The Cost of Instinct

Anya's feet felt uncomfortably solid on the rooftop following the startling rescue and the dizzying fall. The rain, which had been clinging to her eyelashes, now decreased to a misty drizzle. Converging from various directions, sirens screamed, their cries tearing through the tenuous silence created by the thief's departure. Taking a deep, quivering breath, she tried to gather herself. Strong, frantic, and surprisingly human, her palm automatically went to her wrist, where the phantom of his touch still burned.

As the first support policemen rappelled down from a police helicopter that was noisily buzzing overhead, headlights swept across the rooftop. She hadn't had time to find the rooftop access door earlier, but others came out. Marcus Jones, her partner, was one of the first to arrive at her side, his face displaying a mix of relief and worry.

"Anyway! Are you okay? The report went silent after stating that you were being pursued. We pondered. He walked away, glancing quickly over her for wounds.

She managed to sound more composed than she actually felt as she said, "I'm fine, Marcus." "The suspect fled."

"Over that?" Whistling, Marcus looked over the edge at the enormous space between them and the business building where Rhys had most likely jumped. "Goddamn ghost. It makes sense why we never get close. If he jumped that, how did you get here?

In the air hung the question. It was this. the initial examination. Anya made herself look directly into Marcus's eyes while carefully avoiding eye contact. He leaped. When he clambered onto that distant roof, I lost sight. When you got there, I was using the handheld to study building schematics in search of a different way over. The same jump appeared to be impossible, so I didn't want to take the chance. It made sense. Except for the most crucial, impractical component, it is largely true. It was like swallowing stones to be left out.

Marcus accepted it with a nod. Yes, without exaggeration. Daredevil, damn you. All right, let's lock down the situation. The goal of forensics is to examine both sides. In order to organize the horde of officers and communicate information, he keyed his radio. Leaning back against a chilly brick parapet, Anya had a feeling of vertigo. The adrenaline suddenly left her with a hollow pain. She observed the deliberate movement of flashlight beams and the mutter of authoritative voices, all of which were a part of a world whose assumptions had just been severely upended.

The area was alive with the quiet bustle of early morning activity, with a subtle scent of disinfectant, wet raincoats, and stale coffee. The harsh fluorescent lights bounced off the wet smudges on Anya's jacket as she sat numbly at her desk. After being examined by paramedics, she had minor cuts, a raised heart rate, and no other physical injuries. It was impossible to see the serious damage.

As he went by, Marcus gave her a shoulder clap. "Well done on your attempt, Petrova. No one approaches the Ghost that closely. Next time. It was startling how easily he encouraged. Tonight would be the only "next time." Is there a chance?

She gazed at her monitor's blank incident report form. UCR Code: Forced Entry Burglary. The address is 1 Thorne Plaza. Suspect: Unknown Male, sometimes known as "The Ghost" or "Rhys." Storytelling. She ran her fingers across the keyboard.

She tapped away, recording the first reaction, the visual affirmation, the chase across the roofs. She talked about the suspect's remarkable athleticism, his dark attire, and his seeming familiarity with the urban environment. The rooftop edge overlooking the large gap was the last place she saw of the pursuit. The suspect leaped across the divide to the top of the nearby commercial building in a very risky manner. Due to an insurmountable hurdle and the loss of visual confirmation, the pursuit was discontinued.

Every word felt like a betrayal of the department as well as the unvarnished reality of the previous hour. She wasn't simply blind. She had jumped. She was down. He had also rescued her. Her life was in the hands of the man she was reporting as a fugitive criminal, and he refused to release her. Why? The station's antiseptic silence echoed with the query. Was it an anomaly? A strange act of chivalry? Or some calculated thing she didn't understand yet? She imagined his eyes at that moment, wide with—what?—rather than chilly or scornful. Startled? Feelings of adrenaline? Something that is eerily similar like connection?

When she clicked "Submit," the mouse clicked uncomfortably loudly. The untruth was officially recorded. From that one inconceivable moment on the ledge, a ripple swept outward. She was abruptly and deeply alone, drifting away from the firm foundation of laws and norms upon which she had based her entire existence. She pushed away from the desk because she needed space and air. Behind her eyelids, the picture of his hand reaching for hers burned.

Three blocks from Thorne Tower, Rhys emerged from an abandoned service tunnel and vanished into the early morning shadow. The rumble of early delivery trucks, the hiss of street sweepers, and the scent of moist concrete and trash were all distinct from the city's pulse down here. With a strong, lingering aching emanating from his shoulder, where he had borne the majority of the cop's weight, he moved swiftly and favored his left side.

The opposite of Thorne's penthouse, his safe haven was a deftly hidden flat above a bookstore that was always closed and located in a more sedate, older area of the city. It was simple but practical inside. One wall was covered in maps with remarks and possible targets among the corrupt elite of the city. Bookshelves brimmed with seemingly harmless books on engineering, architecture, and history, many of which had been hollowed out to hide specialized instruments. Electronics were disassembled on a workbench. Tucked away in plain sight, it was a place devoted to his particular brand of justice.

Wincing as his shoulder ached from the exercise, he slipped off his wet outer clothing. He studied the wound in the tiny bathroom mirror. A slight tear, perhaps, but a significant strain. Already, bruises were beginning to appear beneath the skin. He strapped it and cleaned it slowly, the familiar movements soothing his jangled nerves. Grounding was the physical discomfort, a concrete result. He was concerned about the other repercussions.

What had he done? He repeated the chase again, highlighting the cop's unrelenting pursuit and her unexpected dexterity. He had misjudged her. Then he jumped, fell, and took the utterly foolish risk of grabbing her. It made sense to let her fall. An officer who was killed would cause mayhem and better conceal his escape. His biggest fear, the one thing he carefully prepared for, was capture. He hadn't hesitated, though. Not at all.

The stolen computer drive weighed heavily in his pocket as he collapsed onto a battered armchair. He considered her face—the surprise, the weakness underneath the stern veneer. He didn't need that difficulty. Anonymity and being a ghost, invisible, and unaffected were essential to his operations. That had been destroyed by saving her. He had been too close. She had spotted him. In that instant of collision, not just the shadow, but him. In his gaze, what had she read?

There was a soft knock at the secret door. When Rhys saw the pattern, he stiffened, then relaxed. He set off the release. As soon as Jax stepped inside, his keen eyes noticed Rhys's rigid stance and the improvised strapping that was apparent beneath his shirt. The closest thing Rhys had to a teammate was Jax, who was younger than Rhys but had exceptional tech and strategic skills.

"Report," Rhys murmured, maintaining a steady tone.

With his eyes still resting on Rhys' shoulder, Jax answered, "Clean out of the tunnel." "No tails. Communications are quiet. News about the Thorne Tower breach, the bold thief, etc., is already exploding. They are exaggerating the "danger" factor. Tonight, you cut it closer than normal. He hesitated. "What took place up there?"

Rhys ignored the wince as he grabbed for the kettle and turned to work on making tea. "Ran into a problem." More protection than expected. The egress had to be improvised.

"Get better?" Jax's voice was doubtful. The tracker's last altitude readings before you went offline in the shaft gave the impression that you were improvising with gravity. And that shoulder?

Rhys forced a casual expression as he met his eyes. The final jump was a harsh landing. danger at work.

Jax didn't seem persuaded. He was aware that Rhys hardly ever made errors or got hurt. Arms crossed, he leaned against the counter. "Hard landing. Correct. Does the legendary Rhys "The Ghost" have anything more to say about his walk through Thorne's playground? For example, who was the "complication"? On the rooftops, there was talk of a lone police pursuing.

"Just a police officer. Disregardingly, Rhys poured hot water over the tea leaves and remarked, "Determined, but outmatched." He had to put an end to this. He couldn't afford to be vulnerable, especially not right now.

Jax gazed at him for a while, his face unreadable. "All right. outperformed. Although he didn't pursue it further, the suspicion was sown. He was familiar enough with Rhys to be able to spot evasion. A heavy impact was not the only event that had occurred on that rooftop.

Rhys gazed into his steaming cup while Jax moved to watch the news streams on a nearby screen. The shock of touch, the image of the fallen officer, and the confused expression in her eyes persisted. He had kept his independence and obtained the information that could put Thorne in a tight spot. In every way, the evening was a success. However, it seemed as though something essential had changed, crumbled under the pressure of that one rash act of bonding.