The rain had slowed to a heavy drizzle, fat glossy drops hanging in the air like unfinished confessions. Arya stood at the warehouse gate, boots half-drowned in puddles from the earlier raid. Her breath came in uneven pulls, chest rising and falling faster than she wanted to admit. She scanned the shadows where Rivan had vanished minutes ago, the damp wind brushing stray hair against her cheek.
“He thinks he can just disappear…”
Arya (whispers to herself): “He thinks he can just disappear… not tonight.”
Her phone buzzed sharply in her palm. It glowed against the night like a dare. An anonymous text flashed across the screen, bold, teasing, untraceable.
> “You looked gorgeous tonight in the rain, Detective.
Miss me already?” — R
Her jaw clenched, teeth grazing her lower lip. She jerked her head slightly, eyes sweeping the street. Empty. Quiet. Too quiet.
Arya (mutters, irritated): “He’s watching…”
Then — a roar of chrome and arrogance. A low, throaty bike engine growled in the distance, slicing through the wet silence. Seconds later, a sleek black bike shot past the street glow, tires kissing water like sparks, then stopped just far enough for her to see him.
Helmet still on. Smile still lethal.
Rivan (calling out, voice coated in flirt and engine smoke): “Careful, Arya… you might start enjoying the chase.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. But the ache of the moment pressed against her spine.
He flicked his wrist casually and tossed something small toward her— glinting silver against wet mist. Instinct caught it before emotion could.
Coin lands in her palm.
Cold metal, warm impact.
Etched on it: a raven engraved, wings sharp, elegant, personal. A date carved beneath the symbol— deliberate, artistic, suspicious.
Arya looked down at it, turning it once between her fingers, rain tapping it like applause.
Arya: “What’s the game this time?”
Rivan lifted his visor slightly, half a smile sneaking through like moonlight from a cracked door.
Rivan (half-smile): “A clue. Follow it if you dare.”
Water dripped from his helmet edge, racing down like punctuation.
Before she could fire back, the bike lurched forward violently—fast, playful, impatient. It sped off again, splashing water dramatically onto her boots, leaving a streak of motion and his laugh trailing like perfume.
She stood there for a moment, staring at the wet road, coin glowing in her hand, pulse matching engine echo.
Arya (under her breath, quieter this time, almost intimate):
“You’re playing with fire, Rivan… and so am I.”
She slipped the coin into h
er jacket pocket like evidence she wanted to keep.
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