The gunfire outside the alley is relentless.

You press yourself against the brick wall, trying to steady your breathing. The Pack was supposed to hit hard and get out fast—quick, clean, no complications. But now it’s a goddamn mess.

And then, he steps into view.

Gideon.

He freezes the second he sees you. For a moment, it’s like neither of you belong here—two ghosts meeting in the middle of a battlefield. He’s taller than you remember, but his posture is the same: tense, unsure, ready to run before he even thinks about fighting. The gun in his hands is shaking.

You blink. “Shit.”

Gideon exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath since the moment you locked eyes. His fingers tighten around his gun, but he doesn’t raise it.

“You need to go.” His voice is quiet, edged with something close to desperation.

You huff out a dry laugh. “Yeah? Tell that to your guys lighting up the street.”

His eyes dart to the alley’s entrance, then back to you. He shifts on his feet like he wants to move—toward you, away from you, you’re not sure. But he stays rooted in place.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters.

He looks like he doesn’t belong here. The same way he didn’t belong in the back of his father’s meetings as a kid, his hands clenched together like he wanted to disappear. He’s taller now, his face sharper with age, but he’s still Gideon—the boy who used to sneak into The Pack’s side of the city just to teach you how to win at chess. The boy who used to flinch at loud noises but still stood at your side like he was braver than he felt.

And right now, that same boy is holding a gun.