Dawn bled through the city in shades of gray. The storm had cleared, leaving the skyline washed clean, though the streets still shimmered with water and regret. Inside the loft, silence reigned. Not the heavy silence of awkwardness, but the fragile kind that follows something irreversible.
Cécile lay awake, her body still humming with memory. Every movement felt different now — sharper, more aware. The air between her and John carried a pulse that hadn't existed before, a silent acknowledgment of what they had shared and what it meant.
He was at the window again, shirtless, hair damp, eyes fixed on the skyline. The faint light traced the scars across his back — reminders of a life lived too close to violence. Cécile's gaze lingered, drawn by something more than curiosity.
"You're watching me," he said without turning.
She smiled faintly. "You make it hard not to."
He exhaled, his voice rough. "Last night shouldn't have happened."
"Then why doesn't it feel like a mistake?"
He turned at that, eyes dark with conflict. "Because it wasn't. And that's exactly the problem."
For a moment, neither spoke. The air was thick with things unspoken — fear, want, and the awareness that desire wasn't their only bond. There was something deeper beneath it all, something neither of them could explain.
John's phone buzzed on the table. He ignored it once. Twice. The third time, he snatched it up and answered.
"Draven." His tone shifted, all business. "What do you mean they're tracking signatures again? … No, she's not a liability. Not yet. I'll handle it."
He hung up, jaw tight.
"They're looking for me again," she said quietly.
"They never stopped," he replied. "You just became harder to find. Until last night."
Cécile sat up, pulling the sheet around her. "You think I—"
"No," he interrupted, crossing the room. "But your energy spiked. They'll detect it. When two connected frequencies sync like that, it leaves a trace."
"So we caused this."
He hesitated. "We amplified it."
Her pulse quickened. "Then we're exposed."
"Not yet," he said. "But soon."
She stood, crossing the room toward him. The nearness was electric again — not purely physical, but alive with something that neither of them controlled. Her fingers brushed his wrist. "Then teach me to hide it."
He studied her, as if deciding whether she was ready for the truth. "You can't hide what you don't understand."
"Then help me understand."
The room shifted — tension, awareness, the faint echo of the night before. His hand rose, brushing a strand of hair from her face, but this time his touch wasn't for comfort. It was focus, control.
"When you feel it," he said softly, "don't fight it. Channel it. Let it pass through you. The more you resist, the louder it gets."
"And if I lose control?"
He smiled faintly. "Then I'll be there to catch you. Again."
Before she could answer, the lights flickered. A low hum filled the loft, unnatural and cold. John moved instantly, scanning the window. Outside, a black vehicle slowed at the corner.
"They found us," he muttered. "Get dressed. We move now."
Cécile obeyed, pulling on her clothes with trembling hands. The fragile intimacy of dawn vanished, replaced by the sharp rhythm of survival. John grabbed a duffel bag from under the table and tossed it over his shoulder.
"How long do we have?" she asked.
"Minutes. Maybe less."
The sound came then — a distant metallic whine that built into a vibration she felt in her chest. It wasn't mechanical. It was psychic, a resonance wave tuned to people like them.
Cécile flinched. "I can feel it."
John's voice cut through the noise. "Stay close to me. Match your breathing to mine. Don't think, just listen."
She did. Inhale. Exhale. The hum grew louder, pressing against her mind, until she thought her skull might split. But then — something shifted. The rhythm of their breathing aligned, and for a brief, impossible moment, the frequency passed through her harmlessly.
John's hand tightened around hers. "Good. You're learning."
They slipped down the stairwell, shadows flickering in the emergency light. Somewhere above, boots hit the roof, the sound of metal and intent. Division agents.
"Why me?" she whispered.
"Because you're stronger than you realize," he said. "And because you're not supposed to exist."
They reached the alley. The morning air was cold and smelled of wet asphalt. A black drone hovered above the intersection, scanning. John pulled her behind a truck, whispering something she didn't quite catch — a pattern, a tone — and the drone drifted away, confused.
"What was that?" she asked, breathless.
"Disruption code. You'll learn it."
They began to move again, weaving through narrow streets until the city swallowed them. The tension didn't fade — it merely changed shape. Beneath the fear, beneath the pulse of adrenaline, something else was growing. Trust. And something dangerously close to love.
When they finally stopped under an overpass, the silence returned. Cécile leaned against the wall, heart still racing. "So this is what my life is now."
He looked at her, expression unreadable. "Only if you stay with me."
"And if I don't?"
"Then they'll find you. And they won't be gentle."
Her laughter was soft, bitter. "That's not much of a choice."
"No," he said. "But it's the truth."
For a long moment, they simply stood there, the city rumbling above them, hearts beating in a rhythm that felt both dangerous and inevitable. Cécile stepped closer until there was barely any distance between them.
"Then I stay," she said.
John's jaw tightened, but there was something almost like relief in his eyes. "Then we move together. Always."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was charged — with fear, with promise, with the memory of everything that had already changed between them.
And somewhere in the city, unseen and listening, the Division recalibrated its hunt.
The game had begun again.