Chapter 113

Chapter 113
Derek is a silhouette in the doorway, shoulders squared like a boxer between rounds and head tilted forward so the shadow swallows his eyes. The sallow lamplight from outside catches only the sharp edges of him—the knife-ridge of his nose, the granite shelf of his jaw, the weather-beaten archipelago of scars that map his face. He watches, silent as a predator, as Ethan and the contact hover over the crate, their fingers making nervous spiders in the dust. The transaction unfolds beneath the sickly green-white glow of an overhead bulb that buzzes and blinks like it's sending desperate Morse code, casting their movements in a stuttering film-reel of light and darkness.
Ethan’s body is coiled tight, but the contact is loose, almost lazy, fingers tapping the plywood in a rhythm too casual for the tension in the air. Derek keeps his breath even, waits for the moment when the mask slips, when the real business starts.

He doesn't have to wait long. As Ethan flips through the stack of documents, his fingers leaving damp half-moons on the yellowed corners, the contact leans in close enough that Derek can see the man's stubble catching the sickly fluorescent light. The contact's breath smells of stale coffee and cheaper cigarettes, his voice low and wet with contempt, like gravel being turned over in motor oil: "You know, kid, you never get what you want for free. You keep chasing ghosts, they're gonna start chasing you back."

Ethan snaps, “I just want the truth.”

The contact smirks, lifts his chin. “Yeah? You’re not gonna like it.” He jabs a finger at the top page. “See that? That’s your real family. All of ‘em liars. Not just the guy you call Dad. All of ‘em. Goes back farther than you think.”

Ethan freezes, lips pressed thin as he scans the print. “Who’s Lila?”

The contact’s expression changes. He glances over Ethan’s shoulder—toward the darkness where Derek stands—and for a second, the bravado wavers. “You ask too many questions,” he says, stepping back.

Derek can feel the shift in air, the split-second before the contact bolts for the exit. He moves, fast, blocking the path with one planted boot. The contact ricochets off Derek’s chest, surprise draining all the color from his face.

Derek’s voice is iron, flat and unyielding: “You’re not done. Who sent you?”

The contact tries to recover, tries to duck, but Derek’s hand clamps his shoulder, pinning him against a steel support. The sound is dull, bone on bone, echoing up into the metal rafters.

Ethan moves in, papers clutched in one hand, the other fist tight at his side. “Tell me,” he says, voice brittle, “who paid you to follow me?”

The contact writhes, but Derek’s grip doesn’t budge. For a moment, it’s a standstill—breath, heartbeat, the throb of fluorescent light. Then the contact breaks, anger turning sour. “Nobody! It was a job, okay? I get a tip, I follow up, I get paid. Name means nothing to me.”

Derek leans in, his face inches from the contact’s. “What’s the name?”

A pause. “She’s called Lila. That’s all I know.” The contact spits the words, panic eroding his swagger. “She wants the kid kept safe. That’s it.”

Derek’s eyes bore into him, searching for the lie. He doesn’t find one, or maybe he does and decides it doesn’t matter. He releases his hold, and the contact stumbles back, gasping.

Ethan isn’t finished. “Where do I find her?”

The contact wipes his mouth, glances again at the exit, then at Derek, calculating the odds. “She’s in the city. You want to find her, she’ll find you first.”

Derek steps forward, herding the man toward the open door. “You’re done here. If I see you again, you won’t walk away.” His tone is glacial, a promise of violence Ethan has never heard before.

The contact doesn’t need telling twice. He slinks out, footsteps fading down the corridor.

Now only the buzz of the dying light and the sound of Ethan’s breath fill the void.

Ethan turns to Derek, eyes wild. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Derek wants to answer, but the words are broken glass in his throat. “I was protecting you,” he says. “At least, I thought I was.”

Ethan shakes his head, steps back. “Does it ever stop?” He gestures at the evidence in his hand. “The lies, the secrets?”

Derek doesn’t reply. He looks at Ethan, really looks at him—the clenched jaw, the rage trembling in his hands, the way the night has already aged him by a decade.

The silence is a living thing, wound tight around them. Finally, Derek turns for the exit, holding the door for Ethan. “We should go. It’s not safe here.”

Ethan follows, but as he crosses the threshold, he glances back at the abandoned crate, the empty warehouse, the last scraps of his old life. The city outside is brutal with cold and neon, but at least it’s honest.

They disappear into the night, the warehouse sealing its secrets behind them.