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"I won't," I gasp. "I'm just… please, I'm just a chef. Accidents happen!"

"What do you think, John? Do accidents happen?"

John raises his gun and taps the barrel against his temple. "I think she thinks we're stupid."

"No! I don't! Not at all! I swear! I m-mean, I'm just a chef. I live alone in an apartment! I have no one to talk to, anyway!"

"Sounds like no one will miss you," John replies, and he lowers the gun, then thrusts it against my back. "Start walking."

Fear grips me tightly, crushing my chest and forcing my breath into short, sharp gasps. We're in the middle of nowhere, walking across a vast, empty parking lot filled with potholes and puddles toward the remains of a warehouse. It's barely standing, with half the walls crumbled to the ground and a huge chunk of the roof caved in, leaving shelter for countless birds, judging by the shit staining what's left.

"You say you're no one," Con remarks. "A member of the Suit wouldn't chase after a nobody."

"I-I don't know what that is," I whimper. "You keep saying it but I don't know what it is!"

"Sure," he scoffs, sending a cloud of foul smoke in my direction. "Lying won't help you out right now, but you should be grateful." He reaches the door before me and pulls it open with an ear-splitting scrape of metal. "You just became infinitely more interesting."

"What?"

They shove me inside and Con leads the way through a small corridor and into a room that resembles the remains of an old office. As soon as I'm inside, John's on me with a plastic tie that he shoves around my wrists and pulls them tight at my lower back, then another around my ankles. Once it's secure, he shoves me hard to the ground and I land hard on my shoulder, powerless to stop him from manhandling me into a seated position.

After he leans me against the wall, he pulls out his phone and holds it up.

"Smile!"

The camera flash blinds me and I screw up my eyes, huddling back against the wall. By the time the blur of the flash leaves my eyes, the room is empty, but Con and John's voices drift through from the hall.

"You really think she's worth something?" John asks.

"Dunno," Con replies. "But soon as I saw her, she reminded me of someone. Just gotta check something first."

"Alright."

Remind him of whom? My stomach twists and nausea rises, so I grit my teeth and lift my chin. Staring at the ceiling and breathing deeply is enough to calm the rush of nausea, but at this point, throwing up might actually make me feel better.

Better than Cassian.

Why did he follow me?

Why didn't he just call the cops like a normal person would do?

What was he even doing back at the restaurant in the first place? He was supposed to be on a date, not in the alley.

Not that it matters. He'll be dead by now. The volume of blood pouring out of him wasn't good when we were there, and given how slow ambulances are in New York, even if someone found him immediately, it wouldn't be enough.

The tears well again, and hopelessness washes over my shoulders with a chill and goosebumps that prickle down my arms.

I swallow hard and test the tightness of the restraints around my wrists, but as I do, the sensation of cold, hard plastic cutting into my wrists drags up a memory I've spent years burying.

A time when I was younger, too young to know any better, and desperate for any kind of life away from parents who didn't give a shit. I was young and stupid and walked straight into three years of hell where bindings like these became part of my nightly routine because it made the right kind of people a lot of money.

Faces flash through my thoughts, along with the memory of sharp blades against my skin, drunken laughter, and pain through my gut that I thought I would never come back from.

I close my eyes and will those memories away. They won't help me now.

"Sabina Nightingale? You're kidding me." Con's voice drifts faintly through the door, catching my attention.

My heart lurches up into my throat and I stare at the door, then I lean to the side and squint as if it will help me hear better. Their voices are a low murmur and I can't make out anything clearly, other than my name several more times and triumphant laughter.