Page 106 of Hide From Me

Jon doesn’t reply. He simply raises his hand, the subtle flick of his fingers barely noticeable as a signal.

We descend the stairwell in tight formation, the clunk of boots softened by discipline but still echoing like a countdown. Each creak of the old metal railing vibrates up my spine. Jon scans the corners, his hand resting on the grip of his weapon like it belongs there more than a limb. It makes me wonder if I’ll ever reach a stage where I’m not chaos but calm.

The dude's a goddamn superhero at this point, and I wish I could have some of whatever genes make him up in my own. But of course, I have a stupid brooding giant breathing down my neck, nudging the butt of his gun between my shoulder blades and straightening my stance each time I slip out of position reminding me I’m nothing more than walking destruction. A villain playing a hero.

“So… have you told her yet?”

The question comes out of nowhere, blindsiding me harder than the faint whine of radio static crackling in my comms. I glance at him, wondering if this is his version of small talk to cut the tension, or if he’s trying to read me the way he reads a room—efficient, precise, invasive.

“Well, uh...” I clear my throat, adjusting my grip on my rifle out of reflex. The metal feels cold through my gloves, grounding me. “I’m sure you know how it goes—young and in love, full of bad timing and worse choices.”

The words taste bitter as I say them, like I’m trying to laugh off something that’s not remotely funny.

Jon snorts, low and dismissive. “I wouldn’t say young and in love, but I know what it’s like tofeellike you love someone.”

That pulls my gaze to him, just a flicker. His posture remains the same, and his movements are steady as we descend the narrow stairwell—one slow, deliberate step at a time—but his voice carries an undercurrent. The one that suggests he’s remembering more than he’s letting on.

“Come on, spill it.” The corner of my mouth twitches as I nudge him with my elbow. “You’ve got that look.”

Jon sighs through his nose, eyes flicking down the stairwell, then back up to check the angles before he talks. “Before I took over Greenport, I trained with a faction back in America. Bay.”

“No way?” I laugh. Nobody speaks openly about Bay since we merged into Seaborn, partly because of the complicated history that comes with it. Conversations often drop to a whisper, and people glance over their shoulders as if the boogeyman might be listening. I can’t even get Cordelia to discuss it, and she was originally part of that faction. It makes me wonder if he knew the old her—the version of her before she joined us. It also makes me question if he knew my mother. I flex my hands around the rifle.

“I remember those days,” King grumbles from behind me. Great, not him too. It only adds to my suspicions. I clear my throat, hoping my thoughts will clear with it.

Jon chuckles, but his laugh is dry—almost hollow. “Yeah. It was nice in the beginning: a clean faction, good morals, and pretty women.”

I can almost hear the grin in Jon's voice, tempting me to smile with him.

“There was only one that stood out to me, though. And by God, did she live up to her name—I just didn’t know it at the time.”

We move together down the steps, each footfall echoing softly in the dark. The air here smells like rust and wet stone, reminiscent of an old crypt.

“It started simple—flirting in the mess hall, sparring that got a bit too intimate, and late-night firing range sessions that evolved into something more.”

There’s a weight to his voice now, not from regret but from the burden of memories that become rotten if left too long.

He pauses at a landing, nodding for me to check the door on the right while he angles left.

“I started sleeping in her quarters,” he says more quietly. “We had real dates: candlelight dinners made with MRE heaters and pilfered whiskey. For a while,it felt like we were civilians, as if we weren’t ghosts waiting to disappear with a classified mission.”

“Got eyes on you, again.” Delilah interrupts, so I look up through the gaping hole. It's as if a hundred-ton weight fell through the ceiling, creating a perfect line through the building.

“What happened?” I ask, my voice low. The way he speaks is reminiscent of a bedtime story, where you wonder if the dragon burns the prince or if the princess is saved from the tower.

“Her father hated it. He hated me. He thought I’d ruin her focus and claimed I’d be her downfall. So he started pushing her hard, extreme training, off-the-books stuff that would’ve gotten him stripped of rank if the higher-ups had found out.”

His voice goes even again as if he's reciting a script, but the way his jaw tightens and the vein in his neck pulses says otherwise.

“She changed overnight. One minute we were planning a weekend off-grid, and the next she was begging me to run. She said she’d leave everything if I’d just go with her.”

The words echo down the stairwell, heavy enough to drown out even the static in my comms.

“But I couldn’t. This job… this life… It’s in my blood. I couldn’t leave, even for her.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to burn out the memory with his breath.

“She baited me. Told me to meet her in her room and said she understood, that she’d take what I could give.” His laugh is bitter and sharp. “I showed up, and her father was there. He stripped me of my rank and blacklisted me from Bay. And she just stood there, watched it happen, and smiled like she’d been waiting for that ending all along.”

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