#chapter eleven

Logan never got caught.

It was part of his job – only being visible when he wanted to be.

People were oblivious—too caught up in their own worlds to notice the subtle things. The man who sat on the same park bench every other day, always scrolling through his phone. The extra customer in a café, sipping coffee while pretending to read today’s paper. The car parked just a little too conveniently on the corner, its driver somehow never actually going anywhere.

He leaned casually against a lamppost across the street from Brews & Books, dressed in a well-worn hoodie and jeans, a disposable coffee cup in one hand. The cup wasn’t empty, but he wasn’t really drinking it either—just using it as a prop like the camera slung around his neck to give him the appearance of any other student, perhaps one studying film or photography. 

Across the street, inside the sunlit café, Y/N sat at one of the back tables, a book open in front of her and a cup of tea resting beside it. The shop was quiet at this hour, none of the usual rush hour customers, their usual hum of conversation replaced by the occasional rustle of her pages turning or the faint clatter of a spoon against porcelain.

She looked up when she heard the phantom sound of a camera shutter, and had barely pinpointed a head of blond hair standing on the other side of the street.

But when she blinked, there was no one there at all.

It had started small.

A lingering glance over her shoulder as she left work. A slight hesitation at crosswalks, as if debating whether to change her usual route. She hadn’t altered her patterns yet, but Logan could tell she was considering it.

She was smart. Observant in a way most people weren’t.

It was a problem.

Logan exhaled slowly, tilting his head just slightly as he spoke into the discreet mic clipped beneath the collar of his jacket. His voice was low, casual. No one would think twice if they overheard him.

“She’s gonna catch on soon. This is why I don’t like round the clock work, strategically it's got the highest probability of–.”

Lando’s voice crackled through Logan’s earpiece. Steady, controlled.

“That’s fine.”

Logan’s jaw ticked slightly. He turned his head, pretending to check for traffic as he processed the words.

That’s fine?

He had expected Lando to tell him to pull back, to ease off before she fully realized what was happening. That would’ve been the logical move.

Instead, Lando wanted her to keep noticing.

It wasn’t a mistake. Lando didn’t make those.

Logan’s fingers curled slightly around his cup as he considered what that meant. Y/N was already tangled in something far bigger than she understood. And if Lando wasn’t cutting the thread, then that meant—

He wanted her there. Even if he wouldn’t admit it just yet.

Logan sighed, pushing off the lamppost and stretching slightly. Then, with practiced ease, he disappeared down the street.

Y/N would keep looking, and he would make sure she only saw what they wanted her to.

A few days later, they sat in Lando’s study—a sleek, dimly lit room lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the scent of aged leather and faint cigar smoke hanging in the air. Lando, leaning back in his chair with a drink in hand, looked entirely at ease. Logan, on the other hand, sat forward on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, fingers idly turning his phone over in his palm.

“She’s definitely noticed now,” Logan said after a beat, his tone casual but pointed. “But she’s not panicking, not running scared or nothin’. But she knows something's off. If I keep tailing her like this, she’s gonna confirm it sooner or later. Give me some leeway, let me switch it up a bit.”

Lando hummed in response, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip. His expression was unreadable, the dim light casting sharp shadows along his jaw.

“What have you got f'o me?” he said simply.

Logan exhaled and leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee. “Nothing too interesting, I guess. Mostly just little things. She’s more aware of her surroundings now – stays in well-lit areas when she walks home, keeps her headphones out instead of wearing them. If someone’s behind her, she doesn’t look back, but she adjusts her pace—sometimes slows down like she’s testing if they’ll pass her, sometimes speeds up like she wants to lose ‘em.”

Lando’s lips quirked at that, amusement flickering behind his otherwise cool gaze. “Smart girl.”

Logan nodded. “Yeah, yeah. She’s got good instincts. I don’t think she’s ever been in a situation like this before, but she’s probably read enough crime novels to know some of the signs.”

Lando let out a quiet chuckle, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “You really think she’s piecin' it together?”

“Not fully? She’s suspicious for sure, but like, she doesn’t know what she’s looking for yet. If I pulled back for a few days, she’d probably convince herself she imagined it.”

Lando tilted his head slightly, considering. Then, after a long pause, he decided, “Stay on it.”

Logan raised a brow. “You sure about that, Boss? If she clocks me, this gets messy.”

“That won’t happen.” Lando says with a firm that has Logan questioning whether it's a statement of opinion or fact. The Brit leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. “And if it does, well… we’ll deal with it then.”

Logan knew what ‘dealing with it’ meant.

He didn’t push further. Lando was the boss, and while Logan had enough leeway to offer input, he knew better than to question a decision that had apparently already been made. Instead, he exhaled through his nose and switched gears. “Right. Other than that, she’s been normal. Work, books, the occasional late-night tea. Still talks to that Alex guy whenever he stops by the café.”

That seemed to catch Lando’s attention. His fingers tapped once against the desk, barely perceptible. “How often?”

“Not every day, but regularly enough. She’s comfortable with him.” Logan watched Lando’s expression carefully, but his face remained neutral. Lando was silent for a moment. Then, instead of addressing that, he simply asked, “And the date?”

Logan shrugged. “It went fine. Nothing remarkable. She looked like she enjoyed herself, but she didn’t seem overly smitten or anything. She went home alone, no invitation upstairs, no lingering at the door like she was hoping he’d kiss her.”

Lando’s smirk returned, but this time it was sharper, almost smug. “Huh.”

Interesting.

Logan rolled his eyes but didn’t comment. He knew better than to dig into whatever that was about. Instead, he continued, “If you’re wondering, Alex didn’t say anything about who you are. Either he’s not suspicious about your connection to her, he doesn’t recognize you, or he’s playing the long game.”

I’ll take my chances.

He tapped his fingers against the desk again, just once, before settling back in his chair. “Keep watching her.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Logan stretched his arms over his head before letting them fall back to his sides. “If she does ID me though, I’m not gonna be the one explaining that.”

Lando just smiled.

It wasn’t reassuring.

She wasn’t paranoid—she wasn’t looking over her shoulder every few minutes or rushing home in a panic. But there was a newfound awareness in her actions, a certain scrutiny of her surroundings.

Her fingers hovered over the pages of her book instead of turning them with ease, her eyes flicking toward the window more often than before. When she got up to clear her table, she did it slower than necessary, almost like she was giving herself time to listen, to take in what was going on around her.

And when she finally locked up the café for the night, she didn’t just step outside and start walking. Instead, she’d linger. Her hand hesitated on the key for just a moment longer than normal, her head turning slightly as she surveyed both ends of the street before finally walking home.

It started as a whisper in the back of her mind. A quiet, nagging thought that told her something was off.

At first, she dismissed it as paranoia. She was tired, overworked, and had the expertise of someone who’d watched all 16 seasons of Criminal Minds. That was all.

But then there were the little things.

The first time, she told herself it was nothing.

There was flicker of movement in her periphery, a shape disappearing around the corner just as she turned her head. It could’ve been anyone. Just another pedestrian on the street, someone heading home like she was.

But the feeling lingered.

The second time, she tried to rationalize it.

Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was the murder mysteries she read growing up or listening to one true crime podcast too many, filling her head with nonsense about tailing patterns and body language cues. That was probably it. Or maybe she was just more aware lately because of the—well, the incident. Even if she hadn’t seen much that night, it had rattled her. The shock had faded, but maybe her body hadn’t fully let it go yet. Maybe this was just her mind playing tricks on her.

She let out a slow breath, shaking her head at herself. You’re being ridiculous.

But the next time it happened, she couldn’t shake it off as easily.

She was on her way home when she felt it again—that slow, creeping sensation of being watched. She didn’t stop walking, didn’t turn her head, but she adjusted her pace slightly, testing the presence.

The sound of footsteps behind her matched her rhythm for a beat too long before they finally disappeared.

She barely slept that night.

But then there was the third time.

The third time, it wasn’t just a flicker of movement. It was a presence. Not close, not intrusive, but there. A weight behind her, light but perceptible, like something unseen pressing against her back. She had slowed her steps, adjusted her pace, just to see if it changed. It didn’t. The presence lingered—never overtaking her, never retreating entirely.

She’d walked the long way home that night. When she finally shut the door of her apartment behind her, her hands were shaking.

It wasn’t every night, and that was the worst part.

If it were constant, she could confirm it. If it were obvious, she could prove it. But this? This was the kind of unease that nestled under her skin and made her feel like she was on the edge of figuring something out—only for the answer to slip through her fingers the moment she reached for it.

And yet, at the oddest of times, she still felt a chill run down her spine.

NOT MY ART.

Check out Deku Enchanted on Ao3 by s_the_queen!!!

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(DRAGONPUNK15/dragonpunk15)

Bilberry said nothing, but he looked on in fascination as RiverClan finished setting down their memories and well-wishes on Stonefur just as the elders arrived, panting and sore, but determined to see their Clanmate off. Together, they all carried him to the river, setting him down in the water and gently pushing his body out until the current caught him and he drifted downstream. They hadn’t closed his eyes, Firestar noted. Perhaps that was another RiverClan thing.

“StarClan,” Leopardstar called to the sky as everyone turned to her, her voice taut, “if he finds you as quickly as he rebutted with a joke, we won’t fear for him. Hurry home, Stonefur. They’re lucky to have you.”

RiverClan clumped into groups, all of them chatting quietly; Firestar caught things like “Remember that time when he…?” and “They won’t let him live that down, even in the sky.” He was surprised to hear purrs and jokes, even as grief weighed down their round, vibrant eyes.

“That’ll be our cue to go,” he murmured to his Clanmates. Dustpelt caught his eye, glanced over at his old apprentice, and Firestar said louder, “Thornclaw, can you come with me to bring Bilberry home?”

Thornclaw, standing tall and straight, jerked his chin upward at the prospect of being helpful.

“Thank you.” Firestar walked up to Pikefang and Greypath, who were reclining with Mistfoot and another warrior Firestar didn’t recognize. To the elders, he said, “Would you like to come back to camp now, or do you want to stay here?”

“Well…” Pikefang glanced at Greypath, who hadn’t looked up at Firestar. “I think we’d like a moment here with our Clan.”

Greypath stared straight ahead. She rasped, “That was my son, you know. Can’t just leave after sending him away.”

“Oh.” Firestar’s heart sank. “I’m so sorry. That was rude of me. I’m more than happy to let you stay.”

“I can stick around and bring them back when they’re ready,” Greystripe offered.

Pikefang’s eyes slid over to him with a very unfriendly look in them. A moment later, realization lit them up and the unfriendliness faded. He looked back at Greypath.

“That’ll do fine,” she said softly.

In the background, sitting a bit away from everyone else, Mintpaw and Stormpaw fidgeted, staring at their father.

Firestar didn’t let them be caught. He instead said, “Thank you, Greystripe. Everyone else, head home. Thornclaw, Bilberry, come with me, please.”

“You’re an awful lot nicer than those street cats,” Bilberry remarked as he joined Firestar and Thornclaw, the three of them setting off while the rest of ThunderClan clustered together and started towards camp. “I always heard your colonies ate kittens and left bones and fur all over the borders of your territory.”

“W’oughta,” Thornclaw said, “but Firestar w’ldn’ like that.”

“I heard the same thing when I was little,” Firestar said, gently tapping Thornclaw on the haunch with his tail. “I used to be a kittypet myself. House cat,” he elaborated at the confused look on Bilberry’s face. “We call cats like you and I ‘kittypet’ out here.”

“Oh!” Bilberry’s already wide eyes almost outstretched his head as he stared at Firestar in amazement. “A house cat, the leader of the forest cats. Wow… the world’s a crazy place.” He winced as one of his lanky knees bumped against a twig sticking out from a bush. “A bit too crazy for me. I wanna go home.”

“And home we’re taking you.” Firestar gave him a friendly blink. “I have to make one stop before we get to your house, but it’ll be in the neighborhood.”

Thornclaw gave Firestar a curious look, but he didn’t say anything.

As they went through the forest, Bilberry seemed to shed his fear bit by bit, until he and Firestar were chatting like old friends, sharing stories about Firestar’s old home or inquiring about Clan life. Thornclaw had an awkward air about him, but he made an effort to contribute to the conversation.

“And there was this one tom, mostly white but with grey pointing,” Bilberry was saying, gesturing wildly with one of his front paws while trying to walk. “He was lingering outside of my house for a few days, and I asked him what he wanted, and he asked to meet the molly in my house.” His youthful face wrinkled in a deep frown. “And then I brought Mi out, and she couldn’t get a word in before he went like, ‘Ugh’, and then he left! What did he even expect if that wasn’t it?”

A familiar irritation curled around Firestar’s gut. “Was he big with a lot of long fur?”

“Yeah!” Bilberry perked up. “His name was, like, uh… Onion, I think. Something weird like that.”

Firestar’s tail twitched. “Yes, I’ve met him. Trust me, he isn’t worth your time, or your mother’s.”

“Are you gunna say something mean?” Thornclaw asked, his eyes lit with interest. “Who’s he?”

A disgusted scoff escaped Firestar. “That tom is Cloudnose’s father. He had no interest in being a part of his life, we’ll put it that way.”

“Huh.” Thornclaw looked straight ahead again. Just low enough for Firestar to barely hear, he muttered, “No wonder Cloudn’se’s so fluffy.”

By the time they reached the border of the Houses, Bilberry had to stop and catch his breath. He apologized repeatedly (“Just haven’t had to do so much walking in one day, is all…”) and Firestar simply sat down with him and purred, secretly pleased that not every kittypet could trot along like him as far as this. Thornclaw stayed standing, stepping in place with a degree of antsiness. Firestar made a mental note to discuss teaching Thornclaw some patience before giving him an apprentice.

Soon enough, Bilberry stood up again and they continued along the fenceline, Firestar silently noting the change of wood and paint color per yard until they got to a familiar set of white and dull cream next to each other. He signaled for his patrol to stop before raising his voice and calling, “Smudge? Witch-Hazel? Anyone here?”

Surprisingly, only a moment passed before scrabbling on wood announced Smudge’s face, round and black-and-white and surprised. Another moment, and then the wiry, long-necked brown molly that lived in Firestar’s old home popped up too, in the same yard.

“Fireheart!” Smudge hefted himself onto the fence. “Good night alive, it’s been a while.”

“Firestar,” Thornclaw corrected testily.

Smudge blinked, seeming to just now notice Thornclaw and Bilberry. “Oh, you have new friends.”

“Hi there,” Witch-Hazel said to Thornclaw. “Oh, hey, Bilberry. You’ve been gone.”

“Witchy!” Bilberry stood straight, puffing out his pathetically skinny chest. “You’ll never guess what happened to me!”

“That’s actually what we’re here to tell you,” Firestar said to Smudge. “There are rogues from the Aulmir kidnapping cats and trying to force them to be a part of their army. Bilberry was just rescued from a raiding party.”

“You’re kidding!” Witch-Hazel stared down at Bilberry. “Did they make you fight?”

“They tried, but I wouldn’t do it,” Bilberry said proudly. Firestar tossed him an amused glance and he shrunk a little, admitting sheepishly, “I just hid until these cats found me.”

“Sounds about right for you.” Witch-Hazel winked at him. “Did Damewort go with you? We haven’t seen her in a while.”

Bilberry stiffened. “Mi’s gone?” Before anyone could answer, he whirled to face Firestar frantically, hair raising along his back. “We have to get home. Now!”

“We’ll go,” Firestar promised. To Smudge, he said, “Warn everyone in the neighborhood to stay inside as much as they can. The Blood are willing to take cats younger than a year old to fight to the death.”

Smudge nodded gravely. “I’ll spread the word. Have you told Rosy yet?”

An ice-cold lump formed in Firestar’s stomach. “I… haven’t seen her in a while. She probably won’t want to hear it from me. Could you tell her?”

Smudge’s face screamed that he had thlain questions, but he simply said, “Get Bilberry home. Witchy and I will tell everyone.”

“Thank you.”

Just as Firestar turned to go, Smudge cleared his throat and asked, “So did I hear you’re Firestar now?”

“Leader of ThunderClan,” Thornclaw said, and his chest-puffing was much more impressive than Bilberry’s.

“I’ll be plucked,” Smudge said almost under his breath. His eyes crinkled as he regarded his old friend. “You really are in your element out there, aren’t you?”

Firestar’s own eyes creased back. “I guess I am.”

“Sorry, but—” Bilberry was fidgeting. “Can we go, please?”

“Right away.” Firestar waved his tail to Smudge and Witch-Hazel. “Stay safe.”

The kittypets waved their tails back, not saying anything as the trio of toms started off again at a hard trot. There was no further conversation, though Bilberry kept mumbling under his breath in a high, tense, whining sort of way. Even Thornclaw looked concerned for him. Firestar was just grateful that they went right past Rosy’s house, and even more grateful that she wasn’t outside.

Passing row after row of houses lined up neatly beside each other, they finally reached what seemed like the end of the neighborhood—even Firestar hadn’t gone this far in his days of wandering as a kittypet. The houses were larger than usual, with one of them being a dark blue and having a fence that wasn’t a straight wall of planks. Instead, poles were set up at a fair distance from each other, with only two bits of wood laying across the gap each pole made with another. The yard, thankfully, did not smell of anything but clipped grass and an unfamiliar cat.

“Mi!” Bilberry shouted, picking up his speed until he was running (Firestar and Thornclaw easily kept pace with him). “Mi, are you home?!”

They crossed under the fence and were halfway over the grass before the front door’s flap burst open. A lanky, ruddy-brown molly exploded from the inside of the house and barely had to look around for a heartbeat before spotting Bilberry, crying out in joy and crossing the distance in an instant, nearly knocking him over. Firestar noted with some amusement that the pair of them looked just like each other as the aging, mournful-faced molly rubbed her face on Bilberry’s, purring like she was weeping in relief.

“Billy, Billy!” She paused rubbing to lick his head-fur, still purring through her words. “I’m so sorry, love, I tried to come for you, I couldn’t, I’m sorry…” She pulled back, eyes, just as wide and nearly the same color as her son’s, wet and shining. “Did they hurt you? Are you alright?”

“I’m okay, Mi.” Bilberry was purring too, much more shakily. “I didn’t get in trouble, I promise. These cats saved me.”

Damewort (Firestar assumed this was her) finally appeared to notice the Clan cats, looking at them in surprise, confusion and relief.

Firestar dipped his head respectfully and gave a friendly blink. “I’m Firestar. This is Thornclaw. You’re Damewort?”

She nodded, her voice wobbly. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I saw them take him away, and I tried to go after them, but… I’m quite old, and not strong enough to fight back when they pushed me. They… they said they’d kill him if I tried again.”

“They said they’d kill you if I ran away!” Bilberry bristled. “They don’t get to threaten you like that, Mi!”

“It doesn’t matter.” Damewort waved a paw as if to swipe away the thought of dangerous thugs. “You’re home. You’re safe. That’s all I care about.”

“Remember to stay home this time,” Firestar said to Bilberry. To Damewort, he added, “Those cats are trying to recruit others to fight for them against us. Please, if you can, stay inside until it’s safe again.”

Damewort made a small, agreeable noise. Reaching out a long paw, she pulled Billberry towards her, which he didn’t resist against as she rested her chin on his neck. “You have no idea how much I owe you.”

“You owe us nothing,” Thornclaw said, in a tone rather kindly for him. “We’re jus’ glad t’ see him home.”

Firestar gave him an approving beam. He flicked his ear in acknowledgement, looking a little awkward but pleased with himself.

“We better get back before we worry the rest of the Clan,” Firestar said. “Damewort, Bilberry, it was nice to meet you. I hope things stay calm around here.”

“Thank you,” Damewort said again, her son echoing her. She finally released him, though he lingered for a moment, and led him back inside, purring as she spoke to him, something quiet about, “I knew something was going to happen if you wandered off like that!” and him responding, “I’m sorry, Mi, really…”

“Well,” Firestar said once the flap stilled, “you ready to go home?”

“Yessir.” Thornclaw turned back in the direction of the territories as Firestar did. “Tornface’ll be worried about us.”

“I’m more worried about all these kittypets, honestly.”

“They’ll be okay,” Thornclaw said doubtfully. “As long as they stay inside.”

“It’s just awful,” Firestar sighed, going under the fence. “These cats—there’s so many of them, and they’re still stealing kittypets that are barely a year old to fight for them. I can only imagine how scared all those young ones are, how hungry they must be if they have to fight for their meals.”

Thornclaw said nothing, but his frown was troubled.

“I just don’t know what to do,” Firestar admitted. “I want this to end peacefully—I know that’s not realistic, believe me, but I wish I knew what could be done to keep as few cats getting hurt as possible.”

“Funny you say that.”

Both toms jumped in surprise, twisting to the right. A dark ginger cat leaned against a fenceline close to them, having somehow snuck up without them knowing.

Wait.

That long, hairless streak of back was familiar.