Casey should be almost done with her break, and while mine isn’t for another half an hour, they’re going to have to deal with me taking it early because I can’t exactly give them the reason why.

Just a feeling, but I doubt there’s a the guy I was supposed to kill is onto me, and I’m having an itty-bitty freak-out leave option.

This barista job was supposed to be a “no kill, new me” lifeline, and already it feels like I can’t escape my past. My past of literally a week ago, but it still counts. I’m a good guy, dammit. I made the ill-advised choice to dip my toes into the world of cloaks and daggers before backing the hell out again. Surely that gains me brownie points? I didn’t actually kill anyone. I don’t know of any other jobs with this kind of disastrous trial period.

The baddie bunch really need to get onto starting that union.

I shoulder my way out the back door into the alleyway behind the cafe.

“There he is!”

I jump around toward the voice, door slipping from my grip, and try to place where it came from. There’s a familiar chick-et right as the cafe door reopens, and a bullet sails past my head.

“Fuck,” I shout, diving toward where St. Clare is standing in the doorway. I shove him ahead of me, and another shot goes off as I barrel back inside. The restlessness bursts out of me, and I can’t hear, can’t think, can’t see.

Just scream, “Run!” even though he’s already running, and try to keep pace behind him.

We tear past the stockroom, down the hall, and back through the swinging door into the cafe. Casey is behind the counter in front of a small line of customers, and she looks over in shock, but her “Perry, what are—” is drowned out as we shove our way through the seating area, and I haul St. Clare aside to scope out the street first.

I’m expecting another gunshot, more shouts, something or anything, but when it doesn’t happen, I grab St. Clare’s arm and urge him ahead. “Go!”

He runs, and I run after him. I haven’t stopped to think about where we’re going or who shot at us or why we’re a target; I just have a feeling in my veins that it’s for St. Clare, and as convenient as it would be if someone else took him out, I’m suddenly very, very not okay with that option.

I’m running off adrenaline and feelings, and I’m sure if I’d had a second to stop and think, I definitely would have left him to fend for himself.