Page 89 of Infamous
“Something’s bound to give soon,” Mason says. “It’s only a matter of time.
The thing about the Gatti machine is that it only works because every piece believes in the same wound. They move for each other. Bleed for each other. Fight like hell for the people who can’t fight back.
And I believe in it too - maybe more than I’d like to admit.
As I step toward the door, the truth settles heavy and sharp beneath my ribs: someone can walk into a hospital for a simplesurgery and end up on a morgue slab. No alarms. No outrage. No headlines. Not until it happens to the right child… the right husband… the right face someone remembers laughing in the sunlight.
That’s what sticks with me.
How grief can be both tiny and deafening.
How easy it is for the world to shrug and look away.
It’s the part that keeps me moving - knowing just how much hurt lives in the shadows, and how damn much of it goes unanswered.
The meetingwith Scar Gatti and Mason Ironside drags on longer than it should, and by the time I glance at my watch, I already know that I’ve missed walking Nadia home. The thought grates at me, low and sharp.
I fire off a quick text, then instead of circling back toward the hospital, I turn the car toward her building. The message stays unread, unanswered. It’s a small thing, but it hits wrong, and I can’t help imagining her walking out of the hospital looking for me the way she has every night these past couple of weeks, only to find an empty pavement instead.
Nadia is a creature of habit. She always has been. Steady in a world that won’t stop shifting. Reliable. Grounded. Someone who commits fully or not at all. When she does something, she’s all in.
It’s one of the first things I ever noticed about her - back in that little coffee shop she used to haunt. She’d come in at the same time every day, sit on the same stool, order the same drink, stay for the same number of minutes before rushing off to whatever came next. There was something soothing about it, something quiet and intentional. Routine. Her anchor in the chaos.
And right now, the silence on the other end of the line feels like that routine just… broke.
Her building is quiet when I pull up. There’s no light in her windows. I knock once, then again, but there’s nothing.
I wait a few beats, listening for the shuffle of feet or the soft click of her locks turning. Still nothing.
I call her, expecting to hear the phone on the other side of the door, but there’s only silence before the call goes to voicemail.
A bad feeling starts to gather in my gut, heavy and low.
I check my phone again - no messages, no missed calls. I shoot her another text:
You home?
The message hangs there, “delivered,” but the dots never come.
I lower myself onto the concrete steps outside her building. The metal railing is cold under my palm. The night air smells like rain and exhaustion. A few people pass by, giving me quick, curious glances - the guy sitting outside a rundown apartment complex like he’s lost something. Which I guess I have.
I give it ten minutes. Then twenty. There’s still no sign of her.
I call her again. The phone rings five times before it hits voicemail. Her voice — bright, tired, kind — fills the silence:
“Hey, it’s Nadia. Leave a message after the beep.”
I don’t. I hang up instead, jaw tight, dragging a hand down my face as the silence stretches in my ear.
Nadia’s not the type to miss a call.
I tell myself she’s not ignoring me - she wouldn’t shut me out just because I didn’t show up to walk her home after her shift. She’s not petty like that. She’s steady. Thoughtful. The kind of woman who forgives before she fights.
But still… that empty dial tone feels too heavy.
Too final.
And something in my gut starts to twist.
