CHAPTER 279: I SEE YOU

I lingered by the footprint longer than I needed to.

The shape was clear—heel, arch, toe. Average size. The kind that wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. But it told a story more than the pictures ever could. Because this... this was real-time. This was recent. This was the moment the curtain dropped and the stagehands scrambled behind the scenes.

I rose to my feet, scanning the alley once more. Nothing. No cigarette butts, no fibers, no dropped tools or bent nails. Just a shallow dent in the earth, framed by a loose halo of disturbed soil and brittle leaves.

It wasn’t enough to track someone. Not anymore. He could’ve gone left or right, ducked into the trees or merged with foot traffic two blocks down. The only thing this confirmed was what I already knew:

The bastard was in the house while we were.

I pressed a knuckle to my lips.

Too much noise would spook him. Too little movement and we’d risk him slipping into the cracks for good. This couldn’t become a blind chase, especially when we already had a mountain of evidence—photos, timestamps, behavior patterns, now a footprint. I just needed to use it right.

I called Grant.

He answered on the second ring. "Find anything?"

"Size ten footprint. Soil still soft. Landed hard, then kept moving. No clear trail after that."

A pause. "Want me to send a team to grid-search the alley?"

"No," I said. "We’ll lose hours on nothing. By now he could be halfway across the sector, or nowhere near it."

"So what do we do?"

"Get the lab on the footprint. Forensics might pull unique tread patterns or residue. Run it through every government boot catalog and independent supplier you can. We narrow it down that way."

"You think he’s military?"

"I don’t think anything yet. But it’s a better use of time than chasing shadows."

"...Copy that."

"And Grant?"

"Yeah?"

"Make sure they test for soil trace on the attic window ledge. If he slipped, we might have an imprint there too. Even glove fibers."

"You think he made a mistake?"

"He made several," I said, brushing off my coat. "He stayed too long. Left too much behind. He thought no one would find the stash. He got cocky."

Grant let out a slow exhale. "You done for the night?"

I hesitated.

"...Yeah. I’ve seen enough. You’ll handle the rest?"

"You don’t have to ask."

"I know. Just wanted to hear it."

I ended the call and began the walk back to my car.

Twilight stretched long over Sector 47. The streetlights buzzed with that particular kind of tired electricity, like they knew they were about to flicker into life but weren’t quite ready to commit.

As I walked back, a strange pressure set in behind my eyes. Not a headache. Not fatigue either. Something subtler. Something more persistent.

I kept seeing the girl’s eyes.

Lea.

Wide. Still. Not fearful—but aware. Like she knew she wasn’t alone in the room. Not on the night that photo was taken. Not on any of them.

My foot pressed harder on the ground.

Why would someone take that many pictures?

I could understand surveillance. Blackmail. Stalking. But this was deeper. Methodical. Clinical. Whoever did this wasn’t documenting a person.

They were studying a life.

The rhythm of it. The sleep cycles. The comfort. The peace.

I hated the way it made me feel. It wasn’t like when I killed the pale man, or when I watched an enemy fall.

This was different.

This wasn’t someone trying to hurt.

This was someone trying to belong.

And that made it worse.

By the time I reached home, the unease had grown roots.

But the moment I passed the first layer of security, I could breathe again.

This building had over 50+ floors. Retina scans. Biometric locks. Armed guards and motion sensors on every hallway. Nobody got into this place without clearance. The elevator to the upper levels needed a government-issued keycard.

I rode it up in silence, coat still buttoned, mask still on.

When the doors opened, I stepped into the only place that felt like mine.

My penthouse.

Warm light spilled out from the dining area. I heard voices—familiar ones.

"—I told you he’d skip dinner again."

"No, I told you. He always shows up eventually."

"What do you think he was doing out there?"

Sienna’s voice cut through the others. "Let him eat before you grill him."

I stepped into the room and let the door shut behind me.

The girls sat around the table, half-finished plates in front of them. Camille was perched on the counter with a fork in hand, Sienna near the head of the table, Evelyn beside her with that unreadable look she always wore underneath her blindfold when she didn’t want to admit she was worried. Alexis was curled up on the couch, chewing something half-heartedly while watching a muted news feed.

Sienna looked up first.

"You hungry?"

I nodded once. "Yeah. I could eat."

She rose and began plating something without a word. Camille raised an eyebrow at my coat.

"You didn’t take it off?" she asked.

"I was working."

"That doesn’t mean you have to wear it all the time. What if you dirtied my masterpiece?" she teased.

Sienna set a plate in front of me. Chicken. Roasted vegetables. Rice. It smelled better than anything I’d had in a week.

I sat down and unbuttoned my coat.

The mask came off too, slow and deliberate. My face was flushed from the cold air and tension.

Alexis tilted her head. "You’re using the masks again?"

Sienna’s expression tightened slightly. "Is it that serious?"

Camille didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to. She already knew.

"It’s precaution," I said, voice steady. "Camille’s skill makes them more useful than not."

"You don’t have to explain," Sienna murmured. "Just glad you’re safe."

I ate in silence for a few minutes. The conversation moved on around me, drifting toward clothing designs Camille was experimenting with, a weird customer Evelyn had encountered on her last assignment, and whether or not Alexis had accidentally melted part of the sink again while refining a new formula.

It was calm.

Almost.

And then—my phone buzzed.

I frowned.

I didn’t have many contacts left.

The screen showed a number I didn’t recognize.

Just a blank field.

But there was a message.

I opened it.

And I stopped breathing.

The image loaded slowly—grainy, low-light, but unmistakable.

It was a picture.

Of me.

Entering the elevator to the penthouse.

Taken from behind. Perhaps one of the cameras?

The caption underneath sent chills down my body.

"I see you."

I coughed mid-bite. Nearly choked.

Sienna looked over immediately. "Reynard?"

I couldn’t speak.

My fingers tightened around the phone. I stared at the photo again, scanning every pixel. The hallway. The angle. The timestamp.

This wasn’t from outside.

It was from inside the building.

How did he get this picture?