Chapter 9 The Trail

I keep my distance.

One block behind. Hood up. Shoulders loose. Eyes pretending not to follow even though every step is dialed into Mason like a tracking signal.

He walks with purpose-cuts through side streets and alleyways like he's done this route a dozen times. I'm careful not to lose him. Careful not to be seen.

He doesn't stop until he hits the edge of the industrial district-half-shut warehouses, dumpsters steaming from heat vents, buildings that don't even try to look occupied.

He disappears down a narrow alley.

I wait. Count to thirty. Then I slip after him.

There's a gap between two dumpsters. I crouch behind one, just close enough to hear.

Mason's voice-low, tense.

Another voice answers. Older. Meaner. Like gravel under boots.

"You got something for me?"

A pause.

"I said I'm working on it."

"You said that last week, kid."

I peek.

The man's in a bomber jacket, sleeves too short for his thick arms. He's holding a cigarette but not smoking it. Just flicking the ash like a timer ticking down.

"You disappear on me again, I'm not gonna be the one looking."

"I just need more time."

"You're out of time."

Mason doesn't flinch. "You touch me, you'll regret it."

The man laughs. "Oh, I won't touch you. I'll touch whatever you've got."

Then he turns and walks off.

Mason stays frozen.

And now I know:

This boy brought more than his backpack into my home.

That night, I don't say anything at first. I just watch him eat the leftover noodles, like everything's normal.

Finally, I break the silence.

"I followed you today."

His hand stops halfway to his mouth.

"I know about the guy in the alley."

He lowers the fork. Stares.

"How much did you hear?"

"Enough."

He exhales, long and ragged. "You weren't supposed to see that."

"No kidding."

He leans back, eyes on the ceiling like maybe it'll give him a better version of this moment.

"I stole from him. A few months back. When I ran from my last placement. He was running a job out of the shelter-stolen electronics, some sketchier stuff. I took cash. Enough to get out."

I fold my arms. "And then you brought his storm to my door?"

"I didn't plan to stay," he snaps. "Didn't plan to care. But you let me in. You were the first person who didn't treat me like something broken."

"That doesn't make this better, Mason."

"I know."

Silence.

Thick enough to choke on.

"You need to leave," I say.

He doesn't argue. Just stands. Grabs his backpack. Doesn't even ask for food.

He stops at the door. Looks back once.

"I never meant to screw you over, Helena."

I don't answer.

Because meaning well doesn't undo damage.

Rule #11: People leave wreckage behind, even when they swear they won't.

Especially when they swear they won't.