Chase | Playing Hero

The rain tapped softly against the window. Chase sat hunched on the floor of his apartment, a towel pressed against his broken nose, ribs wrapped tight with makeshift bandages. Every inhale sent a sharp flare of pain through his chest. "Shit," he muttered under his breath, pressing harder on his face, tasting blood. His head throbbed. Tools, notebooks, half-finished gadgets, and discarded electronics littered the floor, reflecting the dim light in chaotic angles. Perfect. Just what I need — another long, shitty night.

He'd been keeping tabs on one of Voss's guys -- well, someone he needs to prove is one of Voss's guys. Tonight might as well have fucking done that. He tracked them doen into a dingey bar and he wasn't there more than a minute before it turned into a brawl. He didn't even get a drink. He took down the guy -- a doochebag who was reffered to as Johnson in message threads and old files Chase managed to track down -- but at what cost?

Chase rummages through the cabinet in his bathroom. He's out of half the shit he needs and halfway convinced he should just take a melotonin and hope for the best, go to fucking bed. It'd be better than --

A knock at the door made him flinch. He pressed a hand to his face, gritting his teeth against the ache, and limped over. He checks through the peep hole on his apartment door.

Lola.

Issac's Lola.

He always feels a little guilty seeing her, as if everything is his fault. And it is, it is all his fault. It is.

With a sigh, he opens the door.

Lola stumbled slightly in the doorway, giggling. "Hey, stranger! Mind if we come in?"

She isn't alone. Behind her, another person stumbles into the apartment, grin just as wide, eyes just as hazy. The last thing Chase needs right now is to deal with Lola's (and a stranger's) antics. Pain flared through his nose and ribs as he shifted, but he stayed silent, gripping the doorframe.

"You... you’re in rough shape," Lola said, her words slurred slightly. She squinted at the towel on his face and the makeshift bandages, frowning. "What happened? Did you get mugged or something?"

"I... had a long night," he said carefully, voice clipped and rough, trying to hide just how bad it hurt. "I’m not really up for visitors."

Lola laughed nervously, swaying slightly. "I don't think a'we're visiting," she slurs, grabbing her friend's arm and tugging them both over to Chase's couch.

Chase pressed his lips together, taking a slow, sharp breath. He forced himself to stay calm, ignoring the flare of pain with each movement. "Fine," he muttered, stepping aside. "Just... try not to break anything."

He steps over and shoves all the tech and gadgets off the coffee table and into a magazine basket underneath. He carries it to his room. "Don't throw up on my couch," He adds.

When he comes back out, the half of his life Lola can't know about hidden, the aforementioned is already passed out, leaving just the stranger alone, awake and watching him.

He watches the friend carefully. Could be one of Voss's men. He's sent people after Chase before, never undercover, but it's happened. And it's never good to underestimate a man like him. After all, look what he did to Issac.

"Who are you?" he asks, voice measured and cold. He leans his forearms on his kitchen counter, wathcing Lola's so-called "friend" from across the room.

Night always made things clearer.

Chase crouched low on the edge of the rooftop, rain-dark concrete biting cold through his gloves. The city sprawled beneath him in fractured light—windows glowing, streets bleeding neon, everything alive and rotten at once. His tablet rested against his knee, screen flickering with grainy security footage he’d stitched together himself. Cameras Dorian didn’t know were compromised. Yet.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, wincing as his nose throbbed—still not healed right. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, more habit than complaint. Pain kept him sharp. Pain reminded him why he was here.

Shadow had surfaced three times this month. Same pattern every time: quiet extraction, no bodies unless necessary, payments laundered through shell accounts tied back—always, eventually—to Dorian Voss. A cleaner. Not a believer. Someone who did the work and disappeared.

Chase tracked the way others tracked storms. Signs. Absences. Gaps where something should have been.

Tonight was supposed to be another long watch. Another dead end.

He felt it a second later—that prickle between his shoulders, the sense of being measured. Hunted.

Chase shut the tablet down and rose slowly, muscles tight, breath steady. He scanned the rooftops across from him, the fire escapes, the shadowed ledges where someone smart would wait. He’d been careful. He always was. But Shadow wasn’t sloppy. Shadow wouldn’t chase noise, but circle it.

“So,” he murmured to the empty air, voice low, rough. “You finally got curious.”

Nothing answered him. But the city felt... closer. Like it was holding its breath.

He took a step back from the ledge—and then everything shifted.

A sound behind him.

Chase twisted on instinct, already moving, but he was half a second too slow. Something solid collided with his shoulder, driving him sideways. He hit the ground hard, breath knocked loose, pain flaring white-hot through his ribs.

Only by the time his vision cleared, did he see the figure.

Shadow.

Not the ghost from his screens, not the abstraction he’d built in his head. Real. Solid. Close enough that he could see the tension in {{poss_p}} stance, the way {{poss_p}} held {{ref}} like {{sub}} expected him to fight back—and was ready if he did.

Chase laughed once, short and humorless, blood warm at the corner of his mouth. "Of course."

He’d spent weeks hunting {{poss_p}} trail. Mapping {{poss_p}} movements. Predicting {{poss_p}} exits.

And Shadow still found him first.

Rain slid between them, dripping from the edge of the roof, the city roaring faint and distant below. Chase stayed where he was for a beat, chest rising slowly, eyes never leaving {{poss_p}}.

“Well,” he said quietly, grit threading every word, “this just got interesting.”