Page 7 of Make Them Bleed

“Define ‘safe.’”

“Breathing. Unshot. Preferably with all your limbs.”

I chew my lip as I assess him. Every instinct screams trap, yet something about him—maybe the way he keeps just enough distance, like he’s more worried about scaring me than himself—makes me want to trust him. “And in return?”

“I’ll share everything I uncover. You’ll have full transparency.”

I narrow my gaze. “But you’reAnonymous Hoover. How do I know you’re not one of them?”

He lifts gloved hands, palms out. “You don’t. Same way I don’t know if you’re bait.”

Point taken. “Fine. Mutual distrust. We’ll bond over it.”

A strangled laugh filters through the modulator. “Deal?” He extends a pinky—ridiculous and childish and strangely disarming.

I stare, then hook mine with his. “Deal.”

The moment the promise locks, adrenaline drains, leaving shaky relief.I have an ally. Finally.

“We start tomorrow,” Hoover says, releasing my pinky. “I’ll text a time and place. You bring everything you have—screenshots, timestamps, Arby’s schedules, enemies list.”

I nod. “Already organized.”

“Of course it is,” he mutters.

Lightning quick, curiosity sparks. “Why do you care? You could’ve ignored my post like everyone else.”

A pause long enough to count my heartbeats. “Let’s just say you moved me to make a difference.”

It’s vague, but sincerity hums beneath the metallic filter.

“Well, Hoover,” I say, a half smile tugging at my lips. “Let’s go make a difference.”

He salutes two fingers to the brim of his rubber mask. “Stay safe, Juno Kate.”

Before I can answer, he melts into the shadows. The alley looks emptier than when I arrived, like he took half the darkness with him.

Back inside the café, I order a decaf tea I don’t want and grip the warm cup until my fingers stop trembling. Part of me knows trusting a masked vigilante named after a failed president is reckless. The other part—the broken, furious part—feels the first spark of hope since Arby’s scream cut the air.

Hope wears strange masks sometimes. Tonight, it’s Herbert Hoover.

4

Arrow

The second Juno slips back into the Bean Flicker, I stay welded to the alley’s brick wall, waiting for my adrenaline to simmer down. My lungs still churn like I ran a marathon, even though the only cardio I’ve managed tonight is anxiety. But she’s alive. She’s safe. She has a partner—me, apparently—and that single fact steadies my pulse more than any breathing technique a therapist could sell.

I peer around the corner just in time to spot her through the café window. She orders something and hugs the mug like it’s a thermal security blanket. The tension in her shoulders loosens by degrees. I watch every millimeter of those slackening muscles, counting it as proof I did the right thing by stepping into her vigilante job posting.

Still, spying on your best friend from an alley might rank as peak creep behavior.

Price of admission, Finn, I remind myself. I can’t protect her if I’m not willing to get my hands dirty.

Juno sips while scrolling on her phone. She’s trembling less now. Eventually she exhales a breath that fogs the glass in front of her. She gathers her bag and slips out the front door. I melt deeper into the shadows until she hails a rideshare. The sedan’s interior light flicks on when she climbs inside. I memorize the license plate—an old habit from my true-crime-podcast addiction—and snap a quick photo with my burner phone. The car rolls away, taillights glowing like wary eyes.

I jog to my bike chained nearby. Not the cool kind of bike—just a blue Schwinn hybrid I bought used. I pedal at a leisurely distance, tracking the sedan’s progress through back streets. Saint Pierce at midnight is quieter than you’d think for a city bleeding neon; only a handful of ride-hailed cars glide down the avenue, headlights carving pale tunnels.

The driver drops Juno a block from her apartment, exactly like the safety courses recommend. She exits the vehicle, then marches the short stretch to her building, keys ready between knuckles like brass claws. I hover beneath the awning of a closed bakery, my hood pulled up. She scans the street—senses tingling; Juno’s always been intuitive—but doesn’t spot me in the gloom. She slips inside, the security door clicking shut.