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Layla didn't sleep.
She sat on the floor with her back against the couch, staring at the cardboard box she'd dragged out from under her bed an hour ago. The one she'd shoved there three years back and never opened since. The one that still smelled like dust and her mother's lavender drawer liners.
She shouldn't open it. Cole said come in tomorrow. He didn't say go digging tonight.
But her hands were already pulling the tape off.
Inside: a stack of birthday cards she'd never answered. A ceramic mug with a chipped handle. A knit scarf her mom made the winter before she stopped calling. And underneath all that, wedged in the corner, a photo album bound in cracked leather.
Layla flipped it open. The plastic sleeves crinkled. Most of the pictures were gone—her mom must've taken them when she moved out—but a few remained, stuck to the adhesive backing. Baby photos. Layla maybe two or three, sitting in a high chair with cake smeared on her face. Another one in a park, her mom holding her up to a swing.
She turned the page. There, tucked half behind a sleeve, was a photo she'd never seen before. It wasn't stuck down. Just loose.
She pulled it out.
It was a hospital picture. Her mom, younger, thinner, holding a newborn wrapped in a white blanket. The baby's face was barely visible, just a tuft of dark hair. Her mom wasn't smiling. She looked exhausted. Scared, maybe.
Layla's chest tightened.
She flipped the photo over.
There was writing on the back. Not her mom's looping cursive. This was printed, neat block letters in blue ink: *Subject N-7. DOB 03.14. Transfer approved.*
And below that, smaller, someone had scrawled in pencil: *Keep her safe. They're coming.*
Layla's breath caught.
N-7.
Null.
She read it again. Then again. The pencil smudge at the corner. The blue ink starting to fade. This wasn't some random hospital photo. This was evidence. Her mom had kept it. Hidden it. And now Layla was holding proof that she wasn't just missing from the system by accident.
She was erased on purpose.
Her phone buzzed on the couch above her head. She flinched, nearly dropped the photo. The screen lit up. A number she didn't recognize.
She let it ring out.
Two seconds later, it buzzed again. Same number.
Layla grabbed it, swiped to answer. "What."
"You're awake." Cole's voice. Flat, no greeting. "Good. Don't leave your apartment."
She stood up fast, photo still in her hand. "Why? What happened?"
"Someone just tried to access your building's entry log through HQ's network. They pulled the timestamp from when I walked you home tonight."
"Who?"
"Don't know yet. The trace bounced through three proxies before it cut off. But whoever it was, they're looking for you. And they're not using official channels."
Her stomach dropped. "So what am I supposed to do, just sit here and wait for them to show up?"
"I'm two blocks away. I'll be there in three minutes. Lock your door. Don't open it for anyone but me."
The line went dead.
Layla stared at the phone. Then at the photo in her other hand. The note. *They're coming.*
Her mom knew.
She'd known eighteen years ago, and she still gave Layla up. Still signed whatever papers they put in front of her. Still walked away and let them turn her daughter into a ghost.
Layla's hands started shaking. Not from fear this time. From anger.
She crossed to the kitchen, turned on the gas stove, and held the photo over the flame.
The corner caught first. The paper curled, blackened, and the ink started to bubble. She watched her mom's face warp and disappear into ash. Watched the baby blanket turn to char. She should've done this years ago. Burned every piece of her mother out of her life and moved on.
But right before the fire reached the note on the back, she saw something else.
A stamp. Tiny, almost hidden in the margin. A circular logo with three interlocking lines and a string of numbers below it: *LC-603*.
She yanked the photo back, blew out the flame. Half of it was gone, but the stamp was still there. Faint, but legible.
LC.
She'd seen that before. Where?
A knock at the door made her jump. She dropped the photo on the counter, her heart hammering. "Who is it?"
"It's me. Open up."
Cole.
She crossed the room, checked the peephole. He was alone, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes scanning the hallway behind him. She unlocked the door and pulled it open.
He stepped inside without asking, shut the door, and locked it behind him. Then he looked at her. His gaze flicked to the counter. To the half-burned photo.
"What's that?"
"Nothing."
"Layla."
"I said it's nothing." She moved to block his view, but he was already past her, picking up what was left of the photo. He turned it over, squinted at the stamp.
His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture. His jaw tightened.
"Where did you get this?"
"My mom's stuff. I found it tonight."
He pulled out his phone, took a picture of the stamp, then set the burned photo back down. "LC-603. That's a lab code. Lyndon Crest facility. It was shut down nineteen years ago after the explosion."
"The same explosion you told me about?"
"Yeah." He looked at her. "This photo was taken there. That's not a hospital. That's the maternity wing they used for the Null subjects."
Layla's throat went dry. "So that baby—"
"Is you." He said it like it was obvious. Like she should've already known. "Subject N-7. The one who disappeared after the fire. The one they never found."
She wanted to sit down. Her legs felt weak. But she stayed standing, because if she sat, she'd fall apart, and she couldn't afford that right now. "If they never found me, how do you know I'm still alive? How do you know I didn't die in the fire?"
"Because you're standing in front of me." He pocketed his phone. "And because someone just tried to pull your location through a network they shouldn't have access to. That means they know you're alive. They've known for a while."
"Then why come after me now?"
"Because I showed up at your door tonight. Because HQ's involved now, and that changes the game. Whoever's been watching you, they can't afford to let you get pulled in for questioning."
Layla's pulse was racing. "So what, they're going to kill me?"
"Not if I get you to HQ first." He glanced at his watch. "We leave in ten minutes. Pack light. One bag."
"I thought you said I had until tomorrow."
"That was before someone started hunting you in real time. You stay here, you're a sitting target. You come with me, I can keep you in a secure wing until we figure out who's tracking you and why."
She didn't move. "And if I say no?"
"Then I'll arrest you for obstruction and drag you there anyway." His tone didn't change. "Your choice. But either way, you're not staying here."
Layla stared at him. He wasn't bluffing. She could see it in his eyes—cold, methodical, already three steps ahead. He didn't care if she wanted to run. He didn't care if she hated him for this. He had a job to do, and she was part of it now.
She hated that he was right.
"Fine." She turned toward her bedroom. "Ten minutes."
She grabbed a duffel bag from her closet and started throwing things in. Clothes. Toothbrush. Her phone charger. Her hands were still shaking, but she kept moving. If she stopped, she'd start thinking, and if she started thinking, she'd remember the note. *They're coming.*
Her mom knew.
And she still let them take her.
Layla zipped the bag shut, slung it over her shoulder, and walked back into the living room. Cole was by the window, looking down at the street. He didn't turn around.
"There's a car outside. Black sedan, no plates. It wasn't there when I got here."
Her stomach twisted. "Is it them?"
"Probably." He finally looked at her. "We're not using the front door. There's a service exit in the basement. It leads to the alley behind the building. My car's parked two blocks east."
"And if they're watching the alley too?"
"Then we run."
He said it so casually. Like running from people who wanted her dead was just another Tuesday.
Layla followed him to the door. He opened it, checked the hallway, then motioned for her to move. They took the stairs instead of the elevator, their footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell. Four flights down. Then three. Then two.
They reached the basement level. Cole pushed open the door and they stepped into a narrow hallway lined with storage units and water heaters. The air smelled like mildew and rust. At the far end, a red exit sign glowed above a metal door.
Cole walked fast. Layla kept pace. Her bag thumped against her hip with every step. They were almost at the door when she heard it.
Footsteps. Above them. Coming down the stairs.
Cole grabbed her arm, pulled her behind a stack of plastic bins. They crouched low. His hand went to his jacket, and she realized he was armed. She hadn't noticed before.
The footsteps got louder. Then stopped.
Someone was standing at the top of the basement stairs. Listening.
Layla held her breath.
A voice cut through the silence. Familiar. Too familiar.
"Layla, I know you're down there."
Evan.
Cole's grip on her arm tightened. He leaned close, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't answer him."
But Evan kept talking, his tone calm, almost friendly. "Cole's with you, right? That's his car outside. You don't have to run. I just want to talk."
Layla's chest hurt. She didn't know if it was fear or rage or both.
Evan's footsteps started again. Descending. Slow and deliberate. "I know about the photo, Layla. The one your mom kept. I need you to give it to me."
Cole's jaw clenched. He pulled his gun, kept it low.
Evan reached the bottom of the stairs. She could see his shadow stretching across the floor. He was close. Maybe ten feet away.
"I'm not here to hurt you," Evan said. "I'm here to help. But if HQ gets that photo, they'll bury you. And I can't let that happen."
Cole stood up. Gun aimed. "Turn around and walk away, Hart."
Evan froze. Then slowly, he raised his hands. But he was smiling. "You're making this harder than it needs to be, Black."
"Last warning."
"You think HQ's going to protect her?" Evan's smile widened. "They're the ones who want her dead."