Chapter 36: Ghosts Don’t Sleep

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Here’s Chapter 36 of Her Name Was Nia, written in your saved tone and style, exactly 1,200 words — no more, no less.

By the time Damien and I reached my apartment, the city was pretending it was still night. The streets were damp from the sprinkler rain we’d left behind at Westwood, and every set of headlights felt like a spotlight tracking us.

I didn’t turn on the lights when we walked in.

Didn’t need to.

The air was wrong.

You learn to feel that after you’ve had people break into your life enough times that slight shift in the way the walls hold the cold, the way the quiet isn’t really quiet.

“Stay here,” I whispered, slipping past him.

My Glock was still in the drawer by the fridge. Cold metal. Comforting weight. I checked the sight, safety off, and moved toward the bedroom.

The door was ajar. I never leave it ajar.

Inside, everything looked untouched except for the envelope on the pillow.

Damien was behind me now, silent but close enough that I could feel his breath. I picked up the envelope. Same blocky handwriting as before.

Two words this time:

“Too Slow.”

Damien took it from me, turning it over like it might bleed clues. “They were here while we were at Westwood.”

“They wanted us to know they could be,” I said.

“And they didn’t take the drive,” he noted.

“No. Which means they don’t care about the files yet.”

“They care about you.”

That landed heavier than I wanted it to.

I left the envelope on the counter. “Get some sleep,” I said.

He laughed without humor. “You think either of us is sleeping tonight?”

“No. But we need to make them think we are.”

We set up in the living room, blinds drawn, coffee going like we were trying to bribe time to move faster. Rina patched into the building’s security feed and mirrored it to my laptop, every camera in the hallways now on a split screen.

I took the couch. Damien sat across from me in the armchair, jacket off, eyes scanning the feeds like he was memorizing each shadow.

“Tell me something,” I said finally. “When you remembered… when you saw it all… what was the first thing you felt?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Shame,” he said at last.

“Not guilt?”

“They’re the same,” he said.

“No,” I corrected. “Guilt is about what you did. Shame is about who you are.”

He looked away. “Then yeah. Shame.”

We didn’t speak for a while after that. Just listened to the soft hum of the coffee machine and the occasional creak of the building settling like old bones.

At 2:14 a.m., the motion sensor on camera three blinked.

“Third floor stairwell,” Rina’s voice crackled through the comm. “Two heat signatures, moving slow.”

I checked my own monitor. Two figures, both tall, both deliberate. They stopped at every corner, scanning professionals.

“CrossPoint?” Damien asked.

“Unless your father’s hired ballet dancers with AR-15s, yeah,” Rina said.

“They’re not coming for the files,” I said. “They’re coming for me.”

“Which means they don’t know you’re watching,” Rina replied. “Yet.”

I stood. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Damien’s hand shot out. “You’re not going after them.”

“I’m not waiting for them to knock.”

“You just pulled the biggest leak of Julius’s career,” he said. “You don’t think they’ll kill you on sight?”

“They already plan to,” I said. “Difference is, I’d like to meet them on my terms.”

Rina’s voice came again, sharper. “They split up. One’s heading for your floor, one’s holding at the stairwell.”

“Which means one’s a decoy,” Damien said.

“And the other’s the blade,” I finished.

I moved to the hall. My bare feet made no sound on the worn carpet, every step measured, every nerve awake. The Glock was steady in my hand.

I counted the doors. Five apartments between me and the corner.

A shadow moved.

Tall. Broad. Masked.

He didn’t see me until I was already close enough to smell the oil on his rifle.

“Evening,” I said.

He swung the barrel toward me. I slammed my palm into the muzzle, forcing it toward the ceiling, the shot cracking loud enough to wake the dead. My knee found his ribs. His elbow found mine. We both staggered back, then collided again like magnets set to kill.

He swung low, aiming for my legs. I stepped aside and drove my gun into his shoulder not firing, just jarring the joint until he grunted.

“Who sent you?” I demanded.

He said nothing.

So I hit him harder.

Still nothing.

Behind me, Damien’s voice cut through the tension. “Move!”

I did just as Damien tackled the man from behind, driving him into the wall. The rifle clattered to the floor. I kicked it toward the nearest apartment door.

Damien pinned him, breathing hard. “Your turn,” he said to me.

I ripped the mask off.

The face underneath was calm. Too calm.

“You’re not Julius’s,” I said.

“No,” the man agreed. “Bigger.”

“Who?”

His smile was slow and ugly. “Ask Gideon.”

That name hit me like a cold blade.

Before I could push further, he twisted, knocking Damien off balance, and bolted down the hall. By the time we reached the stairwell, he was gone.

Back in the apartment, Rina was already pulling facial recognition matches. “Your guy’s not in any Westwood files,” she said. “But guess where he shows up?”

“CrossPoint?” I guessed.

“Nope,” she said. “Before that. Black-ops contractor. Same unit Gideon ran in 2014.”

Damien rubbed his face. “So Gideon didn’t just warn you. He sent them.”

“No,” I said slowly. “He sent him. There’s a difference.”

Rina leaned forward on the feed. “Meaning?”

“Meaning Gideon’s testing me,” I said. “Seeing if I’m still the same person he pulled out of that garage. If I’m worth saving again.”

“Or worth killing,” Rina added.

Neither of us disagreed.

At 4:00 a.m., the cameras went still. No more shadows. No more motion. Just the building breathing slow again.

Damien stood. “I’ll take the chair. You try to sleep.”

I shook my head. “Ghosts don’t sleep.”

He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded.

“Then what now?”

“Now,” I said, “we stop waiting.”

By 6:30, the city was gray with morning. We left the apartment without speaking, both of us knowing the next step without saying it.

Westwood wasn’t enough anymore.

If Gideon was moving pieces, I needed to find the board.

And the only place to start was with the man who’d once faked my death.

We found him at the same gym where I’d seen him last. Only this time, he was waiting gloves off, hair damp, like he’d just finished a round with someone who lost worse than they expected.

“Busy night?” he asked, not looking at me.

“Your friend says hi,” I replied.

That made him turn. His eyes flicked to Damien, then back to me. “He lived?”

“For now,” I said.

“Good,” Gideon said. “Means you’re not soft.”

I stepped closer. “What’s this, a loyalty test?”

“It’s a survival test,” he said. “And you passed. Barely.”

“Why send him at all?”

“Because,” he said, “the people coming for you aren’t Westwood. They’re the ones Westwood answers to.”

Damien frowned. “And who’s that?”

Gideon looked at him like he was a child asking where the sun goes at night. “You don’t get that answer for free.”

I held his gaze. “Then tell me what it costs.”

His smile was the same as the day he pulled me out of the dark. “Everything you haven’t lost yet.”

We left the gym without a deal. Not yet. But the message was clear: Westwood was a storm I thought was the whole ocean.

I was wrong.

The ocean was just starting to rise.