The Algorithm of Us

CHAPTER FOUR: LOCKDOWN

By nightfall, Langston Tower no longer felt like a sanctuary.

Lucien had sealed every possible entry point to the penthouse—doors, vents, even the balcony. He disabled the automated blinds, choosing instead to pull heavy blackout curtains by hand. If someone was watching from across the street again, they wouldn't see a damn thing.

Delilah sat curled on the sofa, legs tucked under her, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her sweater sleeves swallowed her hands, and though she said nothing, Lucien saw the tremor in her fingers when she reached for her coffee.

He sat a few feet away—close enough to intervene, far enough not to crowd her. His gun rested inside the waistband at his back. He hadn't taken off his jacket. His phone buzzed with updates every fifteen minutes from private surveillance teams sweeping the exterior.

No leads yet.

Delilah broke the silence first.

"I used to think my father was being dramatic," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "Hiring security consultants. Vetting my professors. Having someone sit in an unmarked car across the street from every apartment I lived in during college."

Lucien glanced at her. "He wasn't being dramatic. He was being a father."

She smiled faintly, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Do you think it's someone from work?"

"I think it's someone who knows your schedule. Your blind spots. That photo? It was deliberate. Staged. They wanted you to feel exposed, but not endangered. Not yet."

Delilah shifted, hugging her knees tighter.

"That's what scares me," she said. "The patience. That kind of person doesn't make mistakes."

Lucien leaned forward slightly. "People like that always make one mistake."

"What is it?"

"They think they're the only ones watching."

Silence settled again, heavy but not suffocating.

After a moment, Delilah said softly, "You don't blink much."

Lucien gave her a sideways glance. "Habit."

"You're always calculating. Even now. Like you're tracking every breath in the room."

"I am."

"Do you ever sleep?"

"When I need to."

She tilted her head, studying him through long lashes. "Do you ever stop being a weapon?"

Lucien's jaw flexed.

"No."

Delilah lowered her gaze to the coffee in her hands. Her voice dropped.

"I wish I were like that."

"You don't."

"I do. I'm tired of being scared. Of freezing every time something unpredictable happens. Like I'm made of glass and someone's always waiting to tap me hard enough to crack."

Lucien shifted in his chair. Not toward her—but not away either.

"You're not glass," he said quietly. "You're steel wrapped in silk. That fear you feel? It hasn't stopped you from showing up. From building things no one else can. From walking into a world that terrifies you."

She didn't respond. But her eyes shimmered.

After a long moment, she whispered, "It's not just the photo."

Lucien's gaze sharpened. "What else?"

She hesitated—then stood slowly, walked to the credenza by the kitchen, and pulled out a small, white box. Inside were three more photos, wrapped in tissue paper. Lucien stood instantly and took them from her, carefully unfolding the tissue.

They were older.

One of her walking across the campus at MIT.

Another inside a bookstore in Boston.

A third—her, asleep on a train. Taken from the seat behind her.

No notes. No threats. Just... images. Private moments, stolen and kept.

"Why didn't you tell your father?" Lucien asked, his voice low.

Delilah sat down again, drawing the blanket over her lap. "Because I didn't want him to think I was broken. I've worked so hard to convince him I could handle being in the world again."

Lucien was silent for a long moment.

Then he said, "You have been handling it. That doesn't mean you should have to do it alone."

She looked up, her expression open, vulnerable. Her voice barely a whisper.

"I don't want to be alone tonight."

Lucien didn't move.

"You won't be," he said.

He didn't sit beside her.

Instead, he took the floor.

Right there at her feet, back against the sofa, one knee bent. Within reach. Within sight.

Silent. Solid.

Delilah said nothing, but after a while, her hand drifted down, just brushing his shoulder.

Lucien didn't look at her. Didn't speak.

But he stayed.

And in that quiet, uncertain dark, a connection formed—not sharp or sudden, but steady. Like gravity. Like something inevitable.

And somewhere out there, someone was watching.

But this time, Lucien was watching back.