Page 113 of Without a Trace

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“It was.”

“She spit blood and kept fighting.”

“That part was hers.”

He ran a hand across his mouth, tension pulled tight through his shoulders.

Zeke joined us from behind. “She’ll need a second round tomorrow. With weapons.”

“She’ll show up,” I said. “She won’t just show up—she’ll win.”

None of us disagreed.

We passed the outer villa wall. Scarlett’s sat beyond it, curtain drawn, faint shadow shifting behind the glass.

I didn’t look up again.

Whatever we thought we were doing here—whatever control we thought we had—Scarlett had already rewritten them.

And she didn’t even know it.

Scarlett

The dream didn’t start gently.

It yanked me under.

No warning. No mercy.

I was barefoot on stone, cold slickness beneath my feet—wet from something I didn’t want to name. Moonlight spilled across a circular courtyard, white and sharp, like it was trying to cut through the dark. The air smelled of salt and smoke. My breath came in shallow pulls, but I wasn’t afraid.

Not yet.

There were voices. Not quite whispers. Not quite words.

Just… chanting.

Low and rhythmic, buried beneath the wind.

I turned. Slowly.

Figures stood at the edges of the stone—hooded, faceless, unmoving. A ring of silence around me. No one stepped forward. No one spoke. But I knew—knew—they were waiting for me to remember something.

I looked down.

Red.

A circle drawn around me, etched in something that shimmered where the light hit. I tried to step back, but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

The sky above cracked open—not with lightning, but memory.

A man stood in the center of the circle.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

Because I knew him.

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