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I don’t miss the way my brothers look at me as I follow him out of the boardroom. A few of The Keepers are still milling around, probably discussing the meeting’s events. We walk away from the crowds, standing by the window that looks out at the eastern side of Senna. The sun is setting over the city, rush hour traffic clogging the streets that lead to Queen’s Peak.

“You’ve done well,” my father says, hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Your mother would never say it, but she’s impressed. You’ve got her instincts.”

I glance at him, not sure how to react. Compliments from my father have always been few and far between.

“Thank you,” I say carefully.

“After everything that happened with your arrest two years ago, I wasn’t sure how you’d recover, but you’ve made me proud. I think your role within The Snake should change. You’ve earned bigger responsibility, like your brothers.”

My heart races in my chest. As much as I hate to admit it, approval from my parents has always mattered to me. I want them to know I am capable of leading The Snake one day and my father recognising that makes me stand up a little straighter.

You’ve made me proud.

He licks his bottom lip then, “Still, something about this Haze situation that feels … off. Don’t you think?”

I watch him, a deep frown on his forehead. He probably knows all the details from my mother, but I let him speak.

“It’s quite bold,” he continues. “Selling a drug like that under our noses. Either someone’s incredibly foolish, or they’re extremely confident. It feels like we’ve missed something.”

He’s right. We are missing something, and I think it’s closer than we all think. “Whoever it is probably wants us to tear each other apart looking for answers whilst they happily continue to kill people,” I say.

My father nods slowly. “Perhaps,” he says. “So be careful not to let them. I think your future in The Snake is riding on that.”

I swallow, heat travelling up my spine. “Of course.”

And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, the weight of his words settling heavily on my shoulders.

It feels like this meeting was useless. We still have no answers, but maybe it will make whoever is behind this panic and act rashly. Frustration simmers beneath my skin. Staying here driving myself half mad won’t fix this, but I know something that might help—Alex.

I drive to his apartment without thinking. As much as I know he needs time, I still need to see him, to feel him next to me. I keep telling myself to give him space, let him process everything that has happened in the last few days, but my head and my heart are speaking two different languages. I can’t stay away. I need to see him. Just … see him. Maybe then, this gnawing ache in my chest will ease up.

By the time I’m outside his apartment, my heart is in my throat. I knock, my hand steady and when the door swings open, I immediately feel the tenseness in my shoulders ease.

He’s dressed in grey sweatpants and a navy-blue hoodie, his hair slightly damp. Despite everything, he’s still just as beautiful. Brown eyes meet my own, and they are warm, happy even. He looks better than he did two days ago—the colour is back in his face and the bruises almost faded—but he still looks off.

I want the Alex who stood outside Spirito a few weeks ago and told me to go to hell. I want the Alex who asked me to kiss him in the middle of my kitchen, eyes glinting with desire. Now, he mostly looks withdrawn, his fire snuffed, and I hate it.

“I know it’s late,” I start. Ten-thirty, to be exact. “But I needed to see you.”

His expression shifts—something flickering in those eyes I can never stop staring into. “You did?” he asks softly.

I smile. “I did.”

There’s a beat of silence before he steps aside, letting me in. His apartment is quiet, dimly lit with the smell of coffee lingering in the air. I spot a candle burning on the table and smile. I like how Alex’s apartment feels—lived-in and warm. But it’s also alarmingly clean in here, the slight hint of bleach masked by the coffee-scented candle.

“You’ve been busy,” I say, looking around the cozy space.

“Needed something to do,” he replies, moving toward the kitchen. He pulls out two glasses and fills them with water. “I tend to clean when I’m overwhelmed. Picked it up when I was a kid.”

When he still lived in Canning with those awful foster parents. I can’t begin to imagine the filth they made Alex and those children live in.

He hands me a glass and our fingers brush. It’s nothing, but it sends a jolt of electricity through me.

“How are you doing?” I ask.

He gives me a weak smile. “Getting there. Halle’s been hovering, which helps even though I’d never tell her that.”

I’m grateful for Halle’s hovering too. It’s the only way I’ve known whether he’s had something to eat.