August 1 was five days away.
When we drove back into Brooklyn, the skyline glowed deceptively peaceful. Mason gripped the wheel like it might vanish if he loosened his hold. I traced the outline of the compass on the paper with my thumb and wondered who had decided my story needed to be written in permanent ink. Somewhere across the city, Victor Hale was waiting for August 1. And for the first time, I understood that the next tattoo carved into skin might not be art at all. It might be a warning.
