The night air outside the substation was colder, heavy with the damp metallic tang of rain on steel. James didn't release my arm until we were halfway down the block, his grip loosening only when we reached the shadow of a recessed doorway.
"Stay here," he said.
I stepped back against the wall, the brick cold through my coat, and watched him scan the street like he could read its secrets in the way the traffic lights blinked. His hand lingered at my elbow when he turned back, steadying me as if I might bolt.
The car rolled up without headlights, dark paint swallowing the weak glow from the streetlamps. James opened the back door and gestured me in.
Once inside, the smell of leather and faint gun oil closed in. He slid in beside me, not across from me, his shoulder brushing mine as the car pulled away.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, but his eyes were already moving over me, not waiting for the answer. His hand caught mine, turning my wrist palm-up.
"I'm fine," I said, but he didn't let go. His thumb pressed against my pulse, slow and deliberate, like he was counting it.
The city lights streaked across his face in sharp fragments, making it impossible to read him completely. "You don't go anywhere alone for the next two days," he said. "Not for air, not for water, not for anything."
"That's not really practical," I said.
He didn't smile. "It's not supposed to be."
The driver took a turn too fast, throwing me lightly against him. James didn't move away. His hand slid to my knee, holding me steady as if that were the only reason. But he didn't remove it right away.
The stairwell tightened halfway down, the walls pressing in as if the building wanted to hold us there. James slowed, not from caution, but from that deliberate patience he wore when the wrong move could turn a bad night worse.
Below, the hum of a generator bled through the concrete, steady and low. A faint light spilled from the bottom landing, hazed by the dust that hung in the air.
James stopped just before the last step, his hand braced against the rail, head tilted. I knew better than to speak.
Voices drifted up, muffled but carrying the cadence of men who thought they owned the room. No laughter. No raised tempers. Just an even exchange, negotiation or warning, I couldn't tell which.
James glanced back at me, eyes cutting through the dim. He tapped two fingers against his thigh, a silent command to stay close.
We stepped down together, our footfalls lost under the generator's low growl. The landing gave way to a wide service hall, all bare concrete and steel doors. The voices came from the far end, behind one half-open door where a strip of light ran across the floor like a blade.
James kept to the wall, his shadow stretching ahead of him. At the doorway, he didn't enter. He leaned just enough to see, his posture unreadable. Then he shifted aside so I could catch a sliver of the view.
Inside, two men sat opposite each other at a narrow table. Between them lay a single envelope, its corner weighed down by a brass lighter. One man's back was to us, broad-shouldered, coat still damp from outside. The other faced the door, thin, sharp-boned, his eyes already on James.
He smiled, slow, like he'd been expecting us.
"Right on time," he said.
James stepped into the doorway, his voice flat. "I wasn't invited."
"You didn't need to be," the man replied, nudging the envelope toward the center. "You came for her. She came for the truth. We both know you can't give her all of it."
The light in the room was too warm for the chill that settled in my chest. James didn't look at me, but his jaw tightened just enough for me to feel it like a hand at my back.
"What's in the envelope?" James asked.
The man's smile widened. "The part you've been keeping from her."
The words slid through the space between us like a blade, and though I wanted to look at James, I didn't.
He didn't move. "You're wasting your breath."
The man's fingers tapped once on the envelope, the sound sharp against the table. "Maybe. Or maybe she's already wondering what you've decided she shouldn't know."
James stepped farther into the room, the narrow space closing in around him. "You don't get to decide what she hears."
"I'm not deciding anything," the man said. "I'm just delivering what someone else paid for me to pass along. Whether she opens it..." his gaze shifted to me, almost lazy, "...that's her choice."
The brass lighter caught the light when he pushed the envelope forward. It stopped just at the edge of the table, close enough that all I had to do was step in and take it.
James didn't look at me, but his hand rose slightly, palm out, not an order, but close enough.
My pulse climbed anyway. "Why me?" I asked.
The man's eyes didn't leave mine. "Because you'll believe it if you read it. And you won't if you hear it from him."
For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the generator and the faint rasp of the man's fingers sliding back to rest on the lighter.
James' voice cut the air, calm but edged. "You've said enough."
The man smiled again, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That's the problem with you, James. You always think you can hold back the tide."
James reached across the table, his hand closing over the envelope. Not tearing it, not opening it, just holding it like it was already his.
"We're done here," he said.
The man let him take it, leaning back in his chair like that had been the goal all along.
As James turned, I caught the faintest movement in the man's other hand, slipping something small and black into his pocket. He saw me see it, and his smile sharpened.
James' voice came low and certain without turning back. "If you follow us, you won't leave the street."
The man didn't answer, but the way his smile lingered told me the warning had only bought us time.
James didn't slow until we were halfway back up the stairwell, the envelope gripped in his hand like it might detonate if he loosened his hold. His breathing was steady, but the silence between each step carried the weight of something unspoken.
At the landing, he stopped and glanced down the hall we'd just left. The doorway below was still open a crack, warm light spilling out into the grey. No footsteps followed, but James kept his body angled so I was between him and the wall, shielded without making it obvious.
"Don't ask about it here," he said quietly.
I kept my voice low. "You think he's listening?"
"I know he is."
The last few steps felt longer than they should have. When we reached the street, the air hit colder, sharper, like the city wanted to make sure I was awake for whatever came next. James steered me toward the waiting car without a word.
Once inside, he slid the envelope into the inner pocket of his coat, his hand lingering there as if he expected it to try and climb out on its own. The driver didn't start moving until James gave a short nod.
I couldn't stop watching that pocket. "What's in it?"
His gaze stayed on the passing streetlights outside. "Something that doesn't leave my hands."
"That's not an answer."
"No," he said, finally looking at me, "it's a boundary."
The weight of it settled between us, thicker than the quiet hum of the tires on the street. He didn't let go of my eyes until the car slowed at a turn, his hand coming to rest briefly on my knee, steadying or warning, I couldn't tell.
The city outside had emptied, shop fronts dark and rain-streaked, alleys yawning black between them. James tapped the glass once, and the driver pulled to the curb beside an unmarked steel door.
"Inside," James said.
The door opened into a narrow corridor lined with low lights that hummed faintly overhead. Every sound seemed louder here, the scrape of my shoes, the soft click of the door locking behind us. James walked ahead, the faint smell of rain still clinging to him, until we reached a small room with no windows and a single table in the center.
He set the envelope down.
And for the first time all night, he didn't immediately touch it again.
James stood over the table, his hands braced on either side of the envelope. The low hum of the lights seemed louder in the enclosed space, every flicker of sound magnified against the bare walls. I could see the tension in his shoulders, not the kind born from fear, but from calculation.
"You're not opening it?" I asked.
His eyes didn't leave the envelope. "Not until I know who else touched it."
"You think it's rigged?"
James straightened, the corner of his mouth pulling slightly, more dismissal than reassurance. "I think everything has strings."
He slid the envelope toward himself, but didn't break the seal. Instead, he pulled a small black device from his coat, setting it on the table. It gave a faint, slow pulse of light.
"Checking for a tracker," he explained, without looking up.
I watched the light change, quickening, until it blinked steady red. James' jaw tightened. "Figures."
He pocketed the device, then turned to me. "We'll move it before we read it. If they're watching, we don't give them the satisfaction of knowing where."
My throat was tight, but I nodded. Whatever was inside, it mattered enough to make him change his pace. And James didn't change his pace for much.
The air in the small room felt denser now, like the walls had leaned in while James worked. He slipped the envelope into an inner compartment of his coat, a place I suspected even I wouldn't be able to find without him letting me. When he looked at me again, his expression was quieter than his voice.
"We're leaving," he said.
The corridor outside was narrow enough that his arm brushed mine with every step. The hum of the overhead lights faded the farther we went, replaced by the steady beat of rain beginning again somewhere beyond the door.
At the street, James scanned both ends before we stepped out. The car was gone.
A shadow moved across the nearest alley mouth, vanishing before I could focus on it. James didn't break stride, but his hand pressed briefly to the small of my back, steering me toward the opposite direction.
"Not a word," he murmured.
We cut through two side streets, the wet pavement catching every reflection, streetlamps, neon signs, the red blink of a distant crosswalk, until we reached another waiting vehicle. This one wasn't sleek or polished. Just a plain sedan that could disappear into traffic without anyone remembering the license.
Inside, James gave the driver a short route, spoken too low for me to catch entirely, and settled back, still holding the envelope's weight in his coat.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Somewhere it can't follow us," he said, eyes fixed on the passing blur of the city.
The ride was silent, but not empty. James' presence filled every inch between us, his attention fixed outward while mine kept drifting to the shape of the envelope beneath his coat. The city outside blurred past, a wet smear of light and shadow, until the streets narrowed and the traffic fell away.
The car stopped at an unmarked curb. James didn't move immediately, just studied the darkened building ahead as if weighing the air around it. When he finally opened the door, rain slid off the edge of the roof in a steady curtain.
"Inside," he said again, and this time his voice left no room for anything but obedience.
The building's interior was stripped of warmth, bare walls, a single chair in the center, a closed door on the far side. James crossed to it, checked the frame with a quick sweep of his fingers, and then stepped back to me.
"We'll keep it here for now," he said, meaning the envelope. "It's one more step between them and us."
I didn't ask who they were. In this world, names only made targets easier to find.
As the door clicked shut behind us, I realized the envelope hadn't been the only thing followed tonight. And whatever tail had kept pace, it wasn't done with us yet.