Time is up, Rabbit

Run, Rabbit, Run

Someone had put out a call on Rabbit Hole weeks ago — "Retrieve the Disk. Name your price."

Freen hadn't taken it for the money. She'd taken it because the data screamed corruption — and because it was too close to Becky. If she could leak it, she could burn half the city's rot to the ground.

She told herself it was for justice. But deep down, she knew — she just wanted to hear Becky's voice again, saying she was right about something. Anything. Maybe if she tore the truth open wide enough, the prosecutor who believed in honesty might finally see her not as a criminal — but as someone who tried.

That was why she kept feeding little sparks into the city's data streams — leaks, breadcrumbs, anonymous tips — anything to make sure Becky never stopped chasing the Rabbit. Because as long as Becky was chasing her it feels like she close. 

So she broke in. No code this time — just lockpicks, timing, muscle memory. And when the alarms stayed silent, she almost thought she'd gotten away with it. Almost.

She was halfway across the rooftop when she heard it — the subtle click of safeties being switched off. Three men stepped out of the shadows, suits too clean for street work, movements too controlled. Not thugs. Private security. Court's internal watchdogs — the kind that didn't appear in any public payroll.

She cursed under her breath. Wrong place, wrong night. The first lunged. Freen moved — fast, but not fast enough. A blow grazed her shoulder, the second whistled past her ear.

She jumped the gap between buildings, hit the opposite roof hard, and didn't look back.
The drive thudded in her jacket — small, heavy. She needed to disappear — melt into the crowd.

But when she dropped to the street level, she could've taken a dozen other routes, lost them in minutes. But somehow, her path curved toward the courthouse parking lot — toward her. Like muscle memory she couldn't rewrite.

And there she was. Becky, unlocking her car. Time slowed. Freen skidded to a stop, the world tilting around her. No plan. No calculation. Just instinct.

Becky slid into the driver's seat, exhaling the kind of sigh that came only after a fourteen-hour day in court. The city outside pulsed in distant neon. She reached for the ignition—

The passenger door slammed open. A blur of black jacket, wild hair, and panic spilled inside.

"Drive," the stranger said, breathless.

Becky's hand froze on the keys. Her brain registered the details — the faint scent of rain, eyes she'd memorized in dreams, the curve of a mouth she knew too well.

Her pulse stuttered. 

"...Freen?"

"Becky, drive!" Freen hissed.

Becky blinked, the sound of her name on that voice slicing through years of silence. She didn't even realize she'd obeyed until the tires screeched against the asphalt. The car shot forward, weaving into the late-night traffic.

"Who the hell are those people?" 

Becky demanded, stealing a glance at the passenger seat — at the ghost she'd buried five years ago.

"Long story," Freen muttered, twisting to check behind them. "Short version? They don't like me very much."

"Wonderful," Becky snapped. "And you brought them to me?"

"I didn't exactly have time to send a calendar invite!"

The car swerved around a corner, tires screaming. Freen reached across, grabbing the wheel just in time to correct the spin.