The suited man stood as still as a statue, his gaze fixed on the slip of paper in my hand as if the world had narrowed to that single sheet.
Elliot lay trembling in my arms, his skin ashen, his lips ice‑cold. I felt his pulse falter. There was no time for thought; my fingers tore the envelope open.
Inside was not a letter but an old photograph, an address scrawled on the back, and a name inked in bold black: Arthur Ward.
The moment I read the name, the man’s smug grin faded. His eyes narrowed, his jaw set.
“You shouldn’t have looked at that,” he hissed, voice low and sharp.
I stared at him. “Who is Arthur Ward?”
He stepped nearer. “That name will set this city ablaze. If you’re clever, you’ll burn it and pretend you never saw it.”
Before I could answer, a horn bellowed outside. A freight train roared through the railway yard, rattling the walls of the shack. The ground shivered, yet the suited man never left the letter.
Elliot croaked in my grip, his eyes flickering open for a breath. “Find him… Nathan… before they do.”
His head fell back again. Panic clenched my chest. “Elliot! Stay with me!”
The suited man’s tone turned icy. “If you hunt Arthur Ward you sign your own death warrant – and your brother’s, if he lives through the night.”
I positioned myself between him and Elliot. “Then why do you fear him so?”
A faint smile tugged his lips. “Because Arthur Ward alone knows the truth about your mother… and why you were taken.”
The words struck like a blow. My grip tightened until the paper crumpled.
Before I could speak, Poppy stepped forward, a pistol in her hand.
“Back off,” she told the man.
His grin returned. “Still playing hero, Poppy? You were one of us once. You know how this ends.”
“I also know you won’t leave with that letter,” she shot back.
They stared, the only sound the slow drip from the broken roof and Elliot’s laboured breathing.
At last the suited man took a step back. “This isn’t over, Nathan. That letter will ruin you. And when it does… I’ll be there to watch.”
He limped out of the shack, disappearing into the shadows of the yard.
Silence fell again, but my hands shook—not with fear but with a hot, fierce anger.
I turned to Poppy. “We go to that address tonight.”
Her eyes widened. “Nathan, you don’t understand—”
“I understand enough,” I cut in. “Arthur Ward knows where my mother is. If I must scorch the city to find her, I will.”
Milly, clutching a wounded shoulder, tried to rise. “You have no idea how dangerous Ward is. He worked for your father before the fire. He was the one man your father trusted with… everything.”
I snapped at her. “And where is he now?”
She hesitated, glancing at Poppy. “The address on that paper isn’t his home. It’s a safe‑house. If he’s there, he’s hiding from the same hunters that追 you.”
Poppy shook her head. “Nathan, you don’t storm a place like that without backup. Ward trusts no one. If he thinks you’re with the enemy, he’ll put a bullet in you before you speak.”
I looked down at Elliot. His breathing was still uneven, his hand twitched in mine. He clung on for me.
“I’m going,” I said. “You’re either with me… or you’re in my way.”
Poppy said nothing, but she didn’t stop me.
We slipped from the shack into the dim of the railway yard, every clank of chain, every creak of rusted metal setting my heart racing. I kept a arm around Milly to steady her.
The safe‑house lay two streets away, concealed behind an old warehouse. Boards nailed over the windows, the door hanging askew on one hinge.
As we neared, a tiny red light flickered on a wall. A camera.
“They’re watching,” I muttered.
Poppy knocked three times, paused, then twice more. “It’s me,” she called.
Nothing happened at first. Then, slowly, the door groaned open.
A tall man with a greying beard and steel‑cold eyes stepped out, a pistol trained at my chest.
“Nathan Graham,” he said.
I froze. “You know me?”
“I know everything about you,” he replied. “And your brother.”
“Then you know I need answers,” I said.
He gestured us inside. The safe‑house was dim, scented faintly of tobacco. Maps covered the walls, photographs linked by red string.
At the centre was a recent picture of my mother, standing in a market, a simple scarf about her shoulders, her eyes the same ones I see reflected in the mirror each morning.
My throat tightened. “Where is she?”
Arthur Ward stepped forward. “Alive. And in more danger than you can imagine.”
“Take me to her.”
He shook his head. “If you go to her now, you’ll lead them straight to her. They’ll kill her before you can even speak her name.”
I clenched my fists. “I’ve been kept from her my whole life. I won’t wait another twenty years.”
Ward’s gaze softened a fraction. “Nathan… the people after you aren’t after money or power. They want something your mother holds. Something your father left her before he died. If they get it… this city will crumble.”
Poppy spoke for the first time since we entered. “What is it?”
Ward hesitated, then glanced at the crumpled letter still in my hand. “You already have part of it. The rest… is with her.”
Milly’s voice cut through the tension. “And if they get both parts?”
Ward’s answer was plain. “They won’t just kill you. They’ll erase you. All of you. As if you never existed.”
The room fell quiet. I stared again at my mother’s photograph. Her smile was faint, but real. She was alive.
For the first time in years, hope flickered inside me, though I knew hope alone would not shield her.
I faced Ward. “Tell me what I must do.”
His eyes met mine. “First… you must be ready to kill the man who started that fire.”
“And who is that?” I asked.
Ward’s jaw tightened. “The very man who’s been hunting you since you dragged your brother into that infirmary. The man in the suit.”
Heat surged through my veins. I could see his smug grin, hear his voice in the rain.
I was no longer running. It was my turn to hunt.
Ward’s words hung like smoke. Poppy’s grip on her gun tightened. Milly’s face went pale.
And I felt fire in my blood. Years of surviving on scraps of truth and half‑answers had finally given me a name, a face, and a target – the man in the suit, the one who almost killed Elliot, the one who knew why my mother vanished, the one who turned my past to ash.
I stepped closer to Ward, voice low but steady. “Then tell me where to find him.”
Ward studied me, his steel‑grey eyes unmoving. “You’re not ready.”
I slammed my fist on the table, scattering the photographs. “My brother is dying! My mother is hidden! Don’t tell me I’m not ready.”
A crack appeared in Ward’s mask. His jaw twitched. He lowered his pistol slowly.
“You remind me of your father,” he muttered. “Same fire. Same stubbornness. That’s why they fear you.”
From his coat he produced another worn envelope, creased by years of travel, and slid it toward me.
“Inside is the first step. Once you open it there’s no turning back. You’ll either save your family… or bury them.”
My pulse hammered in my ears. Elliot’s faint breathing echoed in my mind. My mother’s eyes in the photograph seemed to look straight through me.
I reached out, took the envelope, and in that instant knew the hunt had already begun. I was no longer fighting for answers; I was fighting for blood. When I finally faced the man in the suit, he would be the prey, not the hunter.
