A two-minute walk is hardly through a wardrobe, but I let him have it. Dev, Felix, and I might need additional security and disguises to breathe in public, but Colt’s on the ride with us. He went from winding cables and drinking at our shows to holding back increasingly aggressive fans and coordinating with a security team.

The others flood out along with the other bodyguards, Anton and Henry. I push off the wall and grab my guitar case. We navigate through the throng of people. I’ve only been to Seattle for shows, never having a chance to explore. I’m tempted to check out every side street and dip into the coffee shops. Other than when I ditched Colt in Prague, I haven’t gotten to wander for a while. I feel it now. The restlessness.

I glance at Remi up ahead, strap falling off her shoulder.

A street band blocks out the buzz of voices once we get to the corner. The music drowns out everything while we wait at the pedestrian light. Colt’s scanning ahead, Christian is on his phone, and I almost miss the panicked, “Hey,” right before Remi crashes into me.

I catch her as a guy in a denim jacket dashes between tourists with a camera bag. “Shit.” Then I have to grab Remi again when she starts running after him. “What⁠—”

She jerks around, and the absolute heartbreak on her face shreds deep, through the armor and into my marrow.

“My dad’s card. Foster⁠—”

I miss anything else, already dodging around her, case dropped, and forcing my way through the crowd.

People are fucking everywhere, shouts and laughs and more music. I weave around who I can and shoulder-check the rest, following glimpses of denim and the bag anytime he lifts it higher to squeeze through.

He clears a slight path by knocking bodies out of the way for me. I narrow his lead enough that I’m only a few seconds behind when he cuts a hard right. I breach the herd of tourists and sprint down a mostly empty alley after him.

The dude glances over his shoulder to check on me, and as he turns back, his foot slips on the wet cobblestone. It slides out from under him, and he barely saves his ass from hitting the ground before I catch up, gripping the collar of his jacket. I yank him toward the nearest wall and shove him against it, hand around his throat to keep him there.

“Wrong. Fucking. Bag,” I bite out.

“No, no, no.” His panicked gaze darts to the side at someone else running toward us. “Take the bag. Take it.”

I rip it out of his hands, releasing him at the same time Colton pushes between us. The guy scrambles away, nearly falling again, and Colt turns on me, jaw hard and eyes murderous.

“What the actual fuck?” His nostrils flare, his breaths heightened like mine while he crowds me.