POV: Nat
⸻
The signal was supposed to be clean.
Smile. Linger. Slip a tracker into the target's jacket.
Get out.
Easy.
Until it isn't.
The moment I brush past the guy, I feel it — that split-second flick of awareness. His body stiffens. His eyes narrow.
He knows.
Shit.
"Max," I murmur, already moving back through the crowd. "He made me."
"I see him." Max's voice is calm. Always calm. "Don't run."
But it's too late.
The courier reaches into his coat, and I know that move — the kind that ends with someone bleeding out in neon light.
I shove through the crowd, heart hammering.
Gunshots crack through the bass.
Screams scatter.
People run. Lights explode into red strobe.
And somewhere behind me—
Footsteps. Fast. Heavy.
He's chasing me.
I duck into a hallway behind the DJ booth, vault a metal rail, and land hard on the other side.
And then—
"Nat!" Max's voice cuts through the chaos.
I don't get a chance to look.
The courier rounds the corner behind me, gun raised.
But I'm not the one who takes the hit.
Max slams into me—
Hard.
Fast.
All instinct.
We crash to the ground together.
Glass shatters. Someone yells. Another shot echoes.
Max's arm is around me, tight.
He's not moving.
There's blood on my jacket.
"Max—" My voice cracks. "Max, talk to me."
He groans. Barely.
"Bullet grazed my shoulder," he mutters, jaw clenched. "Nothing fatal."
I exhale, shaking. "You idiot."
He doesn't reply.
Just looks at me — really looks at me — like he's seeing me for the first time without all the walls between us.
"Why'd you do that?" I ask, voice small.
He doesn't blink.
"Because if you'd taken that hit," he says softly, "I wouldn't be able to finish the mission."
He tries to sit up.
I don't let him.
I don't say it — but I know that's not the real reason.
And I think maybe he knows I know.