Cameron hadn’t spoken in two days.


They’d crossed into New Mexico, found a run-down motel outside a ghost town with no cameras, no guests, and barely a front desk. Sienna paid cash and kept her sunglasses on. Cameron walked ahead without looking back.


In the room, the silence was suffocating.


Sienna sat on the edge of the bed, twisting her fingers in her lap. She watched Cameron unpack the bare essentials—his knife, a change of clothes, an old paperback with dog-eared corners. Not once did he glance at her.


“You haven’t touched me,” she said finally.


He paused.


She stood, stepping toward him slowly. “You haven’t looked at me. Haven’t touched me. You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating.”


“I’m tired,” he said.


“Of what?” Her voice was ice. “Me?”


“Of this,” he snapped, eyes flashing. “Of being hunted. Of waking up wondering if today’s the day they catch us. Of killing just to keep you happy.”


The words struck her like a slap.


Sienna didn’t flinch.


“You act like I twisted your arm. Like you didn’t enjoy it. Like you weren’t smiling after every single one.”


“I did smile,” he said. “But I don’t feel it anymore.”


She crossed her arms. “You think you’re innocent now?”


He looked down. “No. I know exactly what I am.”


“Then why are you lying to yourself?”


“I’m not lying. I’m just…” He exhaled. “Done.”


The silence that followed felt like a chasm. Deep. Cold. Final.


Sienna stared at him, her voice low. “You’re not walking away from me.”


He looked up. “Then what, Si? You gonna kill me too?”


She didn’t answer.


Because she didn’t know.


That night, she slipped out while he slept. The knife was warm in her hand. The desert wind howled like a warning.


She found an old, rusted car nearby. Broke in. Sat behind the wheel. Stared at her reflection in the cracked rearview mirror.


She looked like a stranger.


Like a woman built from bone and betrayal.


She thought of all the victims. Of every rose she’d laid. Of every secret shared in whispers and blood.


Of Cameron’s touch.


His kiss.


His loyalty.


And now—his retreat.


She wept.


Not because of what they’d done.


But because she realized something that scared her more than the law, more than the FBI, more than the death she used to worship:


She needed him more than she needed the killing.


Back at the motel, Cameron woke up alone. Her side of the bed was cold.


Panic bloomed in his chest. He ran to the door.


And stopped.


There on the ground—just outside the room—was a single rose.


Fresh. Crimson. Placed perfectly.


No blood.


Just a message.


I’m still yours. But I’m watching.