Run

I didn’t think. I just ran.

The hallway blurred around me as my bare feet hit the cold floor. Behind me, I heard him shout something, but adrenaline drowned everything out. I bolted for the stairwell, skipping the elevator entirely. My heart pounded so loud it felt like it was trying to escape my chest.

The moment I reached the stairs, a hand grabbed my arm. I screamed, twisting hard, but he was faster—stronger. His grip burned against my skin.

“Let go!” I yelled, jerking away.

“Stop moving,” he said, voice low, urgent. “If you want to live, you’ll listen.”

That made me freeze.

He looked at me—sharp eyes, expression tight, like someone who didn’t have time for questions. His other hand reached into his coat, and I took a step back, panic flaring again.

“Please,” I whispered. “Don’t hurt me. I don’t know who you are.”

He pulled something out—a badge. Not police. Something else. Dark metal, no words, just a symbol.

“Someone switched our bags,” I said quickly, words tumbling out. “I didn’t mean to— I’ll give it back, I swear.”

“Too late for that,” he muttered. He looked over his shoulder toward the elevator, jaw tightening. “They’re already here.”

“What?”

“Do exactly what I say.”

I shook my head. “No. I’m not going anywhere with you—”

A loud bang cut through my sentence. The sound of shattering glass echoed down the hallway. Then another bang.

Gunshots.

He grabbed my hand and pulled me down the stairs before I could protest. “Move, Clara.”

He knew my name.

“Wait—how do you—”

“Move!”

We raced down flight after flight, my lungs burning. Someone shouted from above, footsteps pounding. The man shoved open a fire exit, pushing me outside into the icy air.

London’s night wrapped around us—wet, cold, and heavy. Rain started to fall again, soft at first, then sharp like needles.

“This way,” he said, dragging me toward a black car parked at the curb.

“I’m not getting in your car!”

“You want to stay here?” He glanced back. “They’ll be down in ten seconds.”

I hesitated. Another shot cracked through the air. Something sparked near my feet, and I ducked on instinct.

“Okay!” I shouted. “Okay, fine!”

He opened the passenger door and practically shoved me inside. The moment he slid behind the wheel, we sped off, tires screeching on the wet road.

I clutched the seatbelt, staring out the window as the city blurred past. “Who are you?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hands gripped the wheel, knuckles pale. His jaw was tight, his eyes flicking between the rearview mirror and the road ahead.

Finally, he said, “Someone trying to keep you alive.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “You ask too many questions for someone who almost got shot.”

“Sorry if I’m not used to midnight kidnappings!”

He glanced at me then, just for a second. Even in the dark, his eyes were this piercing shade of blue—too calm for someone being chased by gunfire.

“You picked up my suitcase,” he said. “That means you’re involved whether you like it or not.”

“Involved in what?”

He didn’t answer.

The silence stretched between us, filled only by the sound of rain hitting the windshield.

“Look,” I tried again, softer this time. “I didn’t see anything. I don’t know what’s in that bag.”

“Yes, you do.”

His tone made my stomach drop.

“Money,” I said slowly. “A gun. Some documents. That’s it.”

His jaw ticked. “You opened it.”

“Of course I opened it! I thought it was mine. What was I supposed to do, ignore the gun?”

“Exactly.” He swore under his breath. “You should’ve ignored it.”

I stared at him. “You’re insane.”

“No, Mrs. Vale, I’m careful.”

The name hit me like a slap. “Don’t call me that. I’m not her.”

He turned the car sharply down a side street. “To them, you are. And that’s the only reason you’re still breathing.”

I swallowed hard. “Who are they?”

He pressed harder on the gas. “People who don’t care about the difference between you and my wife.”

That word—wife—hung in the air like smoke.

I watched him from the corner of my eye. His face stayed unreadable, but something in it—something haunted—made me stop talking.

We drove in tense silence until he pulled into an underground parking lot beneath a rundown building. He killed the engine and turned toward me.

“You can stay here for now.”

“I’m not staying anywhere with you.”

“You’d rather go back to your flat?”

I hesitated. He didn’t have to remind me what waited there.

He got out first. I stayed in the car, hugging my knees. A few seconds later, he opened my door.

“Get out.”

“No.”

He sighed, crouching down to meet my eyes. “Clara, listen to me. They’ll trace your address, your phone, everything. If they find you, they’ll kill you. You have two choices: trust me, or die tonight.”

His voice was quiet, steady, terrifyingly certain.

My throat felt dry. “Why should I trust you?”

He looked at me for a long moment, rain dripping from his hair, jaw clenched like he was fighting something inside.

“Because,” he said finally, “I’ve already risked too much not to keep you alive.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but his eyes said he wasn’t lying. Against all logic, I got out.

He led me through a side door into what looked like an abandoned office. Dusty floors, cracked walls, a single flickering bulb. The smell of damp paper and old metal filled the air.

“Charming,” I muttered.

He ignored the comment and locked the door behind us. Then he placed the black suitcase on the table.

“Open it.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Because I need to see how much you saw.”

“I told you—”

“Open it.”

The edge in his tone made me obey. My hands trembled as I unzipped it again. The gun gleamed under the dim light. The cash was still there, but now I noticed something I’d missed before—another envelope tucked under the lining.

He reached for it first, but I was faster. I grabbed it and stepped back.

“Enough,” I said. “You’re going to tell me what’s going on, or I’m walking out.”

He straightened slowly, his gaze cold but not cruel. “You’re not walking out.”

“Watch me.”

I turned toward the door, clutching the envelope, but before I could take a step, something in the hallway banged—a metallic clang, followed by footsteps.

He moved instantly, grabbing the gun from the suitcase.

“Stay down,” he whispered.

“Is it them?”

He didn’t answer, eyes fixed on the door.

Another bang. Then silence.

He pressed a finger to his lips, motioning for me to stay still. The seconds stretched into forever. My breath came too fast, too loud.

The door handle turned—slowly, deliberately.

He raised the gun.

And then a voice echoed through the room, low and unfamiliar.

“Vale,” it said. “You should’ve stayed dead.”

My blood ran cold.

The man beside me went rigid, every muscle tight. His hand brushed mine—just for a second—and he whispered, “Run when I say.”

The door burst open before I could answer.

And the lights went out.