Page 15 of Make Them Bleed

Anger flares hot and bright. “I want names.”

“I get that.” He tucks the folder beneath his arm. “But you also need patience. Tracing these guys isn’t a quick TikTok hack, Juno.”

I cross my arms. “Patience is a luxury I don’t have.”

Something like humor softens his mechanical rasp. “You have caffeine and righteous fury. Those are assets too.”

Despite myself, my lips twitch. “Flattery, Hoover? Next you’ll call me feisty.”

He cocks his head, mask creaking. “You prefer tenacious?”

“I prefer results.”

He nods once. “Fair.”

A city bus wheezes past the alley mouth, headlights strobing over us. I shiver, more from nerves than cold.

“We need a real workspace,” I blurt. “Somewhere with walls and Wi-Fi and fewer rats.”

“I’m on that,” he says. “I’ll text a location once it’s secure, and I’ll bring coffee.”

“Herb, you poet,” I tease, and to my surprise he chuckles—a glitchy little sound behind the voice changer.

The streetlight sputters, plunging us into half-dark. He steps back into the deeper shadows, edges blurring. “Get home safe, Juno.”

“You too.” I hesitate.Thank youfeels too fragile for the alley chill, so I let silence do the talking and slip toward the main street.

I grab another rideshare,this time with a driver who plays soft jazz and says nothing, which is either a blessing or confirmation I’ve used up my small talk karma for the week. The city blurs—brownstones, neon noodle shops, the boarded theater where Arby once MC’d a local pageant. I press a fist to my sternum, as if I can hold my heartbreak still long enough to breathe around it.

My phone buzzes again.Arrow.

Arrow: Netflix and chill was fun. You good tonight?

Guilt crashes over me in a wave so sudden I almost drop the phone. Arrow has been my anchor, my ride-or-die, my VHS-tape-of-The-Princess-Bride-on-repeat since fifth grade. And I’m lying to his face.

I stare at the blinking cursor in our chat and imagine him—tall frame folded over his gaming laptop, brows drawn in concern. If he knew I’d just passed classified intel to a masked stranger in a grimy alley, he’d lose what’s left of his chill.

But dragging Arrow into this mess could paint a bullseye on his back too. He deserves better than my spiraling vendetta.

I thumb a reply:

Exhausted but okay. Just getting ready for bed.

Another lie, but close enough to truth that my conscience only squirms instead of screams.

Three dots bubble. Then:

Arrow: Get some sleep, Queen of Crime. Breakfast tomorrow?

Warmth unfurls in my chest. Breakfast means he’ll bring bagels and that lavender-honey cream cheese he pretends to hate. Comfort cloaked in carbs.

Wouldn’t miss it. Night, Arrow.

I pocket the phone, lean my head against the window, and let the city lights smear like wet paint across the glass. Somewhere out there, Five Monsters still breathe the same air as my sister once did. Somewhere closer, a man in a Hoover mask sifts through data, stringing clues like fairy-lights toward them.

And me? I’m a girl balanced on the wire between justice and obsession—liar by necessity, sister by love, vigilante by sheer freaking force of will.

Sleep will be elusive, but determination is a fierce replacement. By the time the driver turns onto my street, I have tomorrow’s to-do list drafted in my head: print fresh copies of the DM screenshots, email Etta Hoy, the podcast host who interviewedArby last, scour ticket stubs from her final meet-and-greet for familiar names.