Page 126 of Fractured Allegiance

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Just a slipstream of cold air and a flyer flapping against a brick wall like applause.

I scan the alley. Nothing.

But something’s off.

There’s a trash bin cracked open nearby. I step closer.

Inside, there’s a phone. Crushed. Like someone bent it in half and tossed it as a message.

It looks like my model, but it’s not my phone.

It’s definitely the same burner line the Bureau issued last year.

I take out my gloves from my pocket, slipping them on before I pick up the phone with gloved fingers, eternally careful of tainting evidence.

The screen flickers once before dying.

But not before I see the wallpaper.

Lydia.

It’s her by the window. T-shirt. Legs curled under her. One hand holding a coffee mug. The other brushing her hair back.

I close my fist around the phone and stand there breathing like something just snapped inside me that was holding my restraint together.

Whoever they are... they’re not just watching her.

They’re taunting me.

Not Drazen.

Not the Bureau.

Me.

I pocket the phone and walk back to the car.

I climb in and start the engine with the kind of quiet that comes right before something explodes.

My apartment smells like wire insulation and regret.

I built it myself, not with hammers but with rules. Entry points, exit drills, preloaded scramblers, nothing that can be traced back to me, and nothing that should ever feel like home.

Tonight, it feels like a confession booth with no priest on the other side.

Everything looks untouched.

But that doesn’t mean it is.

I draw the gun before I close the door. Standard grip, suppressor already threaded. Not because I think someone’s inside, but because I’ve learned what it feels like when someone’s already left their fingerprint without touching a thing.

I scan the corners. Check the floor. The desk. The wall seam behind the breaker panel.

Then I see it.

Not big.

Not dramatic.

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