Chapter 38 The Claim

• Ellerei slips three blocks from the safehouse before her breath settles enough to taste. The night’s sharp, cold enough to bite her cheeks where the wind clips the edge of her hoodie. She keeps her hands jammed deep in her pockets, thumb tapping that old beat on her thigh — Ten. Nine. Eight.
• Knox’s name still hums in her ribs — but softer now, muffled under the static of Don’t be stupid. He’ll never be yours.
• She drifts through the same alley they use to drop stolen IDs, back door to a bodega Bishop pays too much to stay blind. Her boots scuff glass when she kicks a stray bottle into the gutter.