Chapter 163 RUN
Liam didn’t drive home immediately.
That would be stupid.
He took three turns off his usual route, doubled back twice, and drove the old, rattling sedan into a shadowy alley three neighborhoods away. He stopped beneath a crumbling overpass, where the light was weak and the streets rarely saw patrols. Then, he stripped.
The janitor uniform, soaked with sweat and stinking of industrial cleaner and blood, went straight into a black garbage bag. The gloves, the worn shoes, the cap—all of it. He changed into clean, casual clothes from his duffel bag: dark jeans, a fitted grey hoodie, and running shoes. Something neutral. Forgettable.
His face still itched like hell.
The prosthetic mask he’d used to age himself into "Harold Milton" had clung tightly to his skin all day, and now every muscle in his face begged for relief. He reached into the duffel and peeled off the final layer: the artificial skin. As it came loose, he hissed—sensitive spots under his eyes burned where the glue had clung too long. His skin beneath was damp, flushed, irritated.
He threw the mask into the bag, zipped it up, and shoved it into a nearby dumpster behind an abandoned repair shop. The car? Left parked there still in ignition. By morning, it would be either stolen or crushed in a junkyard. Either way, it wouldn’t be traced back to him.
Only then did he make his way back home—on foot for several blocks, then with a quick ride on a public e-scooter. Low tech. Untraceable. Exactly how he liked it.
By the time he reached his apartment, the sun had already dipped beneath the horizon, and the cool evening breeze carried the faint scent of wet asphalt and fading daylight.
He stepped through the front door, expecting silence.
Instead, he saw her.