Chapter 5
The rusted iron fire escape rattled violently beneath our boots as we descended into the damp alley behind the archive building. A fine, needle-like drizzle drifted down from the slate-gray dawn sky, slicking the asphalt and turning the trash-strewn pavement into a mirror that caught the amber glow of distant streetlamps. Owen whimpered softly against my chest, his little face buried deep within the fabric of my coat to shield him from the chill. I pulled the sequin hem of my evening dress up through my belt to keep from tripping, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm against the metal grates.
"The car's two blocks down, past the municipal transit hub," Gideon said over his shoulder, his hand steady as he gripped my elbow to guide me over a slippery curb. His black suit was soaked through at the shoulders, the dark fabric clinging tightly to his frame, but his eyes remained sharp, scanning every shadowed doorway and rusted dumpster along the alleyway.
"They're tracking the server ping, aren't they?" I asked, my breath pluming in the cold morning air as we rounded a corner into a narrow residential street lined with triple-decker tenements and peeling paint.
"They were," Gideon muttered, pulling a sleek, dark-metal device from his breast pocket and tossing it hard into an open storm drain as we passed. "Not anymore. I scrubbed the local routing tables before we pulled the drives. As far as the system knows, the archive terminal suffered a catastrophic power failure."
We ducked beneath a low concrete overhang as a black municipal utility van rolled slowly down the adjacent avenue, its searchlight sweeping methodically across the brick facades. We pressed ourselves flat against the damp masonry, holding our breath until the vehicle's engine hum faded into the distance.
"We can't go back to your downtown residence," I whispered, my fingers tightening protectively around the infant's back. "If Vance has the board and the legal framework, your home address is the first place they'll lock down with injunctions and security sweeps."
Gideon looked down at me, his gaze softening momentarily before hardening back into resolve. "Then we go where they won't look. We go to your neighborhood."
Forty minutes later, the clanking rattle of the elevated subway train delivered us to the outer edge of the district where I had lived for the past five years—a cramped, working-class neighborhood of narrow walk-ups and flickering neon bodega signs. My apartment was on the third floor of a faded brick building with a sagging porch and a front door that required a specific, practiced kick to latch properly. I pushed the door open, the familiar smell of old radiator heat and instant coffee washing over me in the dim interior.
"It's not much," I said, setting the silver tray down on the scarred laminate kitchen table and unwrapping Owen from my coat. The baby blinked sleepily under the warm light of a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, his small chest rising and falling in steady rhythms.
May you like
Gideon stepped inside, ducking slightly beneath the low doorframe, and looked around the sparse, clean room. His gaze lingered on the narrow cot pushed against the far wall, the stack of dog-eared nursing textbooks on the counter, and the single framed photograph of my mother on the mantel. There was no judgment in his eyes, only a quiet, heavy understanding of the invisible walls that had kept us apart for a decade.
"It's safe," Gideon said quietly, stepping over to the small window to check the street below through the warped glass. "And for right now, that's the only currency that matters."
