Chapter 23. The Warning

The train spat her out into wind that smelled like iron.

Chicago had turned to glass—streets slick with half-frozen rain, air thin enough to cut. She pulled her hood tight, head down, counting the steps of her boots on the pavement: one-two, one-two, like a rope skipping inside her chest.

She was so tired, she didn’t even notice the silence until she reached her block. No music from the bar downstairs, no shouting, no traffic. Just the hiss of steam rising from the sewer grates. The kind of quiet that meant something was watching.

Her building crouched between two warehouses, brick sweating with moisture. The hallway light buzzed and flickered. She climbed the stairs by memory—forty-two steps, every one with a different creak.

When she reached her door, the key stopped halfway into the lock. The latch was already turned.

Lia froze.

A narrow black line showed where the frame no longer met flush. Wood splintered pale near the handle—fresh. The paint