"We have enough to demand a reinvestigation," Eliza said. "I will file the civil rights report tonight."
Maya kept her voice steady, but tension threaded through it like a pulled wire: "Be careful heading home. Bravo Unit is unstable, and Hale is volatile. They will react soon."
Eliza glanced across the parking lot, her hand tightening around her phone. "I know," she replied quietly. "That is why we cannot stop."
She walked toward her car, the wind brushing her face as if carrying a faint warning. The lot was nearly empty, just the sound of gravel shifting under her steps. Once inside her vehicle, she started the engine, but the rearview mirror caught the reflection of a black car parked several meters away. The windows were tinted pitch dark, the interior invisible. A chill slid along her spine.
She pulled out of the lot. The black car flicked on its headlights and followed. A sharp thread of cold cut through her chest. Eliza slowed down; so did the car. She sped up; it matched her speed. Wind skimmed the window in a long hiss as her heartbeat climbed. She merged onto a main road, and the black vehicle clung to her tail like a shadow that had learned to breathe.
"Fine," she whispered to herself.
She turned off toward a less crowded route, hoping to shake the pursuit. The street lamps thinned, their glow stretching into long, pale smears. The city noise faded until all she heard was the hum of her own engine and the steady throb of adrenaline rising through her veins.
The abandoned industrial district emerged ahead: long, empty roads flanked by silent warehouses that stood like watching figures. Eliza gripped the wheel and made a sharp turn onto a side path, killing her lights. Tires crunched against gravel, dust rising in a thick veil. She slipped between two warehouse buildings, stopped the car, and held her breath.
One beat. Two.
The black car sped past on the main road, unaware she had vanished from sight. Eliza remained still, listening to her pulse hammer in her ears. Something deeper stirred—a sense that the pursuit was not improvised, but orchestrated.