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Vera doesn't sit. She stands with her back to the cracked brick, one hand pressed against her ribs, the other still holding that knife like I might bolt.
I drop the med kit on the crate between us. "You need stitches."
"I need you to shut up and listen."
"Great. I'll listen while I work." I pop the kit open. Gauze, antiseptic, a curved needle already threaded because somebody in this nightmare city thought ahead. My hands don't shake. They never do. That's the one thing Queens gave me that actually transfers.
Vera watches me lay it out. Her jaw works like she's chewing glass. Finally she peels her coat back. The slice runs under her ribs, maybe four inches, deep enough that the edges don't want to close on their own. Blood's still seeping.
I step in. She flinches.
"You want this closed or not?"
She exhales through her teeth and drops the knife on the crate. Doesn't let go of the hilt. Just rests her fingers on it.
I soak a pad in antiseptic. The smell cuts through the rust and old smoke in the air. When I press it to the wound, she hisses but doesn't pull away.
"You're Kai Lin," she says. Not a question.
"Yeah."
"From New York."
"Queens. There's a difference."
"Not here." She's staring at the wall behind me, not at my hands. "Here, you're nobody. You don't have a name that opens doors. You don't have a family mark anyone recognizes. You're just another fool who walked through the wrong gate and got himself killed."
I thread the needle. "Except I didn't."
"Yet."
The first stitch pulls her skin tight. She doesn't make a sound. I keep working. The mark under my ribs is still warm, not burning, just there. Like it's listening.
"Red Heron thinks you're someone else," Vera says.
I tie off the second stitch. "Who?"
"Doesn't matter. What matters is the mark you're carrying. They've been looking for it for six years."
"Yeah, you said that already. What I'm asking is why."
She looks down at me now. Her eyes are pale gray, the kind that look silver in bad light. Right now they look like dirty ice. "Because the last person who had it was supposed to be dead. And if you're alive, that means someone lied. Someone high up. Someone who's been building their whole life on that lie."
I finish the fourth stitch and cut the thread. My fingers are sticky with her blood. "So let me guess. You want to use me to dig up whoever that is."
"I want to use you to stay alive long enough to get answers. If that ruins someone's day, good."
I press gauze over the wound and tape it down. She doesn't thank me. Just tugs her coat back over her shoulder and picks up the knife.
"Here's the deal," she says. "You play the part. You show up where I tell you, say what I tell you to say, and let Red Heron think they found their missing prince. I keep you breathing. You get what you need to go home."
"And what do you get?"
"My name back. My sister's future. And the head of the man who took both."
I wipe my hands on a rag. The mark under my ribs pulses once, slow, like a second heartbeat. "What if I say no?"
Vera tilts her head. The knife turns in her hand, casual, like she's flipping a coin. "Then you walk out that door and see how long you last. Maybe an hour. Maybe two, if you're lucky and stupid enough to hide. But they'll find you. And when they do, they won't ask nice questions. They'll cut that mark out of your chest and leave the rest of you in the river."
The room's too quiet. No traffic. No sirens. Just the faint drip of water somewhere deeper in the building.
I meet her eyes. "You pulled a knife on me ten minutes ago."
"Yeah."
"You told me I should be dead."
"You should."
"So why the hell should I trust you?"
She steps closer. Not fast. Not a threat. Just close enough that I can see the split in her lip from whatever fight she was in before she found me, close enough that the smell of blood and cold steel fills the space between us.
"You shouldn't," she says. Her voice drops, rough and low. "But you're going to. Because I'm the only one in this city who's told you the truth. Everyone else is going to smile and lie and slide a blade between your ribs the second you stop being useful. I'm the one who'll tell you when the blade's coming."
Her hand comes up. I don't move. She presses two fingers against my chest, right over the mark. The touch is light, clinical, but the heat from the mark flares under her fingertips.
Her eyes widen, just a fraction. Then she pulls back.
"That's not just a brand," she says quietly. "That's active. That's old gate work. The kind they banned after the Collapse."
"What's it do?"
"Turns pain into power. The more you bleed, the harder you hit. The more you break, the faster you move." She slides the knife back into her belt. "It's a weapon. And you're wearing it."
I look down at my chest. Under the torn shirt, under the skin, I can feel it. Warm. Waiting.
"So what happens if I say yes?"
"You meet the family. I clean you up, teach you the name, walk you through the motions. You show them the mark, let them think you're theirs, and we find out who's been covering up the last six years."
"And if they figure out I'm faking?"
Vera smiles. It's not a nice smile. "Then we both die. But at least you'll go down swinging."
I should walk. I should find another way. But the mark's burning now, steady and slow, and Vera's right about one thing: I don't know this place. I don't know the rules. And the people hunting me aren't going to stop because I want to go home.
"One condition," I say.
"No."
"You don't get another knife out unless I see it coming."
She stares at me. Then she laughs, short and sharp. "Fine. No knives unless you're watching."
She holds out her hand.
I take it. Her grip's strong, her palm rough with calluses. The deal settles between us like a live wire.
"Welcome to Red Heron, Kai Lin," she says. "Or whatever name they're going to call you."
She lets go and turns toward the door. I'm about to follow when a voice cuts through the dark.
"Sparrow."
I freeze.
That name. I haven't heard that name in eight years. Not since my father stopped coming home. Not since the last time he tucked a photo in my jacket and told me to keep my head down.
Vera spins, blade already in her hand. But the man stepping out of the shadows isn't looking at her.
He's looking at me.
He's older, maybe fifty, with a scar running from his temple to his jaw. His coat's dark red, embroidered with a heron in flight. And his eyes—
His eyes are the same pale gray as Vera's.
"Sparrow," he says again, quieter this time. "Your father told me you'd come back."
My mouth goes dry. Vera's staring at me now, her knife still raised, her face blank with shock.
The man takes another step. He's not armed. At least, not that I can see.
"Who the hell are you?" I manage.
He smiles. It's sad. Tired. "Someone who's been waiting a long time to see if you survived."