Sophie's POV

There’s a trick to staying unnoticed.

People think it’s about being quiet. About blending into the background. About keeping your head down and moving like a shadow.

That’s not it.

The real trick—the one that actually works—is to be just noticeable enough. The right kind of friendly. The right kind of distracted. Make eye contact. Smile at the right moments. Ask the questions that sound like they don’t matter.

Because then?

No one looks closer.

No one wonders what you’re really watching.

And right now?

I am watching everything.

The bookstore is wrecked. The floor is littered with shattered glass and splintered wood, the bookshelves groaning like wounded animals under their own weight. The air is thick with the smell of burnt rubber, oil, and something else—metallic. Sharp. Blood.

I breathe it in.

I memorize it.

Amina is still kneeling beside Luke, her hands shaking just enough that only someone paying attention would notice. And Elias—Elias is still too calm.

That is what makes my pulse spike.

Not the accident. Not Luke’s blood on the floor. Not the bookstore, my bookstore, in ruins.

Elias.

Standing there. Watching. Waiting.

Like the aftermath is just as interesting as the impact. Like this was inevitable.

And for the first time in a long, long time—I feel it.

That chill.

The kind that starts at the base of your spine and crawls upward, settling beneath your skin. The kind that tells you something isn’t right. That someone isn’t right.

I don’t move toward Luke. Not yet. I already know he’s alive. Hurting, yes. But breathing. Conscious enough to track what’s happening around him.

I need to know more before I act.

So I kneel next to a fallen bookshelf instead, my fingers grazing over the edge of a book that had been knocked to the ground. The pages are slightly crumpled. The cover smeared.

Red.

But not fresh.

And not Luke’s.

My stomach tightens. My fingers press against the dried stain, tracing the edges. There’s too much wrong about this, and it’s not just the accident. It’s something before.

Something else.

A low groan from Luke pulls my focus, and I glance up just in time to see him blinking blearily, trying—and failing—to push himself up.

He’s still aware.

Which means so am I.

And then—Elias moves.

Too smooth. Too effortless.

Like he isn’t stepping over broken glass and chaos. Like nothing about this is even slightly out of his control.

And then I see it.

The flicker of metal. A sliver of glass tilting just slightly between his fingers before he lets it slip from his grasp.

It lands beside Luke’s arm. Almost gentle. Almost meaningless.

But I see the truth.

That wasn’t a mistake.