Manhattan didn't sleep. That was something Xaden had come to appreciate.
The city at 2 AM was a different animal than the one that existed during daylight—quieter, stripped of its performance, almost honest. The crowds thinned to scattered clusters of people with their own reasons for being awake. No one bothered pretending anymore. No networking. No small talk. Just insomniacs, night shift workers, and people like him who couldn't quite remember how to rest.
Xaden walked north through SoHo, gym bag slung over one shoulder, muscles still warm from two hours of trying to exhaust himself into something close to peace. It never fully worked. The venin mark beneath his sleeve pulsed faintly with every heartbeat, a reminder that some things couldn't be burned away with reps and discipline.
But it helped. Structure helped. Even if the only structure he had left was showing up to a 24-hour gym at midnight and punishing his body until his mind went quiet.
The streets were nearly empty—just the occasional cab cutting through intersections, a few stragglers stumbling out of bars, the distant wail of sirens that never really stopped in this city. Xaden kept his pace measured, hands loose at his sides, aware of his surroundings the way he'd been trained to be. Old instincts didn't fade just because the battlefield changed.
He was two blocks from his building when he saw them.
A familiar face cutting through the glow of streetlights. Someone he'd seen before—rooftop bar a few weeks back, maybe, or one of those insufferable networking events someone had dragged him to. The kind of presence that lingered because it didn't quite match the environment. Too composed. Too deliberate. Walking alone at nearly 3 AM like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Xaden slowed, recognition sparking before he could stop it.
Most people who looked that put-together didn't wander empty streets at this hour. Either they had a reason to be out here, or they were running from something. Maybe both.
His instincts kicked in automatically—assess the threat level, clock the exits, determine if intervention was necessary. He wasn't looking for trouble. Wasn't looking to play hero. But three months in Manhattan hadn't completely stripped him of the reflexes that kept 107 people alive.
He changed his trajectory slightly, angling closer but not crowding, footsteps deliberate enough to announce his presence without startling them.
"Little late for a walk," he said, voice low and even, carrying just enough to reach them without echoing down the empty street. Not a question. Not quite a warning. Just an observation from someone who recognized another person who didn't sleep right.
He stopped a few feet away, gym bag shifting against his shoulder, dark eyes meeting theirs with the kind of directness that didn't bother with polite pretense.
"Unless you're also trying to figure out what the hell to do with the hours between midnight and dawn."
A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, like he was admitting to something:
No last name. No explanation for why he was out here either.
Just two people who'd ended up in the same place at the wrong time of night—or maybe exactly the right one. @ggstarterblog