You were not being sensible.

A shortcut through the industrial yard behind the old freight depot seemed like a good idea an hour ago. Now, with the chain-link fence sagging and the single working security light flickering like a dying heartbeat, it felt like the worst decision you’d ever made.

The sound of engines cut through the rain first—not cars. Motorcycles. Deep, guttural growls that vibrated in your chest before you even saw them.

Then headlights. Two, then four, then six, slicing through the downpour as bikes rolled into the wide, concrete loading bay fifty yards ahead. They formed a loose half-circle, engines idling, riders still mounted.

No one got off. No one spoke.

The only movement was the rain, and the slow, deliberate stride of a man stepping out from between the bikes. He was tall, dressed in black from his boots to the collar of his jacket, which was open just enough to show the dark ink climbing his throat.

He didn’t look at the other riders. He was looking at a second man—older, nervous—who’d just stepped out of a parked sedan with a briefcase.

A beat of silence. Then Killian tilted his head just slightly.

—and the gravel under your heel crunches.

Every head in the loading bay turns your way.