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Prospects don't make waves. Prospects keep their heads down, follow orders, earn the patch.

And men with records like mine don't get to play hero for women who don't even know they're being watched.

The back door opens at 12:27 AM.

She steps out into the cold, pulling her coat tighter, breath misting in the November air. Her purse is slung over one shoulder, and she's already moving toward the bus stop two blocks east, steps quick and automatic like she's done this walk ten thousand times. Which she probably has.

I wait thirty seconds, then start the bike and follow at a distance.

This is the part that makes me feel like the kind of man I promised myself I'd stop being. The part where I tail her through empty streets, always half a block back, always out of sight, telling myself it's just to make sure she gets there safe. That it's protection, not obsession. That I'd do this for anyone.

Another lie.

I wouldn't.

I've never followed anyone else home. Never memorized anyone else's schedule. Never felt my chest tighten every time I see exhaustion drag her shoulders down or watched her smile at a fussy kid in a booth and thought about what kind of mother she must be.

I've seen the photos on her phone screen when she checks it between orders, seen the little girl with brown curls and a gap-toothed grin who looks exactly like her.

Daisy.

I didn't know her name for the first three weeks. Just thought of her as the waitress with the pretty smile and the tired eyes who refilled my coffee without asking and never made me feel like the tattooed ex-con taking up a booth for two hours was something she needed to worry about.

Then Frank yelled it across the diner one afternoon—*Daisy, table six needs ketchup*—and I finally had a name to attach to the face I couldn't stop seeing every time I closed my eyes.

Twenty-eight. Single mother. Works two jobs. Lives with her mom and her daughter in a small house on the east side. Takes the bus everywhere because she doesn't own a car. Smiles at strangers even when she's running on fumes.

I know too much.

Can't seem to stop learning more.

She reaches the bus stop and sits on the bench, pulls out her phone, and starts scrolling. The street is empty except for her and me, half a block back, engine idling low enough that she won't hear it. She checks the time, sighs, leans her head back against the bench. Her eyes close.

I should leave.

I should go back to the clubhouse, drop off the supplies, crash in the prospect quarters, and stop doing this thing that feels more and more like a line I'm crossing every single night.

I don't.

I wait until the bus pulls up seven minutes later, watch her climb on, watch the doors close and the bus pull away. Then I follow it for three stops until she gets off near her street.

She steps off the bus, adjusting her purse strap, and starts walking toward the residential area two blocks away. I stay back, keep the engine quiet, watch her turn the corner onto the darker street that leads to her neighborhood.

That's when I see them.

Two figures detach from the shadows near the alley between the closed hardware store and the old pharmacy. They're moving toward her.

I don't think.

I just move.

I throttle up and close the distance in seconds, kill the engine, and I'm off the bike before it fully stops rolling. She doesn't see me yet, doesn't see them either until one of them grabs her arm and yanks her toward the alley.

She gasps, tries to pull back, and the second guy reaches for her purse.

I'm on them before either one registers I'm there.

Fifteen seconds.