Page 31 of Fractured Allegiance
I take the long way toward my place, zigzagging through the business district, then dip toward the arts quarter, where the pavement still cracks and the buildings are too old to pretend they’re something else.
When I hit the main crosswalk, something shifts.
It’s tiny.
Just a prickle.
The kind of chill that doesn’t come from temperature.
I glance sideways.
There’s no one close enough to call it a threat.
But my skin disagrees.
I keep walking, every sense stretching out like wire.
I don’t look over my shoulder. I’ve done this long enough to know how to check a tail without tipping your hand.
Window glass. Car mirrors. Reflections in shop fronts.
Nothing.
Still, my stomach curls.
Because it doesn’t feel like someone’s following me.
It feels like someone’s tracking me.
The difference is thin, but real.
Following is about distance.
Tracking is about intention.
I make one sharp turn and duck into a narrow alley between a pawn shop and a shuttered bookstore. I lean into the shadows, phone in hand like I’m checking a message — while actually watching every passing movement across the mouth of the alley.
Two pedestrians. One cyclist. No one else.
But I still feel it.
Like a net waiting just above my head. Not dropped. Not tightened. Just… there.
Waiting.
After a minute, I step out and keep walking.
I cross the street without looking both ways.
Someone curses. A horn blares.
I don’t stop.
When I finally reach my block, I glance once — just once — at the intersection behind me.
There’s no one.
But if there were?
