The U-Bahn doors hissed open at Kottbusser Tor, releasing a cloud of stale air and the smell of wet pavement. Berlin above ground was cold and orderly, but Kreuzberg at night was a different beast. It was a riot of neon graffiti, kebab smoke, and the heavy, industrial bass of a thousand basement clubs.
"Keep your head down and stay close," Jace muttered, his hand gripping Ren's so tightly it was almost painful. He led Ren through a maze of narrow alleys, past groups of punks in leather jackets and travelers huddled over street fires.
Ren felt like he was walking through a fever dream. Less than an hour ago, he had been standing on the most prestigious stage in Europe. Now, he was a ghost in the shadows, his tuxedo hidden under a borrowed, grease-stained parka Jace had pulled from a locker at the station.
"We're here," Jace said, stopping in front of a massive, rusted steel door covered in layers of spray paint. There was no sign, no doorbell—just a small sliding grate at eye level.
Jace knocked a rhythmic sequence. Tap-tap... tap-tap-tap.
The grate slid open. A pair of eyes, lined heavily with black kohl and shimmering with a piercing, emerald light, stared out at them.
"Jace?" The voice was raspy, flavored with a thick Berlin accent. "You've been dead for three months, Schatz."
"Not dead, Sloane. Just busy. Open up."
The heavy door groaned on its hinges, revealing a cavernous warehouse filled with the scent of spray paint, old electronics, and woodsmoke. This was the "Sanctuary" of the Berlin Underground—a squatter's paradise where the rules of the surface didn't apply.
Sloane stepped into the light. She was tall, with a shaved head save for a shock of neon-pink hair on top, and arms covered in intricate, geometric tattoos. She looked at Jace with a smirk, then turned her gaze to Ren.
The smirk vanished.
"You brought him here?" Sloane's voice dropped an octave, her eyes narrowing as she scanned Ren's face. "The Golden Boy? Jace, do you have any idea how much heat is on this kid? The news is already saying he was 'abducted' during the Gala."
"He wasn't abducted," Jace snapped, stepping between Ren and Sloane. "He's with me. We need a place to disappear for a few days until we can get a boat out of Rostock."
Sloane let out a dry, hacking laugh. She walked a slow circle around them, her boots clicking on the concrete floor. "A few days? Jace, Arthur Laurent just put a six-figure 'finder's fee' on his head. Every low-life from here to Warsaw is checking the back of their eyelids for his face. Staying here isn't 'disappearing.' It's inviting a swat team to my dinner table."
Ren stepped out from behind Jace, his voice steady despite the trembling in his knees. "I'm not a target. I'm a musician. And I'm not going back."
Sloane stopped in front of him. She was inches away, her emerald eyes searching his. She saw the grit, the exhaustion, and the silent, burning defiance. She reached out, her gloved hand catching the edge of his parka, pulling it back to reveal the silk lapel of his tuxedo.
"A musician," she echoed, her expression softening just a fraction. "You look like a doll that's been through a thresher."
She looked back at Jace. "He stays in the back room. No lights. No noise. If my people find out who he is before I decide what to do with him, I can't protect you, Jace. Understood?"
"Understood," Jace said, his shoulders finally dropping an inch.
Sloane gestured toward a staircase made of rusted scaffolding. "Go. Get him out of those clothes. He smells like the Philharmonie, and it's making me sick."
As they climbed the stairs, Ren looked back. Sloane was standing in the center of the warehouse, already pulling out her phone, her face illuminated by the cold blue light of the screen.
"Jace," Ren whispered as they entered a small, cramped room filled with old drum kits and amplifiers. "Can we trust her?"
Jace sat on a pile of equipment cases, rubbing his face with his hands. He looked older than nineteen. He looked like the three months had taken every ounce of his soul.
"We have to," Jace said. "Sloane and I... we grew up in the same foster circuits in London before she moved here. She's the best hacker and smuggler in the city. If she wanted to sell you out, she would have done it the second she saw your face."
"But she said there's a reward," Ren said, sitting beside him. "Six figures. Jace, that's enough to buy a thousand Sanctuaries."
Jace turned to him, his eyes fierce. He grabbed Ren's hands, his thumb tracing the callouses forming on Ren's fingers. "She knows that if she sells you, she loses me. And Sloane... she doesn't have many people left. Neither do I."
He pulled Ren into a fierce, desperate embrace. In the dark of the Kreuzberg squat, with the muffled sound of industrial techno vibrating through the walls, Ren Laurent realized that they were no longer just running from a father. They were running through a world where every face had a price tag, and every sanctuary was built on borrowed time.
"I'm scared," Ren whispered into Jace's chest.
"I know," Jace murmured, kissing the top of his head. "Me too. But we're going to make so much noise they'll never be able to catch us."
Outside, in the Berlin night, the first of the black SUVs began to cruise the streets of Kreuzberg. The hunt had moved from the marble halls to the gutter, and the stakes were no longer about a contract—they were about survival.