’d dropped off at the precinct should’ve gone through preliminary scans by now. If Grant was on shift, maybe he’d already pulled the metadata or started sifting through gait algorithms. Maybe we had something.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the answers weren’t waiting for me at the precinct.

They were out here.

Somewhere.

I leaned back against the molded plastic of the bus seat and let my eyes scan the passengers. There were only a handful of us in this section—an older man sleeping with his face pressed to the window, I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or depressed, a woman reading a slim book of poetry, two teenagers whispering behind cupped hands as they looked at me every once in a while.

And her.

Fifth row from the front. On the left. Sitting alone.

Her posture was relaxed, but not lazy. One arm over her backpack. The other scrolling her phone with methodical slowness. No earbuds. Hair down, angled to one side so that it half-covered her face like a drawn curtain. Her skin was warm beige, with undertones that came from long walks under sun, not artificial lighting. Her shoulders were broader than average, solid in a way that hinted at strength, not just mass. She looked exactly like the suspect in the footage I dropped off.

And then came the kicker.

Instinct was screaming louder than ever.

Not whispering. Not nudging. Not that dull warning hum it gave when someone seemed off.

This was full-blown klaxon-level alert. Screeching in my skull. Pushing adrenaline into my bloodstream before I even knew what I was reacting to.

I stared.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. Didn’t so much as glance in my direction.

But she noticed.

I saw it in the way her thumb stopped scrolling. The faint twitch of a muscle in her jaw. Her breathing didn’t change—neither did her pulse, from what I could sense—but she was aware of me now. Not surprised. Just aware.

I stood slowly.

We were approaching a stop that wasn’t mine.

She moved.

So did I.

The brakes hissed as the bus slid to a halt, and the door folded open with a practiced groan. The girl stepped out first, and I followed without hesitation, the soles of my shoes clicking sharply against the concrete as we hit the pavement.

She didn’t look back.

I picked up my pace, caught up in a few strides, and tapped her on the shoulder.

She stopped.

Turned.

And met my eyes with absolute calm.

No fear.

No confusion.

No flicker of recognition.

Or maybe... no surprise at recognition.

Because I knew what she was seeing: Reynard Vale. Mr. Dusk. One of the most watched men on the planet. The Masked Syndicate’s face, the Jobmaster, the wildcard the government couldn’t rein in.

Any normal person would’ve reacted. Gasped. Hesitated. Blinked at least. Looked around to make sure they were the ones that was actually being talked too.

She didn’t.

Granted it could just be some teenage girl sass, but Psychological Insight was telling me that she wary of me, simply not reaction.

That’s what confirmed it.

"You alright?" I asked, careful with my tone.

"Should I not be?"

I motioned to the area behind us. "You got off kinda abruptly."

"Bus stops exist," she said, raising an eyebrow.

I almost smiled.

But not quite.

"What’s your name?"

She gave a long, deliberate blink. "Why?"

"Because I asked."

"Well I don’t wanna answer that."

The street around us was active now. Commuters filtering into nearby shops. Kids running down sidewalks with oversized backpacks. And just a few meters behind her—exactly as my memory recalled it—stood a high school. Faded bricks. Peeling banners. Same alley from the footage.

"Were you near a school in the past two weeks?" I asked.

She followed my gaze back toward the high school, then back to me. "You mean... like that one?"

Her tone dripped sarcasm, but her stance didn’t change.

Neither did her pulse.

It was frustrating. I knew something was off. Instinct didn’t spike like this for no reason. And every box—every physical descriptor from the video—checked out. But I had no proof. No footage in my pocket. No name. Nothing admissible. If she walked away, legally, I couldn’t stop her.

So I changed strategies. I needed to bait her out in some way.

"There’s been footage," I said, tilting my voice just enough to sound procedural. "Of you. Near an elementary school. Acting suspicious."

Still no panic.

But for the first time, something shifted.

Not in her expression—in her hands.

Her fingers twitched. One dropped to the edge of her backpack. She let it fall slightly. I didn’t notice the object at first.

Until it hit the ground.

A clatter.

A small metal clang.

I looked down in curiosity.

It was a paint can that was colored pink.

My brain made the connection too late.

—Wait, paint—

WHUMP

A hollow, concussive pop exploded upward, and suddenly everything from the chest up was hot and sticky.

Pink.

Bright, glossy, fluorescent pink.

Paint clung to my coat, my mask, my hair, dripping off my collar like melting wax. Camille was going to kill me for damaging the outfit like this.

I staggered back a step, blinking furiously, instincts kicking in to clear my vision.

But the damage was already done.

She was running.

I saw the movement out of the corner of my eye—her backpack slung tight, body low, head down as she pushed through the crowd. People shouted, stumbling to the side.

I wiped a sleeve across my face, smearing the paint but clearing enough to see.

And I ran.

Hard.

The chase was on.