Page 9 of The Monster You Made
As I walk away, a small thought claws at the edge of my mind: Vera’s satchel, her resistance. She is the axis. If we can follow the veins of money and the names that stitch Cadmus and the Crown together, we can find the heart that beats behind them. And if we find that heart, perhaps we can stop it.
For the first time since the bunker burned, a plan takes shape that doesn’t feel like survival; it feels like war.
***
By the time the city blinks awake, Rourke and I are already gone from the docks, weaving through streets where the air tastes of soot and bread. The stolen drives press cold against my ribs, the weight of a future written in numbers and blood. I keep my stride even, every muscle coiled for the possibility of pursuit. Men like us don’t vanish; we leave scars on the pavement.
We hole up in Marta’s apartment again, blinds drawn, radio low. Rourke lays out the ledgers across the table, his hands deft despite the fresh bruises from the courier fight. I watch him work, the same way I used to watch explosives tick down: with suspicion, with inevitability. He isn’t nervous. That bothers me.
“Belgrave isn’t just a shell,” Rourke mutters, flipping a ledger open. “It’s the spine. They’ve been using it to funnel money between Crown ministries and Cadmus black accounts. Look, ” He stabs a finger at a page, rows of numbers, initials, offshore banks. “Even the uniforms who hunt us are paid from the same source.”
It’s the proof Vera risked everything to carry. The same blood inked twice, once in the Crown’s records, once in Cadmus’s. A marriage made in rot. I feel my jaw clench until my teeth ache. Declan’s smile flickers behind my eyes, smug and untouchable. I want to crush it under my boot.
Rourke leans back, rubbing at his eyes. “We leak this, the world catches fire.”
“No,” I say. “If we leak it now, they’ll bury it before it burns. We need to aim it where it hurts. Use it as a blade, not a light.”
His gaze sharpens. “You mean Vera.”
The satchel. Her handwriting on those tabs. Proof she’s still moving, still breathing. She has the other half of the blade. Together, it’s enough to gut them. Apart, it’s kindling waiting for rain.
I don’t answer. My silence is enough. Rourke sighs, spreading his hands. “Then we find her. But if Cadmus and the Crown want her alive, she’s already on a leash. You’ll be walking into their grip.”
“I’ve broken worse grips.”
The radio crackles. A coded channel. Marta ducks into the room, face pale, lips pressed tight. She sets the receiver down with trembling hands. “They know,” she says. “The courier didn’t die quietly. Someone traced the noise at the docks. They’re coming.”
Rourke swears under his breath. “How long?”
Marta shakes her head. “Not long enough.”
The sound of tires screeching outside confirms it. Boots hit pavement in rhythm, more than a patrol. A sweep. Crown operatives, maybe Cadmus enforcers too. They move like men who intend to cleanse a street.
I sling the rifle over my shoulder. “We leave.”
Rourke grabs the ledgers, stuffing them into a duffel. Marta blocks the door, eyes flashing. “Not through the front. They’ll be waiting.” She points toward the back wall, a concealed hatch hidden beneath old tarps. “Laundry chute. Drops into the alley. Don’t come back here. Ever.”
Her voice cracks on the last word. I nod once, no promises, no debts. Then I drop into the chute, sliding down metal that stinks of detergent and rust. The alley hits hard, knees jarring, but I’m already up and moving. Rourke lands behind me with a grunt, duffel thumping against brick.
The operatives sweep into Marta’s building above us. Shouts, boots, the crack of a door splintering. Marta’s scream carries for a heartbeat, then cuts short. My fists clench, but I keep moving. Grief is a luxury for men who intend to live.
We vanish into the maze of alleys, sprinting until our lungs scrape raw. Sirens chase us, distant but closing. Rourke throws me a look over his shoulder. “Old Vienna won’t wait. We move now.”
I nod, the word heavy in my throat. Old Vienna. Declan. Vera. The storm is already breaking, and I am its blade.
Chapter 4 – Vera
The train rocks like a cradle, steel wheels grinding over tracks that split the countryside in half. Dawn stains the windows pale gold, but the light feels false, brittle, as if it might shatter if I dared to breathe too deeply. Around me, passengers sleep with mouths open, heads slumped against glass, their exhaustion heavier than the luggage stacked in the aisles. I pretend to be one of them. A woman too tired to matter.
The satchel rests against my boots. I’ve looped the strap around my ankle so even in sleep, even in death, it would stay with me. My hand hovers near it constantly, a reflex. People think survival is about instinct, but it isn’t. It’s about vigilance. Instinct is for animals; vigilance is for the hunted.
The girl from the bus is gone. I don’t know her name. I don’t know if she survived the night. But I think of her sometimes, how she didn’t run when she should have. She looked at me and chose to act. That kind of bravery doesn’t live long. I pray she’s the exception.
I sip lukewarm tea from a paper cup. My reflection stares back at me in the window, cheeks hollow, hair a snarl of dark strands, eyes bruised from sleepless nights. I barely recognize myself. Once I was polished enough to stand in courtrooms, to speak in clean sentences, and make men squirm. Now I look like something dragged from wreckage.
The conductor moves down the aisle, checking tickets. My pulse quickens as he nears, but when he reaches me, his eyes flick over the stamped slip without suspicion. He tears it, nods, and moves on. I release a long breath. Another day bought.
Outside, the landscape shifts from industrial gray to rolling hills dotted with villages. Farmers walk muddy paths, their clothes dark with soil, their movements steady and unhurried. Ordinary lives unfolding while mine narrows to the next station, the next escape. I envy them until envy burns out, leaving only resolve. I can’t live like that. Not yet.
