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This is different.

This is quiet.

Focused.

Deadly.

“Dagger,” I say, stumbling after him with nothing but a towel clutched around my body. “Dagger, wait. What the fuck is happening?”

He doesn’t answer.

Which is how I know whatever’s happening is worse than my brain has fully caught up to yet.

The living room sits dim and messy after everything. The TV is off now, reflecting the city lights in a dull black mirror. The balcony door is cracked open, letting in cold ocean air and the sharp smell of smoke. Somewhere below, downtown Severance Point keeps glowing like it didn’t just burn half of us alive tonight.

Like it doesn’t know.

Like it doesn’t care.

Noir is still outside on the balcony.

Smoking.

Of course he is.

He stands near the railing with his back half-turned to us, pale hair messy from the night, dark shirt clinging in damp places from sweat and rain and whatever violence happened between the rave and here. His cigarette burns orange between his fingers, tiny and calm against the black city beyond him.

He hears us come in.

I know he does.

But he doesn’t turn right away.

That’s the first thing that makes my skin crawl.

Dagger crosses the living room fast, grabs the balcony door, and yanks it open hard enough it slams against the wall.

Noir finally turns.

His eyes drop to Dagger’s hand.

To the tiny black tracker pinched between his fingers.

And there it is.

Not shock.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

It flickers across Noir’s face so fast anyone else might miss it.

But Dagger doesn’t.

And neither do I.

My chest hollows out.