The city was a living wound, bleeding memories Evan Cross could never escape. Veriton's skyline was a patchwork of crumbling factories, tenements with broken ribs of steel, and billboards advertising dreams that no one could afford to buy. By evening, a thick mist began to roll through the streets, muffling sound and cloaking the city in an eerie half-silence, as if the ground itself were holding its breath.
Evan pulled the frayed hood of his jacket tighter around his head as he made his way back toward the abandoned railway station. His backpack felt heavier with each step, the weight of the stolen envelope and its secrets sinking deeper into his gut. Maya Vance walked beside him, her small frame lost in a patched army coat several sizes too big. Her green eyes darted around the alleys with the wary sharpness of someone who knew just how fast the world could turn on you.
"You sure about this?" Evan asked, his voice low.
Maya shrugged without looking at him. "Sure as I'll ever be."
It wasn't much of an answer, but it was enough.
As they crossed a rusted chain-link fence into the shadowed ruins of the old station, the air grew colder, heavy with mildew and rust. Evan's breath came out in soft white clouds. Every footstep echoed off the shattered walls, a reminder that they were alone but never truly unseen. Veriton had eyes everywhere.
Inside, the station looked even more forsaken by night. Broken benches lay scattered across the floor, glass crunched underfoot, and the skeletal remains of a long-dead clock tower loomed overhead, its hands frozen forever at 3:17. Evan had always hated that clock, a silent reminder that time had abandoned this place long before he had.
They climbed up the twisted remains of an escalator to the second level, where old offices overlooked the once-bustling platform below. Maya led him into a narrow room whose only furniture was a cracked desk and a battered filing cabinet rusted shut. She dropped her bag to the floor and began pulling out supplies: a flashlight, a crowbar, two cans of energy drink, and a wrinkled city map marked with angry red X's.
Evan leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You ever think this is crazy?"
Maya cracked open a drink and took a long sip. "Every day. Doesn't mean we don't do it."
He watched her for a moment. She was younger than him, yet somehow carried herself like someone who had lived two lifetimes already. Life in Veriton aged you fast.
"We hit this place tomorrow night," she said, tapping the map. "Old warehouse off 7th and Hollister. Supposedly where that briefcase ended up."
"Supposedly?" Evan raised an eyebrow.
Maya grinned, a flash of teeth in the dim light. "Wouldn't be any fun if it was guaranteed."
For the first time in days, Evan almost smiled. Almost.
---
Later that night, sleep refused to come. Evan lay stretched out on a threadbare sleeping bag near the ticket booth, staring up at the skeletal rafters. Rain pattered against the broken windows in a soft, mournful rhythm. Beside him, Maya slept fitfully, mumbling fragments of dreams Evan couldn't make out.
His mind wandered, unwilling and restless.
He thought of his mother. Angela Cross had once been the most beautiful woman in Veriton. Not in the polished, airbrushed way of the magazine covers, but in the fierce, luminous way a storm rolling in over the ocean was beautiful. She had laughed loudly, loved wildly, and fought like hell when the world tried to break her.
But the world had broken her anyway.
One day, she just hadn't come home. No note. No goodbye. Evan had waited on those crooked front steps for hours, days, until hunger gnawed at his insides and the neighbors started whispering behind cracked doors. His father—if he could be called that—had been little more than a shell even before she left. Afterward, he was nothing at all.
Evan swallowed hard, pressing his fists into his eyes. He wouldn't cry. Not now. Not ever again.
A sharp clatter yanked him out of his thoughts.
He bolted upright, heart hammering. Maya stirred beside him, blinking blearily.
"You hear that?" he whispered.
She nodded, already reaching for the crowbar she kept within arm's reach.
Another sound—a low scraping, like something heavy being dragged across concrete.
They moved as one, keeping low. Evan slid into the shadows near the entrance, every muscle coiled tight. Maya crouched beside him, her breath a soft ghost in the cold air.
From the stairwell leading to the platform, a figure emerged.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a long dark coat that fluttered like bat wings around him. His face was obscured by the low brim of a battered hat, but Evan caught a glint of something metallic in his gloved hand.
Gun.
He sucked in a breath through his teeth.
Maya touched his arm lightly, signaling a retreat. They inched backward, keeping to the shadows. But the figure stopped, head tilting slightly, as if he could smell them.
"Come out," the man said, voice low and oily. "No point hiding."
Neither of them moved.
The man sighed, almost disappointed. He took a step forward, boots crunching glass. "You have something that belongs to us."
Us?
Evan's mind raced. Who was "us"? The gang Levi got tangled up with? Some higher power?
The man moved faster than Evan expected. One second he was five yards away, the next he was nearly on top of them.
Maya flung the crowbar.
It spun end over end, a dark blur, before crashing into the man's arm with a sickening thud. He grunted, stumbling back, but didn't drop the gun.
"Run!" Maya shouted.
They sprinted for the shattered back wall, squeezing through a gap barely wide enough for a rat. Concrete scraped Evan's back raw, but he hardly noticed. Gunfire exploded behind them, loud and sudden. A bullet whizzed past his ear, close enough that he felt the heat.
They tore through the ruins, feet slipping on wet stone, hearts pounding thunder against their ribs. Evan didn't dare look back.
He just ran.
---
By the time they collapsed into a narrow alley three blocks away, Evan's lungs were on fire. He bent over, hands on his knees, sucking in the damp, grimy air.
Maya leaned against the wall, face pale but determined.
"You okay?" she rasped.
"Peachy," Evan managed.
They listened, straining for any sign of pursuit. Nothing but the distant wail of sirens and the drip-drip-drip of rainwater off broken pipes.
"What the hell was that?" Evan finally asked.
Maya wiped blood from a cut on her cheek with the sleeve of her coat. "A warning."
"Yeah, well, they could've just sent a postcard."
Despite everything, she snorted.
Evan slid down the wall to sit on the wet pavement, exhaustion crashing over him. He felt old. Not seventeen—seventy.
Maya joined him, pulling her knees to her chest.
"We need to be smarter," she said. "They're not going to stop. Not now."
Evan stared up at the thin slice of night sky visible between the leaning buildings. Somewhere out there, people were warm, safe, untouched by the rot.
He wondered what that felt like.
"Then we hit that warehouse," he said. "Tomorrow."
Maya didn't argue. She just nodded, eyes hard.
Tomorrow, they would find the briefcase.
Or die trying.
---
Far above them, in a high-rise bathed in sterile white light, a different kind of meeting was taking place.
A man in an immaculately tailored suit—all sharp lines and cold precision—stood before a floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the city like a disappointed god. His face was handsome in a cruel way, with silver-streaked hair and eyes like winter storms.
Behind him, a woman sat at a sleek glass table, tapping long crimson nails against a tablet screen.
"We have a problem," she said.
The man's jaw tightened. "Fix it."
"It's not that simple. The Cross boy has the envelope."
Silence fell. Heavy. Charged.
The man turned slowly, his expression unreadable.
"Then make it simple," he said.
The woman smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile.
"Consider it done."
Outside, Veriton City shuddered under another wave of mist, swallowing the streets whole.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
And Evan Cross's war was only just beginning.