Page 19 of Veil of Ashes

“You’re not blurry,” I say instead. “You’re the sharpest thing in this.”

She doesn’t smile, but her shoulders ease a fraction. “Flattery again. Still no discount.”

I laugh, short and rough. “Still not asking.”

The hum in my head grows louder. It’s not just attraction. It’s trust, thin and precious, and I’m gambling on it.

She turns back to the ledger, picking up the stylus. “This job’s got edges,” she says. “Don’t dull them.”

“I won’t.” I give her space, stepping back. “But I need you alive when it’s done.”

She pauses, stylus hovering over the page. “That’s your problem, Santoro. Not mine.”

It hits like a jab, but she’s right. My focus is splitting. Revenge isn’t enough anymore.

I want her breathing when this ends. She starts tracing the ink again, steady as ever.

The blue glow catches her face, lighting the faint scar above her brow. I linger by the door, watching her work.

“You ever think about stopping?” I ask, voice quieter now. “Leaving the ghosts behind?”

She doesn’t look up. “Ghosts don’t leave. They just get quieter.”

“Maybe they could.” I lean on the doorframe. “With the right push.”

She snorts, soft but sharp. “You’re not that push.”

“Not trying to be.” I keep my eyes on her. “Just saying it’s an option.”

I turn for the door, boots heavy on the concrete.

The hum stays with me, tying me here. She doesn’t look up, but I know she feels it too.

I grip the doorframe, torn between leaving and staying. The machinery drones on, a constant pulse.

She keeps working, her focus unbreakable. I step out, the door hissing shut behind me.

The alley’s heat hits me, thick with the stink of trash. I glance back once, through the small window.

She’s still there, bent over the ledger. A ghost, maybe. But not to me.

Chapter 6 – Sylvara

The rooftop looks like a junkyard. Wires twist in messy knots, rusted satellite dishes tilt at odd angles, and vents rattle when the wind kicks up. Vegas pulses below, neon lights smearing the sky, drowning out the stars.

I lean against the railing. My fingers grip the rough, flaking metal. I scan East Fremont, searching the grid of buildings for something to click into place.

Kieran stands beside me. Close enough to feel, but not touching. He’s all edges and quiet heat, holding himself steady.

We just tracked one of Rizzi’s couriers. A greasy guy with a limp, dragging a suitcase stuffed with secrets. We tailed him to a backroom poker den, watched him slide an envelope to a man with Veyra tattoos and a short fuse.

More filth. More threads tying back to Rizzi. I’ve got the proof I need.

“We have enough,” I say, voice cutting through the hum. “Drop the ledger. Leak the files. Force their hand.”

He doesn’t respond right away. His eyes stay on the horizon, where clouds churn over the skyline. Thunder rumbles west of the Strip, low and restless.

“You leak that file,” he says at last, “they’ll bury us before the ink dries.” His tone is even, but there’s steel in it.

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