The paper sliced my thumb and I didn’t notice until blood soaked into the margin of Lina’s drawing.

That was the first sign something was wrong with me.

Pain usually snapped me back into myself. Pain was grounding. But my head was too full—overloaded with symbols, half-formed theories, and the suffocating awareness that we were being hunted by something that understood us better than we understood it.

I pressed the heel of my hand against the cut and finally felt the sting.

Good. Still human.

The motel room looked less like shelter and more like a conspiracy theorist’s nightmare. Papers taped to the walls. Books stacked in uneven towers. Lina’s drawings spread across the carpet, overlapping like fallen leaves. Every time I tried to organize them, my stomach twisted—because no matter how I arranged them, the same shapes kept emerging.

Spirals.

Fractures.

Eyes without pupils.

Places that felt wrong even on paper.

I knelt and pulled one sketch free.

A figure stood in the center, faceless, surrounded by shadow lines that bent inward instead of outward—as if the darkness were collapsing toward him.

Jakari.

I didn’t write his name. I didn’t need to.

The energy signatures were consistent. I’d mapped them three times now, comparing Lina’s drawings to the places we’d been forced to flee. Every time, the same conclusion surfaced, ugly and undeniable.

“This isn’t random,” I murmured.

They weren’t chasing us.

They were herding us.

A soft knock broke the spiral of my thoughts.

“Door’s open,” I said, not looking up.

Asia stepped inside, closing it quietly behind her. She looked like she hadn’t slept—eyes shadowed, shoulders tense, arms folded tight around herself as if holding something together that wanted to come apart.

She didn’t speak at first.

She just watched me.

That worried me more than if she’d rushed in panicked.

“What is it?” I asked.

Her voice came soft. Careful. “Jayla… do you think Jakari is enough?”

The question landed heavy.

I set my pen down slowly and leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting—against my will—toward the window. Toward the parking lot where Jakari sat in the car, engine off, watching shadows like they might blink first.

“Enough for what?” I asked.

Asia swallowed. “For what’s coming.”

I didn’t sugarcoat it.

“He’s not invincible.”

Her jaw tightened.

“But,” I continued, “he’s survived everything that should’ve killed him. And more importantly—he doesn’t stop. Even when stopping would be easier.”

She nodded, though fear still lived behind her eyes.

“And we’re not alone,” I added. “That matters. We protect each other now. That’s the difference.”

Asia let out a slow breath.

“We’ll be okay,” I said again, more firmly this time. I needed to believe it too.

Before she could respond, Lina padded into the adjoining room, sketchbook clutched to her chest like a shield. Jakari stepped outside moments later, keys jingling faintly. Asia followed Lina—

—and froze.

“Kelo?” she asked.

He sat in the corner, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it had personally betrayed him.

“I’m fine,” he said without looking up.

The lie was automatic.

Asia glanced at me.

I sighed and pushed myself to my feet. “He’s not.”

Kelo’s jaw clenched.

I crouched in front of him. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

I tilted my head slightly. “Kylee?”

The air went out of him.

He exhaled hard, shoulders sagging like he’d been carrying a building alone. Slowly, he reached into his shirt and pulled out a thin chain. At the end hung a small pendant—inside it, a picture.

Kylee.

Smiling like the world had never hurt her.

“She gave me this in Florida,” he said quietly. “Told me I didn’t have to wear it. Just keep it close. Said even if we weren’t together, we’d still be beside each other.”

His voice cracked.

“We were sitting on the beach. Sunset. No phones. No running. She leaned her head on my shoulder and said that moment felt forever.”

A tear slipped free. He wiped it away angrily.

I didn’t speak. I just pulled him into a hug.

“She’s still here,” I whispered. “And she still loves you.”

He laughed weakly. “She wouldn’t shut up about me. Every five minutes—‘I miss my man, I wanna see my man.’ You and Lina had to yell at her to focus.”

I smiled through my own tears. “We never won.”

The door creaked open.

Jakari stepped inside, eyes sharp.

“We’re moving,” he said. “Plan stands. Little Rock.”

Lina perked up instantly. “My grandmother might help. She knows places to hide.”

Asia frowned. “And when they find us?”

Kelo stood. “Then we stop running.”

Silence.

Jakari nodded once. “Agreed.”

Something about his expression unsettled me. He looked resolved—but distant.

“We pack up,” he said.

He reached for the door.

The explosion hit before the handle turned.

Light. Sound. Heat.

I remember flying—

—and then nothing.

I came to on my knees.

Hands bound. Head ringing. The taste of copper in my mouth.

Four armored trucks surrounded us, engines idling like predators. Soldiers moved with disciplined cruelty, weapons trained, faces hidden behind visors.

One stepped forward, helmet off. Scar down his cheek. Smile rotten.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “Found his little hoes and bitches after all.”

Two soldiers dragged Jakari’s body from the wreckage. The doorway behind them was gone—just a burning hole.

“Looks like your protector didn’t make it,” the leader laughed.

Asia struggled. “Don’t touch him!”

He crouched, fingers brushing her cheek. “Maybe you’ll be useful.”

Kelo snapped back. Laughter erupted.

The leader punched him—then backhanded Lina.

I shouted, “Who are you?!”

“Shut up.”

“Sir!” a soldier yelled. “Jakari—he was bleeding. Now he’s not.”

They laid him down.

Metal pushed itself out of his flesh.

The wound sealed.

Jakari’s eyes opened.

The first scream ended too fast.

That was what made it wrong.

Not the blood. Not the sound of bone breaking. It was the speed—how cleanly the noise cut off, like someone had reached into the world and muted a channel.

Jakari didn’t rush.

He appeared.

One moment he was on the ground, eyes black and empty, the next he was standing between two soldiers mid-step, close enough that the muzzle flash from one rifle burned his cheek without touching him.

He moved before sound caught up.

Knife in his right hand—short, utilitarian. He drove it upward under the first soldier’s jaw, twisting just enough to sever something vital. Blood poured down Jakari’s wrist, steaming faintly in the cold air. He didn’t look at the man as he died. His attention was already elsewhere.

The second soldier raised his weapon.

Jakari stepped into the shot.

The bullet passed where his head had been a heartbeat earlier.

Jakari’s left hand snapped up, palm striking the rifle sideways as his knee came up hard into the soldier’s chest. I heard ribs go. The man folded, wheezing. Jakari took the rifle as the body dropped, checked the weight, then fired three controlled shots into another soldier’s visor across the clearing.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

No waste.

No emotion.

I realized then—distantly, clinically—that Jakari wasn’t reacting.

He was executing a sequence.

Soldiers shouted. Commands overlapped. Boots scraped against gravel as they tried to reposition.

They never caught up.

Jakari moved like the space between moments belonged to him.

A soldier rushed him from behind.

Jakari spun, caught the man’s wrist mid-swing, twisted until bone cracked, then pulled the soldier forward into a headbutt that shattered the visor. He shoved the collapsing body aside and fired point-blank into another who’d frozen in shock.

Blood misted the air.

The smell hit next—iron, burned powder, something darker underneath.

I couldn’t look away.

Not because I wanted to see.

Because my brain needed to understand.

This wasn’t rage. I’d seen rage. Rage was messy, uncontrolled, loud. This was something else.

This was absence.

Jakari didn’t shout. Didn’t snarl. Didn’t even breathe hard.

His eyes—completely black now—tracked targets with inhuman precision. Every movement was minimal. Efficient. As if violence were simply a language he’d switched to fluently.

A soldier fired a burst from the truck-mounted gun.

Jakari ran at it.

Bullets tore through the air where he’d been, but he shifted sideways between shots, closing the distance impossibly fast. He vaulted onto the hood, rolled, landed on the roof, and dropped straight down onto the gunner.

The man screamed as Jakari drove the blade down through the collar of his armor, into the hollow beneath his throat.

Jakari yanked the knife free and kicked the body off the truck.

It hit the ground with a sound that echoed too long.

The remaining soldiers broke.

That’s when the leader charged.

He screamed something incoherent and swung the machete in a wide, desperate arc.

Jakari stepped inside the swing, caught the leader’s wrist, twisted—

The arm came off clean.

The leader fell, howling, clutching the stump as blood poured between his fingers.

Jakari stood over him.

That was when I saw it clearly.

The mark.

It sat along his cheekbone like a scar that had always been there—but it glowed, blacker than shadow, pulsing faintly as if it were breathing.

It wasn’t just a mark.

It was a statement.

Asia screamed his name.

“Jakari!”

The sound cut through the clearing like a blade.

Jakari froze.

For a terrifying moment, I thought he wouldn’t stop.

Then his head turned.

He looked at us.

And whatever was inside him… let go.

His knees buckled. He collapsed hard onto the ground.

Silence followed—thick, stunned, unreal.

Then Kelo moved.

He snapped the zip-ties like thread, rushed to us, tore ours free. We ran to Jakari as if the ground itself might open beneath him.

His chest rose and fell.

Alive.

Human.

Barely.

Minutes passed before his eyes fluttered open.

“What happened?” he asked hoarsely.

No one answered immediately.

I knelt beside him. “You turned.”

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t deny it.

He just closed his eyes for a second longer than necessary.

Behind us, someone whimpered.

The leader.

Alive.

Bleeding.

Kelo hauled him forward, slammed him to his knees. Lina knelt beside him, hands glowing faintly as she pressed them to the wound just enough to keep him conscious.

Jakari stood slowly, black eyes scanning the man with calm precision. The soldier looked up—panic twisting his features into something almost human. “You’re dead,” he spat. “You were supposed to be dead!”

Jakari crouched in front of him, voice low. “Who sent you?”

The man laughed, wet and broken. “You think I’m telling you anything?”

Jakari’s fingers brushed his shoulder, light as a feather. The soldier’s arm went numb instantly, and his breath caught in his throat. Panic erupted in his eyes. “W-what are you—”

“Who sent you?” Jakari repeated, voice flat.

“Star! A woman… she—she told us! Capture if possible, kill if necessary!” The words tumbled out, sobs cutting through them.

Jakari leaned closer. “Why us?”

“Because… you don’t die. She’s afraid of you,” the man whispered.

Silence fell over the group.

“Names,” Jakari said next.

“I don’t have real ones! Just… call signs, units. She keeps us separated—so no one can betray her,” the soldier gasped.

“Where?” Jakari’s tone remained quiet, controlled.

“Everywhere,” he choked. “Everywhere she has eyes. You can’t hide.”

The man’s voice cracked. “Please… I have a family. I was just following orders.”

Jakari’s gaze remained unreadable. For a heartbeat, I thought he would end it right there. Then he stood, turning away.

“Leave him,” he said.

Outrage snapped through the group immediately. Asia’s jaw tightened. “No! He deserves to die!”

I turned toward her, voice calm but firm. “Asia, wait—listen.”

She shook her head, eyes wild. “He tried to kill us! He would have! He’s part of her network. If we leave him alive, she’ll know. He’ll tell her everything!”

Kelo moved closer to Jakari, voice low. “Asia… he’s right. This isn’t about mercy. It’s strategy. Letting him live is smart.”

Asia whirled on Kelo. “Smart? Are you serious? He’s evil! And you… you’re okay with leaving him alive?”

Kelo met her gaze evenly. “It’s not about being okay. It’s about survival. We don’t need to spill unnecessary blood. We need him alive to send a message to Star.”

Jakari finally spoke, slow and precise. “She wants obedience. She wants fear. Killing him would just make her send more. This—” he gestured at the soldier “—is leverage.”

Asia’s hands balled into fists. “Leverage? That’s sick. You’re letting them walk after everything they did?”

I stepped forward, putting a hand on her arm. “Asia, hear me. If we kill him, Star learns we lose control of the situation. We make ourselves predictable, reactive. Letting him live—under our control—means we set the rules now. He goes back to her, and he carries the message we aren’t running anymore.”

Asia’s breath hitched, conflicted. “And what if he lies? What if she kills more people?”

“I’ll take that risk,” I said. “Because if we kill him now, she’ll escalate. We leave a controlled survivor, she has to respond to us, not just react. This is how we start taking the fight to her.”

Kelo nodded, finally relaxing slightly. “She’ll have to respect fear she can’t control. We gain the upper hand.”

Asia stared at us both, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Slowly, her shoulders slumped. She didn’t smile. She didn’t nod. But I could see the fight leave her, just a fraction, replaced by grim acceptance.

Jakari looked at all of us—Asia, Kelo, me, Lina—then back at the leader kneeling in front of him. His expression softened, just enough for me to notice.

“Go back,” he said finally. “Tell her we’re alive. Tell her we’re ready.”

The soldier swallowed hard, tears streaking down his grime-caked face, and nodded. “Y-yes… sir… I’ll—”

Jakari’s gaze fixed on him one last time. “And if you lie… you won’t survive it next time.”

The man flinched violently. He understood, in the deepest part of him, that the second chance was no kindness.

I exhaled, feeling the weight of the moment settle on all of us. This was no longer survival. This was strategy. This was war.

We stripped the dead of armor, loaded weapons and gear into one of the armored trucks, and began moving. The soldier stayed kneeling for a moment, still shaking, watching us leave like he’d just witnessed gods walking among men.

As we rolled onto the highway toward Little Rock, Jakari sat across from me, silent.

Finally, he spoke.

“I remember all of it.”

I swallowed hard.

His fingers brushed the glowing black mark on his face.

“The second one.”

And for the first time since this began, I realized the fight ahead wouldn’t just be about running or surviving.

It would be about choosing how far we were willing to go—and who we would remain while we did it.