Page 118 of Cobra
“Yeah,” Dom says. “New chatter just hit one of the channels we’ve been watching. Same structure, same payment routing, but flagged priority.” A pause. Then, quieter: “Her name’s still active.”
Silence. Heavy.
I don’t breathe.
“They’re not done,” Dom finishes.
The hallway feels smaller.The air thinner.
I step back before I even realize I’m moving. One step. Then another. I don’t want to hear anything else. Because I already have enough. I turn before anyone can open that door and find me standing there like I don’t belong, like I’m not supposed to know what they just said. My pace is steady. Not rushed. Not panicked. Controlled. Because if I move too fast, I might break.
I make it back to his room before the weight of it settles fully. The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds louder than it should. I lean back against it. For a second. Just one. And then I push away. Because standing still isn’t helping. Because the thoughts are already catching up.
They didn’t just find me.
They wanted me.
The difference hits harder than anything else so far. The attack was chaos. Fast. Violent. Terrifying. But it was a moment. This is something else.This is time. Planning. Watching. Choosing. My name. My life. My routine written down like it belonged to someone else.
I move toward the bed, but I don’t sit right away. I pace once, twice, the small space not giving me much room but enough to burn off the first edge of the realization. My apartment flashes in my head. The door. The windows. The parking lot. The walk from my car. The same path I’ve taken a hundred times without thinking.
My throat tightens. “They knew.” Not guessed. Not hoped. I sit down hard on the edge of the bed. My hands rest on my thighs, fingers pressing into the fabric like I need something solid to hold onto. “They didn’t just find me,” I say to no one. “They wanted me.”
The thought lingers. Unsettling in a way that doesn’t spike into panic. It sinks. Slow. Heavy. Deeper than fear. Because fear from the alley was immediate. This is awareness. Clear. Sharp. Unavoidable. This isn’t over.
The realization doesn’t come with drama. It comes with certainty. It could happen again. If they try again, they won’t hesitate. They’ll adjust. They’ll plan better. They’ll come harder.
A slow breath fills my lungs. Then leaves. I don’t shake. I don’t cry. I don’t fall apart. That’s the difference. The fear is there.It just isn’t consuming me. I sit with it. Let it exist. Let it settle into something real instead of pushing it away like I don’t want to see it.
I’m staying.
The thought comes back. Clearer now. Stronger. Earlier, it felt like a decision. Now it feels like a commitment. Because now I understand what I’m choosing. Not just him. Not just this place.
All of it.
The danger. The violence. The fact that someone out there has my name on a list.
I lean forward slightly, elbows resting on my knees, head dipping just enough that I can stare at the floor while my thoughts settle into place. “I’m scared,” I admit silently. The words don’t echo. They don’t spiral. They just sit there. Real. Honest. “I’m still here.” That’s the part that matters. That’s the part that shifts something inside me. I’m not reacting. I’m choosing.
The door opens behind me.
I don’t flinch. I don’t turn immediately. I know it’s him. I feel it. The way the air shifts. The way the room tightens around his presence. The way my body recognizes him before I even see him.
He steps inside. Closes the door.
I hear it. Feel it. Still don’t turn. Not yet.
His boots move across the floor. Slow. Measured. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t demand. Doesn’t ask what I heard or why I’m sitting like this or what’s going through my head. He just comes to a stop behind me. Close. Not touching. Within reach. He doesn’t hover. He doesn’t cage me in. But he’s always there. Positioned. Ready. Watching.
I lift my head slowly and turn to look at him.
He’s already looking at me. His eyes scan my face, not casually, not like he’s just checking in. Assessing. Reading. Tracking every small shift. He sees it. Whatever changed in me in the last few minutes. He sees it immediately. “What?” he asks. One word. Low. Direct.
I study him for a second. Take him in the same way he takes me in.
The cut still on his shoulders. The tension in his posture. The control in everything he does. He doesn’t soften. Not really. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But he adjusts. For me. That matters.
“They picked me,” I say.
