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"Got a good look at your hoodie, asshole" I screamed toward the figure, the bitter taste of adrenaline sweetened by a hint of dark humor. "You better hope I don't catch you, or it'll be more than just your fashion sense getting critiqued."
But deep down, something gnawed at me, a suspicion that whoever this mystery runner was, they were tied to the same twisted threads that bound me to this godforsaken shithole of a city.
"Running's only gonna make it worse!" I yelled, but the roar of rain swallowed my words. It didn't matter. I wasn't just chasing him; I was chasing answers, chasing ghosts.
And I'd be damned if I didn't catch them both.
The slick cobblestones were treacherous underfoot, but I navigated them with the grace of a cat—a really pissed-off cat.
My lungs burned, my muscles screamed, but it was the adrenaline that sang sweetest in my veins. There he was, barely a few strides ahead, the hem of his hoodie taunting me. Close enough to touch, if I could just?—
"Gotcha you son of a bitch!" My fingers closed around the fabric and with all the force I could muster I yanked him back.
He twisted and tried to pull free, but I held on, the fabric of his hoodie bundled in my fist like a lifeline.
And there he was, standing in front of me, panting and drenched in the relentless rain. His eyes were like two pools of liquid obsidian, glinting with both defiance and fear. His hair, dark as the night itself, clung to his face. His sharp jawline was dusted with just the right amount of stubble and gave him an air of rugged charm. It was the first time in my life that I'd ever encountered a man so gorgeous that it was actually annoying.
Because who gave you permission to be built like that?
Also, do you have a brother?
"Who sent you? What do you want from me?" The questions poured out, every word laced with years of frustration and the bitter tang of betrayal. I was done playing games. It was time to confront the ghosts of my past head-on, and this stranger was the key.
As my grip tightened on the sleeve of his hoodie, something strange happened—a jolt ran through me, a sense of recognition so deep it rooted me to the spot. I was ready to rain hellfire down on this guy, but now? My fury faltered, replaced by an odd, nagging sensation at the back of my skull.
"Who- who the hell are you?" I demanded, the edge in my voice now dulled by uncertainty. There was no fear in the set of his shoulders, just a silent challenge that pricked at my curiosity.
He didn't answer, just faced me with a stare that felt too familiar. And damn it, I couldn't shake the feeling that I knew him—or should know him. The impulse to cuff him to the nearest lamppost and demand answers warred with the new, inexplicable urge not to hurt him.
"Fine, be the strong, silent type," I rolled my eyes. It was like trying to get blood from a stone. With a grunt, I yanked at the hoodie again, more out of frustration than any real plan. But this time the fabric gave way, and the sleeve ripped clean off, revealing the stranger's arm.
"Shit." The curse slipped out as I took in the tattoos that wound around his forearm—dark, intricate patterns that echoed the ink etched into my own skin. My heart kicked up a notch, pounding against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
What the hell is going on?
"Nice tats," I said but my usual bite was missing. "You get those done at 'Time Travelers Ink' or something?"
I caught the smallest flicker of surprise in his eyes before he composed himself. He wasn't talking, but his body language spoke volumes. And those tattoos... they weren't just similar to mine; they were almost identical. Symbols of death and rebirth, inked reminders of lives lived and lost.
"Who are you?" I repeated, softer this time. A part of me didn't want the answer—I'd been down enough rabbit holes to last a lifetime—but the PI in me couldn't let it go.
"Does it matter?" His voice rumbled through the space between us, setting off sparks.
"Like hell it does." I shot back. "You're involved in this screwy mystery box shit, aren't you?"
He just watched me with those unnervingly steady eyes, and I had the sudden, maddening thought that he might just be enjoying this.
"Talk, dammit!" I snapped, my patience fraying. But even as I glared at him, ready to pounce, I could feel the heat of his gaze, the pull of some invisible thread woven between us. It made my face feel hot and angry.
Fuck.
"Are you going to arrest me, Officer Winslow?" he taunted, the corner of his mouth quivering like he knew exactly what was running through my head.
"Considering it," I groaned. I needed answers, not another smartass comment. I had enough of those to choke a horse myself.
"Maybe you should," he challenged, stepping closer, closing the gap until I could feel the warmth that radiated from his body.
"Back off," I warned, but there was no real force behind it. My courage was cracking, chipped away by the mystery that stood in front of me.
