Chapter 7 – Run

I didn’t think. I just ran.

The moment Lucien said that word, something inside me snapped loose. The bench, the park, the rain—all blurred into streaks of silver and black. My shoes slapped against wet pavement as I bolted toward the far exit, heart hammering so loud I thought it might give me away.

Behind me, a gunshot cracked. I ducked on instinct, the sound splitting the night like it meant to tear me apart. Someone shouted my name—Lucien’s voice—but I couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when every light and shadow could hide a bullet.

I turned a corner too fast and nearly slipped. My hands hit cold concrete as I caught myself, palms burning. My lungs screamed. I stumbled forward again, weaving through narrow streets where the rain fell harder, washing away everything except fear.

Another shot echoed. Then another.

“Lucien!” I called out before I could stop myself. My voice bounced off brick walls and died somewhere I couldn’t reach.

I ducked behind a dumpster and crouched, chest heaving. The smell made me gag, but it was cover. I pressed my hand against my chest to feel the envelope still there, soaked but intact. I had no idea what to do with it anymore. Burn it? Run with it? Throw it at Holt’s face and scream that I wanted my life back?

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and for one foolish second, hope flared. I pulled it out—screen cracked from earlier—and saw an unknown number flashing. I hesitated. Then I answered.

“Clara.” His voice came low, rough, and alive. Relief nearly made me cry.

“Where are you?” I whispered.

“Don’t stop moving. Take the next left. Keep to the shadows.” His tone was calm in a way that scared me more than panic.

“You’re hurt—”

“Do what I say, and I’ll find you.”

The line went dead.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket and moved. The next left took me into a narrow passage that smelled of rain and old cigarettes. My breath came out in clouds. I heard footsteps behind me—light, quick. My heart stuttered.

I pressed against the wall, barely daring to breathe.

A figure appeared at the other end of the alley. I couldn’t see the face, just the outline—tall, confident, moving slowly, deliberately. I froze, every muscle screaming to run again.

“Clara,” the man called softly. Not Lucien. Too smooth, too polite. Holt.

I felt the weight of his voice more than the sound. He was close enough that I could smell the faint metallic scent of his gun oil even over the rain.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he said, taking a step forward. “You don’t understand what you’re carrying.”

I wanted to scream that I didn’t care, that I hadn’t asked for any of this—but I stayed silent. I backed up slowly, keeping my eyes on him.

“Lucien can’t save you,” he continued. “He never could. You’re just his leverage. Nothing more.”

I almost believed him. Almost.

Then a shadow moved behind Holt—fast, silent—and I realized it wasn’t mine.

Lucien appeared like smoke, grabbing Holt by the collar and slamming him into the wall. The gun in Holt’s hand went flying, skittering across the ground and stopping near my foot.

“Run means run, Clara!” Lucien shouted.

But I didn’t. My body moved on its own. I kicked the gun toward him, and he caught it midair with terrifying ease. He pressed it under Holt’s jaw.

“You’ve got three seconds to disappear,” Lucien said, voice low enough to freeze blood.

Holt laughed, even with the barrel pressed to his throat. “You’ll never keep her safe, Vale. They already know she’s the key.”

Lucien’s grip tightened. “Then I’ll break the lock.”

He pulled the trigger—but it clicked empty. Holt grinned. “You’re out of bullets.”

Lucien didn’t flinch. “Who said I needed them?”

He slammed Holt’s head into the wall once, hard enough to knock him out cold. The thud made my stomach twist.

Lucien turned to me, chest heaving. His shirt was soaked through, the blood on his side spreading darker. “We have to move. Now.”

I nodded numbly. We ran together this time—his hand wrapped around mine, tight, grounding me even when everything else spun out of control.

We didn’t stop until we reached the river. The Thames churned like black glass, and the wind cut sharp. Lucien crouched behind a concrete barrier, pulling a small device from his pocket—a tracker, blinking red. He smashed it against the wall until it cracked, then tossed it into the river.

“They bugged you?” I asked.

“They bug everything.” He wiped rain and sweat from his face, then looked at me. “You okay?”

I laughed—half hysterical, half real. “Define okay.”

That earned me a faint smirk. “Alive counts.”

I stared at him. “You almost died back there.”

“Almost doesn’t count.”

“You can’t keep doing this,” I said, stepping closer. My voice trembled with everything I hadn’t said—fear, anger, confusion. “Dragging me through bullets and lies and expecting me to trust you.”

He met my eyes, quiet for a long time. “I don’t expect your trust. I just need your cooperation.”

I shook my head. “That’s not how this works, Lucien. You don’t get to decide for me.”

“I do when it’s your life on the line.”

“And what about yours?” I snapped. “Do you even care if you make it out of this?”

Something flickered across his face—pain, maybe. “I stopped caring about that a long time ago.”

The rain eased into a mist. We stood there, two strangers bound by something neither of us wanted to name.

Finally, he broke the silence. “We need to get out of the city. Holt wasn’t bluffing—they know who you are now. If they think you’re connected to your father’s research, they won’t stop.”

I felt the ground tilt. “My father’s research?”

Lucien looked away, jaw tight. “He wasn’t just building systems, Clara. He built the original network that Ashen runs on. Without his encryption key, they can’t access half their archives. That’s why they want you.”

My head spun. “You’re saying they think I have it?”

“You might,” he said quietly. “And you don’t even know it.”

A cold wind swept through, carrying the distant wail of sirens. Lucien checked the sky like he could read the future there.

“Come on,” he said. “I know somewhere we can hide for a while.”

“Where?”

He hesitated. “An old safehouse. South side. But it’s… complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

He didn’t answer. Just started walking, limping slightly, his hand pressed to his ribs. I followed, mostly because I didn’t have a choice. My mind was too full of questions, my body too tired to fight them.

We crossed a bridge, the lights shimmering on the water below. I couldn’t stop glancing at him—the way his shoulders tensed every time a car passed, the way he seemed to know exactly where not to step.

Finally, I broke the silence. “What did Holt mean when he said I’m the key?”

Lucien’s jaw flexed. “Your father coded his encryption into something personal. He used biometric locks—voice, DNA, even memory cues. You share half his genetics. You might be the only one who can unlock it now.”

I stopped walking. “You’re telling me my blood is a password?”

“Essentially.”

I laughed, but it came out cracked. “This is insane.”

He turned to me. “Insane or not, it’s the truth.”

We reached a rundown building tucked between two warehouses. Lucien entered a code on a rusted keypad, and the door clicked open. Inside, it smelled like dust and old paper. The walls were lined with maps, and a small table in the center held weapons, medical supplies, and what looked like fake passports.

“This is your safehouse?” I asked, incredulous.

“Home sweet home,” he said dryly.

He gestured for me to sit, then pulled off his soaked jacket and peeled back the bloodied bandage on his side. I winced. “You need stitches.”

“I’ll live.”

I got up anyway, found a first aid kit, and knelt beside him. “You’re terrible at lying.”

He didn’t stop me this time. I cleaned the wound, my hands shaking only a little. The silence stretched until it almost felt comfortable.

When I was done, I sat back and looked at him. “You said you stopped caring about living,” I said softly. “So why protect me?”

He looked at me for a long time, then said, “Because you remind me there’s still something worth protecting.”

My chest tightened, stupidly, dangerously.

Before I could say anything, a soft beep came from the corner. Lucien turned sharply toward a small laptop sitting on a crate. The screen had lit up on its own.

“What is that?” I whispered.

He walked over and stared at the message flashing across the screen:

Incoming transfer detected. Source: A.M.

Lucien’s face went pale. “No. It can’t be.”

I stepped closer. “Who’s A.M.?”

He turned slowly toward me, eyes darker than I’d ever seen them. “Your father’s initials.”

The message blinked again.

Clara, if you’re reading this… they found me. Don’t trust anyone—not even him.

The air went still.

I looked at Lucien. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I should be running from the people chasing us… or from the man standing right in front of me.