Kieran had always known how to disappear.
He moved through the city like a ghost that had learned to breathe—never rushing, never hesitating, slipping between shadows with the confidence of someone who had already mapped every exit before stepping inside. The rain helped. It always did. Rain blurred faces, erased footprints, washed blood from streets and memories alike.
By the time the mansion alarms finished screaming themselves hoarse, Kieran was already gone.
He shed identities the way others shed coats.
A black sedan abandoned beneath an overpass. A burner phone snapped in half and tossed into the river. A jacket exchanged for another in a crowded underground station. By dawn, he was no longer the man who had walked out of Matthew's house with a smile and a threat lingering on his lips.
By dawn, he was free.
And furious.
The safehouse smelled like dust, old concrete, and burned paper.
