Page 69 of Fractured Devotion (Tainted Souls #1)

Another city. Another face in the crowd.

I sit outside a cafe, tucked into a corner where the light barely touches. The air here is warmer, thick with spices and diesel and the murmur of people who don’t know my name.

Good.

That anonymity is the closest thing I have to peace.

I sip bitter coffee, watching the street and tracking the subtle movements in a way that never leaves me. I spot the exchange happening across the square. Two men. One envelope. I know what’s inside without needing to see it.

Corruption blooms everywhere.

And I root it out, discreetly and unseen.

It isn’t about justice anymore.

It isn’t even about revenge.

It’s just what I do.

I flick my lighter open, the flame catching before I light the cigarette perched between my lips.

Some habits stay.

Some ghosts linger.

I lean back in the chair, my eyes half-lidded as I let the smoke curl around me.

She’s still in my head.

Celeste.

Always.

But it doesn’t ache the way it used to.

I take the phone out of my pocket, the screen dark but familiar.

There are no messages.

There never are.

But I still check.

I tap into the old network, one I’ve kept hidden even from myself, and watch the muted surveillance feed of a town far from here.

There she is.

She walks through the small clinic’s front doors, her head high, her eyes calm.

She’s thriving.

I smile around the cigarette, something dark and almost fond twisting in my chest.

I don’t linger.

I shut the feed off.

She’s free.

And I have my own path to follow.

I finish the cigarette down to the filter before stamping it out beneath my boot.

The square clears little by little, the day’s heat pressing down as people scatter.

I stay seated.

Movement isn’t necessary yet.

A man slides into the chair across from me, uninvited but expected.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just sets a black envelope on the table between us.

“Another name,” he says, his voice rough from either too much smoke or too many secrets.

I don’t reach for the envelope.

Instead, I stare at it, feeling the weight of it before I’ve even touched it.

Another job.

Another rot to excise.

“This one matters,” he adds.

I finally meet his eyes. “They always say that.”

He smirks, tapping his fingers once on the envelope before standing. “You’ll see.”

Then, he leaves without another word.

I stare at the envelope a moment longer, then slide it into my coat.

Later.

Now, I walk.

The streets here are winding and narrow, lined with buildings too old to care about who walks them.

I like that.

I walk until the sun dips below the horizon, until the lights flicker on, and the city softens into a calmer, dimmer rhythm.

I end up at the edge of the old district, staring out at the water, my cigarette burning low between my fingers.

I think about her again.

Not with longing.

Not with regret.

But with unquantified respect.

She chose her freedom.

I chose mine.

But some ties never sever completely.

I reach into my coat, pulling out the small, folded letter I’ve carried for weeks now.

Her name is on the front.

It’s written in my own hand.

I could send it.

I could burn it.

But instead, I slip it back inside my coat.

Some words are meant only for the one carrying them.

And this one stays with me.

For now.

Night thickens around me as I lean against the old stone wall by the docks, watching the water lap against the edges.

The letter feels heavier now, the paper worn soft from my fingertips tracing over it again and again.

I think about what I wrote in it.

I never begged.

I never asked for forgiveness.

I just told her the truth.

I told her that leaving her wasn’t me running away. That it was letting her breathe without my shadow pressing close.

That she saved me in ways she’d never fully understand.

That I loved her, still do, and probably always will.

I meant every word.

But words on paper are easy.

It’s the sending that costs.

I glance over my shoulder, spotting the narrow alley where I know the runners pass through each night.

One letter, one name, one destination.

I can send it.

And then let it go.

I close my eyes, hearing her laughter from old memories, soft and bright.

She’s free.

But maybe she should know that I am too.

I push off the wall and walk toward the alley with purpose.

The runner waits, young and wiry, leaning against the wall with sharp eyes.

I pass the letter to him.

“Deliver it. No questions. No names.”

He nods once, sliding it into his satchel.

Simple.

Done.

As I walk away, something unknots in my chest.

Whatever happens when she reads it, it belongs to her now.

And for the first time in too long, I let myself hope she smiles when she does.

I leave the docks behind, walking through streets that no longer feel as heavy.

The wind picks up, warm against my face, carrying the scent of salt and jasmine from the market nearby.

I don’t head back to the safehouse.

Not tonight.

Instead, I keep walking, letting the city stretch out in front of me, unmarked and unthreatening.

Thoughts of her are a constant on my mind.

Not the ache, not the longing.

Just her face in the sunlight and the softness that came after the storm.

I wonder if she’ll write back.

I don’t expect her to.

But there’s a strange peace in knowing she might smile when she reads it.

A reminder that not all endings need to be bitter.

I stop at a quiet corner and stare up at an old apartment window with the shutters half-closed.

Inside, soft music plays.

It doesn’t feel like a coincidence.

Somewhere, in the reality of this new life, I understand something I never believed I could.

I was never meant to keep her.

But we don’t have to carry each other like burdens anymore.

We can just let the love exist.

Uncomplicated and unbroken.

I slip my hands into my pockets and keep walking, the night stretching ahead, no longer feeling like an exile.

For the first time in my life, I feel something like freedom.

And it doesn’t terrify me.

Not anymore.

I stop by a vendor on the edge of the market and buy a small, worn notebook and a cheap pen.

It feels right to start something new.

In a nearby square, I sit down on a worn bench, the stone cool beneath me.

I open the notebook and let the pen glide across the page.

No names.

No targets.

No blood.

Just the beginning of something different.

I write about the city.

About the way the air smells at night.

About freedom.

About peace.

And somewhere between the lines, I write about her.

Not as a ghost.

Not as regret.

But as something beautiful that existed exactly as it needed to.

I close the notebook after the first page, tucking it into my coat.

This city isn’t mine.

But maybe, just maybe, I can let it become home.

The night stretches ahead, full of possibility.

And for the first time, I feel like I’m walking toward something instead of away.

I stand, hands in my pockets, the weight of the notebook warm against my chest.

The future is unwritten.

And I am finally ready to meet it.