Sammy — 3:19 a.m., East River Warehouse District
The first sign was the text:
Move. Now. Black hoodie, alley behind Arôme. 3:00 sharp. No fuckups. —R
No name. Just the dice emoji. Cold, sharp punctuation at the end of every command from R, his handler.
Sammy didn't question it. He'd been in this game too long.
By 2:58 a.m., he was already at the rear door of the café, apron ditched in the trash, hoodie zipped, bag packed. No time to think, just muscle memory and shadows. New York always felt a little more honest in the hours no one was supposed to see.
A black car idled in the alley. No plates. No music. Just one headlight out like it had been punched in the face.
Sammy slipped in. R didn't look at him. Didn't speak. She just floored it.
The city blurred by as they wound down to the silent streets, flickering sodium lights, rows of shuttered storefronts. Sammy leaned his head against the window. His mouth still tasted like burnt coffee and panic. But under that?
Jake. Jake's mouth. Jake's scent. Jake's hand cradling the back of his head like something worth keeping. He blinked hard. Focused on the passing dark.
"You compromised," R said at last, voice flat as ice on concrete.
Sammy didn't answer. She glanced at him. A slash of eyeliner. A silver earring. Hair shaved close on one side. No warmth in her face.
"Did you sleep with him?"
The question wasn't a question. It was confirmation wrapped in contempt.
He stared straight ahead. "That wasn't part of the plan."
"No," she said, swerving onto a ramp. It wasn't. And yet, here we are."
They rode in silence for another stretch. Over the Antwine Bridge, off the grid. The warehouse rose like a carcass of old industry-rusting metal ribs, windows shot out, graffiti like scars. She parked behind it, lights off.
"You're being relocated."
Sammy's stomach dropped. "Where?"
"New ID. New cover. You'll be out by dawn."
"Just like that?"
She killed the engine. Turned to face him fully for the first time.
"You're lucky I didn't leave you for Jake to find. You broke protocol. You stayed too long. You let him touch you."
"He didn't find anything," Sammy snapped. "I didn't give him anything."
"But he saw you," she hissed, eyes narrowing. "The real you. And we shouldn't let that happen."
He hated how much that hurt.The real him. The boy underwent all the performances. The version no one got close to. But Jake had seen it. In a single night, he'd made Sammy feel seen. And now it was being erased like a mistake.
"You're going to disappear," R said, stepping out of the car. "Come on." He followed her into the warehouse.
Inside, it smelled like dust and old cigarettes. A folding table stood under a bare bulb. On it: a phone, a black backpack, a fake passport, a burner wallet. A MetroCard. A small pill bottle, unmarked.
She gestured at the backpack. "Go. Now."
He reached for it.
"Not yet," she said. "First…"
She pulled something from her coat.A needle.
His throat tightened. "No. I don't need the wipe."
"It's partial. Short-term suppression only. Covers the past 48 hours. Details blur. Face recognition fuzzes. Emotions dull. You keep your cover. But you lose him."
Sammy stepped back. "I said no."
R advanced, fast. "You're a liability. This isn't about your heart, it's about the op. "Do you want to live, or do you want him to find you and ask questions you can't answer?"
Her words hit like fists.He thought of Jake's eyes-storm-dark, steady. The way he'd said "I know. And you have me." And how he'd meant it.
"Just… let me remember it," Sammy said, his voice cracking.
She froze. It was rare to see hesitation in her.
"You want to remember something that wasn't real."
"It was real," he whispered. "It just wasn't supposed to be."
R studied him. Then, shockingly, she sighed. A small, private thing.
"Five minutes," she said. "Then I give you the shot. That's all you get."
She left him in the dark.He closed his eyes.
Let it in.Jake's hand on his jaw. Jake's whisper in his ear. That kiss-slow, searching, real. He'd gone in to steal something. And instead, he'd given himself away.
Now he was being scrubbed. Rewritten. He pressed a palm into his chest.
"Don't forget. " He repeated it in his head like a mantra. Like armor. " Don't forget."
Elsewhere: Jake — 4:12 a.m.
He stared at the frozen frame on his laptop. The security footage had given him one still a half-turned face, soft in the light, expression unreadable. No hits in the database. No matches on facial scan.
Ghost.But Jake didn't believe in ghosts. He believed in people. In heat. In memory. He tapped his cigarette into a glass ashtray, thoughts racing. He had tasted the truth. And no matter how long it took, he'd find that face again. Even if the world burned.
Back at the Warehouse — 4:13 a.m.
R returned, gloves back on. Syringe in hand.Sammy stood.
"I'm ready," he said. But when she came toward him, he reached out, not with force, not with resistance. Just… a hand on her wrist.
"Can you do something for me?" he asked quietly. She raised her brow.
"If I forget him," Sammy said, voice low, "can you remember for me? Just one thing."
R blinked. "What?"
Sammy offered her a photo. A quick print he'd taken on his café Polaroid weeks ago, before the gala. It was blurry. Not Jake. Just Sammy-smiling, unguarded. Human.
"Keep this," he said. Somewhere. So if I ask you one day, when this is all over… you can remind me that I was real. For one night."
R looked at the photo. Then, incredibly, she nodded. Slipped it into her coat. Sammy closed his eyes.The needle went in.Everything.More like fog swallowing heat.
The world tilted. His body went heavy.
And Jake?
Jake faded like smoke from a lit match.