The chopper blades had barely stopped spinning when my boots hit the rooftop.
The cold night air hit me like a slap—fresh, sharp, real. The city below glittered like nothing had happened, like no guns had been drawn, no hostages taken, no lives nearly ruined. But I wasn't fooled.
Everything had changed.
Anthony led the way, silent for once, the Hawaiian shirt fluttering slightly beneath his tactical vest. We moved across the rooftop, down a private stairwell, and through the reinforced elevator doors that led back into the sanctum we called home.
The apartment was warm. Soft lights hummed. The familiar scent of Camille's overpriced candles hung in the air—lavender and woodsmoke. Something comforting. Safe.
Safe.
A lie I wanted so badly to believe.
Camille stood by the counter, arms crossed tightly, chest rising and falling too quickly. Her eyes met mine with a surge of emotion—relief, frustration, fear—but she didn't speak.
