Page 4 of Veil of Smoke

Still, I meet his eyes. “I walk where I want.”

He laughs. Not loudly. It was a small, surprised sound, more amusement than threat.

“You’re not Caldera,” he says, almost admiring. “But you’re not stupid either. So, which are you—lost or armed?”

My lips tug into a line. I move closer, just enough to hold ground. “You’re stalling.”

“No.” His head tilts slightly. “I’m checking.”

The mist thickens between us. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift.

Then his tone shifts, cooler. “What’s the name?”

My throat tightens, but I don’t hesitate. I reach into my pocket and hold up the slip.

“Red Thorn.”

Everything stills. The weather, the street, him.

His eyes fix on the paper. Then on me.

“Where did you get that?” His voice is flat now. All charm gone.

“It was delivered.” I keep my hand steady. “To my shop.”

He takes two steps closer. I don’t move.

“Do you know what that means?” he asks.

“No.”

Another beat. His fingers brush the slip, then stop short.

“I didn't think you did.”

“Then explain it.”

He doesn’t answer.

From the haze behind us, a crash breaks the air—wood splitting, metal slamming. I whip around.

Footsteps hammer the ground. A man lunges out of the dark, gun drawn, yelling a word I don’t catch.

The stranger moves fast—grabbing my arm, yanking me against a shipping crate. I hit it hard. His body covers mine a second later.

Gunfire cracks. Once. Twice.

Then silence.

“You brought a tail, Dario!” His shout slashes through the night. “She’s not Caldera!”

Dario shoves me behind the crate and steps into the open, hands bare. There’s no pause, no parley. The man lunges, swinging hard.

Dario sidesteps, fast and focused. His hand flashes. A blade. It wasn’t there a moment ago.

The first hit lands with a crack—elbow to throat. The attacker stumbles. Dario doesn’t wait. He moves in, drives the knife beneath the ribs, then up.

The man lets out a sharp, wet grunt.

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