We should've been back in a day.
Two at most.
But nothing ever went according to plan anymore.
Not when you were working for a gang that ran half the black market and wanted the other half dead.
We were less than an hour out from the drop site when the first relay came through—a garbled message from one of our lookouts in Sector E warning us that the main return route had been compromised.
Kol frowned at the report. "Road's blocked. Patrols sweeping the entire stretch between Sector D and the outer walls."
Tiger swore under his breath. "They're checking IDs. Probably faces too."
"Definitely looking for someone," Kol added.
Nyx stirred in my head. You.
Yeah.
Probably.
I could feel the threads tightening around us. The delay couldn't be a coincidence. The boss had eyes everywhere, and I'd just gone off-script long enough to make people nervous.
The detour came fast. Abrupt. No time to debate.
Tiger rerouted us southeast—through fractured rail lines, cracked terrain, and towns that hadn't seen a government-issued supply truck in five years.
A route that should've taken hours stretched into a week.
Seven days of back roads and silence.
The first two days were rough.
The van's suspension wasn't made for broken ground. We hit rocks, potholes, debris from collapsed infrastructure.
Mick got sick twice. Kol rewrapped his ribs. Tiger barely spoke.
I just watched the road.
And thought about him.
About Nine.
Where he was.
What was being done to him.
What he might think of me for not returning when I said I would.
Nyx hissed every time the van bounced. We should've stayed behind. Should've broken through. Should've gone to him.
But I couldn't.
Because this world didn't run on promises or instincts.
It ran on orders.
Blood.
And consequences.