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The bond's still humming under Rona's skin when she hears boots crunching gravel behind her.
"Rona!" Dax's voice. Close. Too close.
She's crouched in the rubble behind the blown transformer, hand pressed to the concrete like she's holding herself upright. The blood on her palm is dry now. Cold. Mom's last memory is still sitting in her chest like a swallowed stone. Dad was there. Right there. And Mom was scared.
She shoves to her feet. Her knee pops. The bond flickers, tugging west.
"Rona, you good?" Dax is twenty meters out, rifle up, scanning the tree line. He hasn't seen her yet.
She could call back. She could fall in. Go back to the perimeter, let Dad's team tighten the net, let them put three rounds in Ghost's spine and close the file. That's the play. That's always been the play.
But the bond says Ghost is still moving. And the bond doesn't lie.
Rona ducks lower and goes the other way.
The dirt road splits a hundred meters past the transformer. Left goes back toward the highway, the lights, the trucks. Right drops into the industrial zone—old storage units, a gutted rail depot, shipping containers stacked like rotted teeth. Ghost went right. Rona knows it the way you know which way the wind's blowing. The bond hums a little harder when she turns that direction, a hook behind her sternum pulling her forward.
She keeps to the shadows. Doesn't run. Running makes noise, makes heat, makes Dax's scope find you.
The first blood trail is easy to spot. Smeared on a container door, chest height. Fresh. Still glossy under the LED glow from the depot fence. Rona crouches, touches it with two fingers. Warm. Maybe five minutes old.
Then she sees the second trail.
It's not on the door. It's on the ground, ten feet east, dragged in a line like someone got hauled by the collar. The drops are smaller. Spatter pattern's different. This one doesn't smell like Ghost. It smells like fear-sweat and piss.
Rona's stomach twists.
Two trails. One leads to Ghost. One leads to—what? She doesn't want to finish the thought.
She stands. The bond pulls west. The other blood trail goes south.
She follows the bond.
The rail depot used to be a repair yard. Now it's a junkyard with a fence. Rona slips through a gap where the chain-link's peeled back, catches her jacket on a barb, rips free. Inside it smells like rust and diesel and something older. Something rotten.
Her phone buzzes. She yanks it out. Text from Dad: *Stay on the line. We're closing in.*
She doesn't answer. Shoves it back in her pocket, kills the vibrate.
The bond tugs left. She follows it past a row of gutted freight cars, their doors hanging open like mouths. The ground's uneven, broken concrete and rail ties, and she nearly rolls her ankle twice. Her breathing's loud in her own ears. She's not good at this. Dax is good at this. Dad is good at this. She's good at bandages and bad coffee and staying out of the way.
But the bond doesn't care.
She rounds the last freight car and stops.
There's a platform ahead. Loading dock, maybe. The roof's half-caved, and there's a stack of pallets rotting against the far wall. No movement. No sound.
But the bond's screaming now. It's not a tug anymore. It's a fist around her lungs.
Ghost is close.
Rona pulls the little pistol Dad gave her. The one she's never fired outside a range. Her hands are shaking. She clicks the safety off, and it sounds like a gunshot in the quiet.
"Don't."
The voice comes from above.
Rona spins, gun up, and there she is.
Ghost.
She's perched on top of the freight car, one boot on the edge, silhouette sharp against the orange sodium lights beyond the fence. Blood's running down her left arm, dripping off her fingers. Her other hand's empty. No gun. No knife.
Just her eyes.
They're the same color as Mom's.
Rona's throat closes.
"You're Lena's kid," Ghost says. Not a question. Her voice is rough, like she's been screaming. Or crying. "You look just like her."
Rona doesn't lower the gun. Can't. "You knew my mom."
"Yeah." Ghost shifts her weight, and for a second Rona thinks she's going to jump down. She doesn't. "I knew her. Worked with her. Right up until your dad put a bullet in her spine."
The world tilts.
"That's a lie," Rona says, but her voice cracks.
"Is it?" Ghost tilts her head. "Then why are you here? Why'd you follow me instead of falling in line like a good little Kash?"
Because the bond pulled me. Because I saw Mom's memory and Dad was there and she was scared. Because I don't know what's true anymore.
Rona doesn't say any of that. She just stands there, gun up, shaking.
Ghost watches her for a long moment. Then she nods, like Rona just confirmed something.
"You bonded me," Ghost says. "Didn't you."
Rona's jaw tightens. "Yeah."
"That's why you didn't shoot."
"That's why I can't."
Ghost laughs. It's a bitter sound, sharp as broken glass. "Your mom had the same ability. You know that?"
No. She didn't.
"They didn't tell you." Ghost's smile fades. "Of course they didn't. They don't want you to know what she could do. What you can do. Because the second you figure it out, you're dangerous."
Rona's heart is slamming against her ribs. "What are you talking about?"
Ghost opens her mouth. Then her eyes flick past Rona, toward the freight cars, and her whole body goes rigid.
"Run," she says.
"What—"
"RUN!"
Ghost jumps. Not down. Up. She catches the edge of the roof, hauls herself over, and she's gone.
Rona spins.
There's a man standing at the gap between the freight cars. Tall. Dark jacket. Rifle slung low.
Not Dax.
Not Dad.
Someone else.
He doesn't say anything. Just raises the rifle.
Rona dives behind the pallet stack as the first shot cracks the air. Wood explodes above her head. She hits the ground hard, tastes blood, scrambles on her hands and knees toward the loading platform. Another shot. This one punches through the pallet an inch from her shoulder.
She doesn't think. Just moves.
Up onto the platform. Through the busted door. Into the dark.
It's an old office. Desks overturned, filing cabinets gutted, papers everywhere. She slams the door, shoves a desk against it, and backs into the far corner. Her gun's still in her hand. She doesn't remember holding onto it.
Footsteps outside. Slow. Methodical.
She's going to die here.
Then she sees the wall.
There's writing on it. Big letters. Finger-painted in blood.
**DON'T TRUST GRIMM. YOUR NAME IS IN THE LEDGER.**
Rona stares.
The footsteps stop outside the door.
Someone tries the handle.