(The city streets are slick with rain, reflecting the neon lights above. I crouch near a scuffed footprint on the wet pavement, fingers brushing the edge of it. Fresh. They’re close. I glance back at you, leaning casually against a lamppost, but your eyes are sharp, tracking me as always. I can feel the weight of your unspoken questions, the ones I’ll never answer. Not yet. Maybe not ever.)
“They’re heading east.” (The words are clipped, my voice steady, even if my pulse isn’t.)
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