Chapter 2
( Be safe)
The kitchen smelled like caramelized onions and something spicy—Zara was in her element. Wearing an oversized hoodie that reached mid-thigh and socks that had tiny cartoon knives on them, she danced barefoot to a playlist only she could hear. The wooden spoon in her hand doubled as a mic as she sang off-key, the pot bubbling happily behind her.
Outside, the sky was stubbornly bright—the kind of blazing afternoon that made secrets sweat.
The front door creaked open. Zara didn't turn.
But she did hear the familiar sound of boots dragging against the hardwood, the metallic jingle of chains on jeans, and—there it was—the sharp click of a lighter.
"If you drip ash in my sauce, I'm gonna beat your emo ass," she said, still stirring.
Silas Moreau strolled in like he paid rent with attitude. Torn black shirt barely clinging to his frame, broad chest on full display like he was auditioning for a perfume ad called Regret. His black jeans hung low, one silver chain looped around his beltline. Cigarette between his lips, and that ever-present smell: leather, gunpowder, and something faintly woodsy.
He leaned against the fridge without a word and flicked the remote. The news report died instantly.
Zara froze.
"Did you just turn off the—"
"too loud. Gave me a headache," Silas muttered, exhaling a cloud of smoke upward like he was in a noir film.
Zara turned, slowly. Spoon still in hand. "You never turn off the news. That's your Netflix."
Silas shrugged, suddenly very interested in the pattern on the countertop.
"You were watching the Rage Durov massacre report, weren't you?"
Silas blinked, slow. "Nah."
Zara squinted. "You're a bad liar. You know that, right?"
"I'm not lying. I'm curating my peace."
She raised the spoon threateningly. "Curate your peace with headphones, murderer."
Silas let out a short laugh. "Whoa, relax. Did you just call me a murderer? Harsh."
"I hope it's harsh. You didn't do it, right? Please tell me you didn't pull a Scarface yesterday afternoon."
He rolled his eyes and walked over to the kitchen table, dropping into a chair. "Why do you think everything's my fault?"
"Because everything usually is."
"I was at the gym."
"Gym? What gym? You do, like, three pull-ups at home and call it arm day."
"Excuse you. I have a routine."
"Yeah, murder-cardio-lunges?"
He laughed again—one of those rare, full-bodied laughs that made her smirk despite herself.
Zara pointed the spoon at him. "Listen. I'm not dumb. I know you do... shady stuff. I've seen the bags of cash. The weapons. That weird dude who wears suits and never blinks."
"Jean-Luc has a medical condition."
"Jean-Luc has serial killer vibes. Like, he walks into a room and the temperature drops."
Silas rubbed the back of his neck, the smile fading ever so slightly. "I don't do anything that puts you in danger. You know that, right?"
Zara studied him for a moment. "But are you in danger?"
Silas didn't answer. Just looked at her with that half-lidded stare like he was calculating which parts of the truth she could survive.
Then, casually, he changed the subject. "So... when's college starting back?"
"Monday."
"Cool. You, uh... you got any plans for the weekend?"
Zara narrowed her eyes. "Don't change the subject. Why?"
"I'm throwing a party Saturday."
She scoffed. "Absolutely not."
"Just a small thing."
"The last 'small thing' ended with someone breakdancing on the coffee table and puking into my tote bag."
"That was iconic."
"That was trauma."
Silas gave her his most charming grin. "Come on. Just for one night. Crash at Amira's. Or Jenny's."
"I don't trust your guests. One of them tried to sell me Bitcoin advice last time."
"Financial literacy is sexy."
She threw a dish towel at him. He caught it effortlessly, grinning. "I'll clean. I'll even replace your sage candle thing."
"That wasn't sage. That was eucalyptus and tea tree.
"Same difference."
"No, it's not! You can't just—ugh, fine. One night. If I come back and find even one red cup under my bed, I'm lighting your boots on fire."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
They stood in silence for a moment, the easy kind. Familiar.
Then Zara said, softly, "I mean it, though. You're all I've got. Don't get caught up in something you can't crawl out of."
Silas took a drag from his cigarette, exhaled slowly, and nodded.
"I know."
"Good."
"Now stir your food before you burn it, Chef Gordon Passive-Aggressive."
Zara rolled her eyes and turned back to the stove, but a faint smile tugged at her lips.
Behind her, Silas tapped ash into a tray and looked toward the window. The sun was still high, but the shadows were already starting to stretch.
Sage sat slouched in the farthest corner of the hidden lab, one leg crossed over the other, eyes fixed on Quinn like he was watching an intense art performance. The lab always smelled like a mix of rubbing alcohol and old books — sterile yet somehow familiar. It buzzed quietly, filled with Quinn's tools: fume hoods, centrifuges, scattered notes in her aggressively neat handwriting, and shelves lined with beakers that looked like they were stolen straight from a high-budget sci-fi show.
Quinn stood beneath the flickering overhead light, latex gloves snapped tight around her wrists, precision etched into every movement. She was extracting residue from a charred business card found beneath one of the corpses. Her brows were slightly furrowed, but her face stayed cool, sharp, unreadable — like she was born in a lab instead of a hospital.
Sage sipped from a cold can of cola, the tab clicking shut again. "You good? You look like you're about to solve global warming with that pipette."
Quinn didn't respond.
He raised an eyebrow. "Cool. I'll just keep talking to myself, then."
Without even turning to face him, Quinn's voice cut through the air like dry ice:
"I need raw methylene."
Sage blinked slowly, then tilted his head. "Bitch—the way you talk to me? Girl, hol' up. I ain't your intern."
Quinn let out the faintest smirk — blink and you'd miss it. Her silence afterward said everything: Then why are you already halfway to the door?
Sage stood, brushing invisible lint off his jeans. "Methylene. Got it. Anything else, mad scientist? Maybe a unicorn horn or two?"
She didn't respond. Just kept working.
Devon, curled on one of the nearby leather couches with his feet kicked up and a comic book over his face, peeked out. "I'll come with. Been cooped up all day with her playing Dexter."
Sage slid a couple of bills from his wallet and tossed them at Devon, who caught them midair. "That's for snacks. Keep your hands off my gummy bears this time."
They headed toward the bookshelf.
As Sage pulled two familiar titles — "Chemical Histories" and "Silent Killers" — the sliding door mechanism clicked open like magic, revealing the narrow tunnel that led out to the alley behind Brooks Library.
The world outside greeted them with the city's low buzz — horns honking, someone arguing over phone on the sidewalk, and that soft golden hue of late afternoon bleeding into evening.
Neither of them said it aloud, but they both felt it: something was shifting. A vibe. A trail. A puzzle piece was about to click into place.
And Sage? He was already two steps ahead.
*******
Dusane Central Mall was the kind of architectural masterpiece that could make a billionaire feel insecure. All glass panels and sharp steel curves, sleek escalators that glided like air, and fountains that seemed too expensive to exist in a world with taxes. It was giving Hadid. No corners, just elegance and ego.
Outside, the parking lot gleamed under the sun like a showroom. And then it happened — a car that didn't just pull in, it announced itself. A jet-black ride so painfully luxurious, it made every other car in the lot look like background noise. It hissed to a stop in the VIP slot, its doors opening like it was opening a portal to another tax bracket.
Zara stepped out first, crop top hugging her frame with confidence, her locs piled into a perfect bun. She adjusted her tinted glasses and struck a pose that said: "Yes, I'm young. Yes, I'm spoiled. No, I don't care."
Behind her, Silas Moreau emerged slowly, like the sun had personally offended him. Ripped black shirt, black jeans, black shades — the man was allergic to color and smiling in public. He looked like sex, money, and problems.
"I cannot believe you dragged me here," Silas muttered, locking the car with a sigh that came from deep within his scarred soul.
Zara rolled her eyes. "You want your little house party, right? Then you better run me some Gucci, Prada, maybe a lil' Fenty if I'm feeling generous. You want me out the house, you pay the fee."
He rubbed his jaw, exasperated. "You hold me emotionally hostage."
"Damn right I do. Now walk, old man."
They strolled toward the entrance — Zara with a light bounce in her step, Silas looking like he was trying not to set the entire mall on fire with his aura. They passed beneath the chrome arches of the main entrance, the scent of luxury perfume and polished marble thick in the air.
At the far end of the parking lot, a much less dramatic car pulled in.
Sage stepped out of the passenger side, slamming the door with that signature fed-up energy. Hoodie half-zipped, lips tight.
"If we don't find this damn methylene here," he muttered, "I'm gonna tear Quinn apart. I'll rip her ponytail off and use it as a broom."
Devon exited the driver's side, not even pretending to care.
"Bro. Chill. I'm only here for moose cake. That one bakery on the third floor? That's the real mission. You do your crime show stuff, I'm getting fat in peace."
Sage rolled his eyes and smacked Devon's stomach.
"You're already built like dessert."
Devon grinned, pretending to cry. "That's the sweetest insult anyone's ever given me."
They both laughed, walking side by side through the sliding doors.
Unaware. Unbothered. Unknowing that a certain someone — six feet of rage in human form — was already inside.
But the universe? She was brewing. Stirring the pot.
And this mall? Just became the board.
Game on.