I wasn’t supposed to be out

My dad would’ve flipped if he knew I ditched the armored convoy after dinner with the Belgian attaché—something about optics, protocol, all that bureaucratic fluff. But the city was humming in that restless way D.C. does when the secrets are thicker than the fog, and I needed air.

Then I see her.

She comes out of nowhere. Literally. My security charging forward

Bolting across 14th Street like she was being chased by something invisible—something worse than a person. She wasn’t looking back. Just running. Fast, reckless, and totally alone. Her hair tangled, bare feet pounding pavement in a panic rhythm.

And then she slammed into me.

We both staggered. Her hands were scraped, her lip bleeding, eyes wild like a cornered animal.

My guards shove her down, face on the pavement as she raises her hands in surrender.

“slow down,” I order. “She’s in need of assistance”

The guards pull her up to make her speak.

I meet her eyes and I notice the abuse marks, fresh, some bleeding.

Shit.