⇚ 11 ⇛

❚ ❙ Flight Response ❙ ❚

Running in London rain was significantly less cinematic than films made it look.

There was no dramatic soundtrack.

No elegant slow motion.

Just wet socks, aggressive wind, and drunk men screaming about Arsenal outside a kebab shop while I speed-walked through Shoreditch trying not to think about Victor Hart standing close enough for his forehead to nearly touch mine.

Which unfortunately only made me think about it more.

Idiot.

Warm hands.
Soft voice.
Careful restraint.

Victor touched people like he was afraid of hurting them.

That alone made him dangerous.

Men in my world touched things with purpose.
Ownership.
Violence.

Even affection had conditions attached to it.

Victor expected nothing.

That was what unsettled me most.

I shoved my hands deeper into my jacket pockets and forced myself to focus.

The investigation.

Jean-Claude.
Hawthorne.
The serpent symbol.

That was why I came to London.

Not Victor.

Not the Barn.

Not the terrifying warmth beginning to grow roots inside my chest every time Granny Kim shoved food into my hands or Allison hugged my leg without permission.

I stopped beneath a flickering neon sign and lit a cigarette with slightly unsteady fingers.

Annoying.

I was not someone who became emotionally unstable over almost-kisses.

My burner phone vibrated suddenly.

Unknown Number.

Every muscle in my body locked instantly.

Nobody should have had this number.

Carefully, I answered.

"...Hello?"

Silence greeted me first.

Then breathing.

Slow.
Measured.
Familiar.

My stomach dropped immediately.

"Bonsoir, Camille."

Bernie.

I ducked instinctively into the nearest alleyway, eyes scanning the street automatically.

Rainwater dripped from fire escapes overhead while neon reflected in oily puddles beneath my boots.

"How did you get this number?"

"You wound me," Bernie sighed dramatically. "You make it sound difficult."

"It should be."

"Not when you continue using the same towers repeatedly around one little noodle-themed establishment."

Shit.

I pressed my head briefly against cold brick trying not to swear.

"You're getting sloppy," Bernie added calmly.

"No," I muttered. "You're invasive."

"Both can be true."

Typical Bernie.

Even through a phone line he somehow sounded like a disappointed assassin-turned-therapist.

"What do you want?"

"To hear your voice."

"I'm hanging up."

"Jean-Claude has men in London."

That stopped me immediately.

Rain hammered harder around me.

My grip tightened on the phone.

"...What?"

"And before your paranoia worsens," Bernie continued softly, "they are not looking for you."

That almost made it worse.

"Then why are they here?"

Silence.

Wrong.

Bernie never hesitated unless the answer mattered.

"...Bernie."

"There are whispers," he admitted quietly. "Cargo moving through the docks. New routes. Meetings happening away from the usual circles."

"What kind of cargo?"

"The kind your father would have burned ports down over."

Cold slid down my spine slowly.

André tolerated many things.

Weapons.
Money laundering.
Smuggling.

But civilians?

Children?

Never.

He once broke a man's jaw in front of me for trafficking girls through Marseille. I had been fourteen. Stella cried afterward.

André hadn't.

"Jean-Claude's expanding," Bernie murmured. "And people are disappearing around those routes."

I closed my eyes briefly.

Not direct.
Not confirmed.

But I understood the implication instantly.

Women.
Migrants.
Runaways.
Children nobody would look for quickly enough.

Something ugly moved beneath my skin.

"Frederick knows?"

"He's beginning to suspect."

"And Valerie?"

Another pause.

"Be careful around her."

Not denial.

Interesting.

Thunder cracked overhead.

"Frederick isn't sleeping much," Bernie said suddenly.

The shift in topic caught me off guard.

"He spends most nights in André's office now."

Something tightened painfully in my chest.

I pictured Frederick alone inside that office surrounded by ghosts and old leather chairs and unfinished grief.

"He thinks if he stops moving," Bernie continued softly, "he'll have to feel everything properly."

That sounded exactly like Frederick.

My throat burned unexpectedly.

"You shouldn't tell me these things."

"Why not?"

"Because it changes nothing."

But it did.

That was the problem.

No matter how far I ran, France still lived beneath my skin.

"Come home, Camille," Bernie said quietly.

Home.

The word felt cruel now.

The villa without Stella's laughter.
Without André's footsteps.
Without safety.

Just marble hallways and ghosts wearing expensive suits.

I laughed bitterly.

"There is no home anymore."

Then I hung up before he could answer.

For a long moment I stood there beneath London rain staring at my reflection in a puddle.

Diamond.

Camille.

Daughter.
Runaway.
Witness.
Coward.

For one terrible second, I almost called him back.

Almost asked about Frederick again.

Almost asked if anyone missed me enough to hurt.

Instead, I crushed the cigarette beneath my boot and walked back toward Shoreditch.

Toward the Barn.

Toward the dangerous warmth waiting there.

•••••

The Noodle Barn glowed softly against rain-dark streets when I returned just after midnight.

Most of the lights downstairs had dimmed.

Music drifted quietly through the empty pub while chairs sat upside down across tables waiting for morning.

Only one light remained on near the bar.

Victor sat alone nursing whiskey.

He looked up immediately when the door opened.

Relief crossed his face so quickly it almost hurt to witness.

"You disappeared."

"I went for a walk."

"For three hours."

I shrugged off my soaked jacket.

"You timed me?"

"I worried."

There it was again.

That awful feeling in my chest.

Victor watched me carefully while I moved behind the bar searching for wine.

"You look like you're about to stab somebody," he said eventually.

"I always look like that."

"Fair point."

Silence settled heavily between us.

Complicated silence.

The dangerous kind.

I poured wine into the nearest glass before noticing Victor studying me too closely again.

"What?"

"You're shaking."

I looked down.

My fingers trembled slightly around the stem of the glass.

Annoying.

"Cold."

"Liar."

I glared at him automatically.

Victor leaned back slightly against the bar stool.

"You climbed onto a roof, nearly let me kiss you, vanished into London for hours, and came back looking like someone died."

Too observant.

Far too observant.

"You make me sound dramatic."

"You are dramatic."

"I'm French."

"That's not a defense."

I took a long sip of wine trying not to notice how exhausted he looked tonight.

Victor was beginning to wear stress physically now.

Darker shadows beneath his eyes.
Jaw too tense.
Phone constantly vibrating unanswered beside him.

Hawthorne was getting worse.

And now Jean-Claude was tied to it somehow.

"You should stop digging," I said quietly before I could stop myself.

Victor frowned slightly.

"What?"

"Hawthorne."

His eyes sharpened immediately.

Interesting.

"Why?"

Careful.

Too much truth could kill him.

I looked away first.

"People like that don't fight fair."

Victor watched me silently for a moment before speaking softly.

"You say things like you know from experience."

The room suddenly felt smaller.

I hated conversations that drifted too close to truth.

Victor's voice gentled.

"I know you're hiding things."

My pulse slowed carefully.

"And?"

"And I'm choosing not to force you to explain them."

That startled me slightly.

No demands.
No pressure.
No ultimatums.

Just patience.

Again.

Victor exhaled quietly.

"But eventually," he admitted, "I think ghosts become heavy to carry alone."

Something about the honesty in his voice hurt unexpectedly.

"You shouldn't care about me," I muttered.

"Probably not."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

I finally looked at him properly then.

Victor looked exhausted.
Sincere.
Human.

Not naïve.

That was what made this dangerous.

He knew there were pieces missing.

He stayed anyway.

"People around me get hurt," I said softly.

The words escaped before I could stop them.

Victor went still.

"Diamond-"

"No." I shook my head immediately. "Don't romanticize that sentence. I'm not being mysterious. I'm warning you."

Victor's expression shifted slightly.

Not fear.

Something sadder.

"I'm trying very hard," he said quietly, "not to become someone you regret meeting."

The words hit somewhere deep beneath my ribs.

Far too deep.

I looked away immediately.

Coward.

The silence stretched unbearably between us until-

The front pub door slammed open.

"VICTOR!"

A man stormed inside wearing a bright yellow scarf and visible emotional distress.

Victor closed his eyes briefly.

"...Mr. Delaney."

"The clown stole my car!"

I blinked slowly.

"What?"

"The clown!" the man repeated hysterically. "He made balloon animals while robbing me!"

Silence.

Then-

I burst into laughter so violently I nearly dropped my wine glass.

Victor pointed at me tiredly.

"Don't encourage him."

"I'm trying not to die," I wheezed.

Mr. Delaney slammed photographs onto the bar dramatically.

Sure enough.

Security footage showed:
- clown wig
- painted face
- balloon sword
- stolen BMW

Art.

"This city is unbelievable," I muttered.

Victor examined the photographs carefully before his expression shifted into visible despair.

"Oh no."

"What?"

Victor slowly turned one picture around.

A birthday party photograph.

Same clown.

Much smaller.

Standing beside Mr. Delaney smiling proudly beside a cake.

"The clown is your nephew."

The pub went silent.

Mr. Delaney blinked slowly.

"...What?"

I collapsed against the bar laughing again while Victor rubbed both hands over his face like God had abandoned him personally.

"This," I gasped between breaths, "is the greatest legal case I've ever witnessed."

Mr. Delaney looked heartbroken.

"He said he was joining theatre school..."

Victor looked genuinely exhausted by existence itself.

And somehow-

watching him deal with absurd humanity instead of violence made something inside my chest ache unexpectedly.

This was his world.

Messy.
Ridiculous.
Ordinary.

Not blood.
Not fear.
Not survival.

Just broken people trying badly to love one another.

It terrified me how much I wanted to stay inside it.

•••••

The next afternoon, I found Amy sitting outside my apartment door.

Wonderful.

She looked up immediately.

"We need to talk."

"I would rather perish."

"Tough."

I unlocked the door reluctantly while Amy followed me inside without invitation.

Bold behavior for someone with fragile bones.

"You hate me," she said immediately.

"Correct."

"That's fair."

I paused mid-step.

"...What?"

Amy crossed her arms awkwardly.

"I was outta line talking about your parents."

Interesting.

No defensiveness.
No attitude.
No performance.

Real apology.

Disturbing.

"I don't do fake apologies," she muttered. "So that's the best you're getting."

I stared suspiciously.

"Are you dying?"

"Shut up."

Amy wandered farther inside while examining my apartment quietly.

Then she sighed.

"You confuse everyone here."

"How tragic."

"No seriously." She looked at me directly now. "One minute you threaten violence, next minute you're helping old ladies and traumatized kids."

"That's called range."

Amy snorted despite herself.

Then her expression softened.

"Victor likes you."

Immediately my mood worsened.

"That sounds like his problem."

"You gonna break his heart?"

"I barely tolerate him."

"Yeah?" Amy replied knowingly. "Then why do you look at him like somebody stole your organs?"

I looked toward the window immediately.

Coward.

Amy leaned against the counter quietly.

"I've known Victor since law school," she said eventually. "After that little girl died... he stopped sleeping properly for almost a year."

Maisie.

Even hearing her unnamed hurt.

"He takes too much responsibility for everyone," Amy continued softly. "Including you now."

"I didn't ask him to."

"No," she admitted. "That's what worries me."

The room fell quiet.

Then Amy spoke again.

"You act like leaving before people love you hurts less."

The words landed like a knife between my ribs.

Too accurate.

Far too accurate.

I said nothing.

Amy sighed heavily.

"I'm not saying you have to stay forever," she muttered. "Just... don't make him feel stupid for caring."

Something about the sincerity in her voice unsettled me deeply.

Because Amy wasn't jealous.

She was protective.

Like family.

And for the first time since arriving in London-

The Noodle Barn no longer felt temporary.

That realization frightened me more than Bernie's call had.

After Amy left, I stood silently beside the apartment window watching Shoreditch move below.

Then slowly-

a black car rolled past the Barn again.

Same tinted windows.
Same slow speed.

It didn't stop.

But this time-

I noticed the silver serpent sticker pressed faintly against the rear windshield.

My blood went cold.

France had found London after all.