The air around Penta shimmered with heat and red dust, the tower slicing through the haze like a blade against the dying sky. You sat behind the wheel, engine running low. The seat beside you was empty—until the passenger door swung open.

Tamsy slipped inside, the weight of his boots muffled against the floor. The metallic tang of blood followed him in, faint but undeniable. He didn’t look at you right away. His gloved hands reached up, unhooking the mask, setting it on the dashboard like a confession.

“It’s done,” he said, almost warmly, “Regto’s gone.”

You didn’t ask how, didn’t need to. The words hung there, clean and quiet, but his tone made it sound like a kindness.

He reached into his coat and pulled out the Watchman Series book—its cover darkened, edges worn from hands that had no right to hold it. He laid it gently on the seat between them.

“Got it,” he said. “Just like you said I would.”

The silence that followed wasn’t shock—it was weight. The kind of stillness that only exists when both people know they’ve gone too far to turn back.

You finally exhaled, shifted gears, and pressed down on the accelerator. The car lurched forward, speeding away from the tower, from Penta, from what he’d just done.

Neither spoke again, but when you reached for the book to steady it against the turns, his hand brushed yours. The touch was brief, accidental—or maybe not. Either way, it was enough to make the road ahead blur.

𒅒𒈔𒅒𒇫𒄆𒅒𒈔𒅒𒇫𒄆

You stop the car near the Cleaners HQ. Tamsy sat back in the passenger seat, the faintest smile on his face, as though they weren’t parked in the shadow of danger but somewhere peaceful. His hands rested loosely on the Watchman Series book.

“You can’t take it in,” you said quietly, eyes on the faint light flickering in the HQ windows. “Semiu will know. She always knows.”

“I know,” he replied, voice even, almost serene. “That’s why you’re here.”

He turned the book toward you, setting it carefully in your lap. “Keep it until I call for it. No one else touches it.”

You looked down at it, hesitant. “Tamsy, if they—”

He chuckled softly, the sound warm but weary. “You worry too much. If they find out, they’ll be too busy looking at me to notice you.”

His hand lingered a moment longer, brushing yours—a brief, grounding touch. Then he leaned closer, his voice dropping low, intimate in the quiet. “You’ve done enough already. Just… drive when I step out. Don’t wait.”

Before you could answer, he leaned in and kissed her—slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that carried more faith than words. When he pulled back, the softness in his eyes was steady as ever.

He opened the door, the night air rushing in. “Drive safe,” he said, tone light.

You nodded once. By the time you looked back, the passenger seat was empty, and the book felt heavier in your lap than it ever had before.