The gray light of dawn was an intruder in the apartment. It spilled over the tangled sheets and the discarded emerald silk on the floor, cold and judgmental.
Brenda woke with her heart hammering a jagged rhythm. For a few hours, the world had been silent. The craving had been replaced by the heavy, warm weight of Hardy’s arm across her waist. But as she looked at the man sleeping beside her, the reality of what she had done crashed down.
She hadn't just found comfort; she had surrendered her only armor.
Hardy stirred. His eyes opened, and for a split second, they were filled with a tenderness that made Brenda want to weep. Then, the fog of sleep cleared, and his gaze shifted to the emerald suit draped over the chair. The transition was visible—the lover vanished, and the Chief of Police returned.
He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. "We can't pretend this didn't happen, Brenda."
"I know," she whispered, pulling his discarded dress shirt over her shoulders. It smelled like him—cedar and gunpowder.
Hardy stood up, his movements stiff. He walked over to the chair, picking up the green veil. He held it like it was a living thing, something dangerous. "How long? How long have you been laughing at me while I searched the city for you?"
"I wasn't laughing, Tom," Brenda said, her voice rising with a sudden, sharp desperation. "I was doing what you couldn't. I was burning down the labs. I was stopping the shipments. Every time you followed the law, a new kid got hooked on V-7. I didn't have the luxury of a badge."
"You have an addiction, Brenda!" Hardy turned, his face flushed with a mix of fury and heartbreak. "You traded the pills for a mask! You think this is justice? It’s just another high. You’re chasing the rush because you can't stand the quiet."
The words cut deeper than any blade. Because they were true.
"Maybe I am," she hissed, standing up to face him, the oversized shirt hanging off her bruised frame. "But while you’re busy analyzing my psychology, Director Vane is preparing a shipment that will turn the East Side into a graveyard. He’s moving the 'Omega Strain' tonight. If that hits the street, there won't be enough police in the world to stop the riots."
The room went silent. The professional officer in Hardy took over. "Where?"
"The old cathedral on 4th. He’s using the basement as a distribution hub. He thinks the 'holy' ground will keep the heat away."
Hardy reached for his phone, but Brenda grabbed his wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
"If you call it in, he’ll know. He has half your precinct on his payroll, Tom. Why do you think I never came to you? Why do you think I had to become this?" She gestured to the green suit.
Hardy looked at her hand on his wrist, then up at her eyes—the eyes of the woman he had just held in the dark. He was torn between his oath and his heart.
"I have to take you in, Brenda," he said, his voice a low, pained growl. "After tonight. After we stop Vane. I can't let you keep doing this. You're killing yourself."
"If we stop Vane," Brenda countered, her gaze unwavering, "I’ll walk into your station myself. I’ll give you the mask. I’ll go to rehab. I’ll do whatever you want. But tonight... tonight, Lady Luck needs to play one last hand."
Hardy closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against hers. He knew he was compromising everything. He was becoming exactly what he hated—a cop who looked the other way. But he also knew she was right about Vane.
"One night," he whispered. "And then it's over."
He pulled her into a kiss that tasted of salt and finality. It wasn't the passionate collision of the night before; it was a goodbye.
By 11:00 PM, the rain had turned into a freezing mist. Lady Luck stood on the gargoyle of the St. Jude Cathedral, her broken rapier replaced by a pair of weighted combat fans she’d stashed for emergencies.
Below, in the courtyard, she saw the black SUVs. She saw the men in tactical gear. And in the shadows of the arched doorway, she saw Hardy. He was alone, his service weapon drawn, waiting for her signal.
This was the unraveling. Her secret was out, her lover was her accomplice, and her life as Brenda Banks was effectively over.
She tightened the green veil over her face. The withdrawal was clawing at her again, but she welcomed it. She let the pain sharpen her focus.
"Double or nothing, Tom," she whispered into her comms.
She leaped.
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