I hear a satisfying crack! Then blood bursts from his nose.

“Finally,” Owen says, almost laughing, making his way back down the stairwell. “Alexander’s been begging for someone to hit him, haven’t you, bud?”

My knuckles sting, but from the way Alexander’s eyes water, I know his face hurts worse. I can’t hear his furious rebukes through his palms, which hold what I hope is his broken nose.

Owen claps Alexander on the shoulder, stepping between the two of us to prevent further confrontation.

But I’m not finished.

“My sister’s the best thing that’s ever happened to your son,” I snarl. “Her loyalty is what will save him. But if he’s already dead, it’s because of you. Roth is your father . . . This is your family’s mess.”

Mira pulls me back. “Don’t waste your hate,” she whispers in my ear. “Keep it for tonight.”

She’s right. Alexander is just a distraction. He’s the wrong Roth.

When I see Haven barreling down the stairwell, I move past Alexander without another glance, making my way to my aunt.

“What happened?” she asks, scowling at Alexander, her hands balled into weapons.

“Nothing worth our time,” Mira assures her.

“Let’s go,” I say, continuing up the steps.

Haven and Mira follow close behind. Two floors up, we reach ground level. Through the stairwell landing door, I hear the tower buzzing with life. I turn to give Mira and Haven a warning look. No more talking.

Haven points up, then uses her fingers to relay that we’re heading to the forty-fifth level. Even with my wounded leg, I practically run up the stairs. The stitch in my side and the burn in my thighs draws my focus, and I’m grateful for the respite from my mind.

When we reach level forty-four’s landing, I stop, out of breath but enlivened by the exercise. Mira and I have always been able to communicate with just a look. She knows what I’m asking for without a word.

A moment to myself.

She nods. See you soon, our eyes say, then she continues up the stairs with Haven, leaving me to roam the deserted floor alone.

It has started to rain.

The unfinished top floors of the tower don’t have walls or windows, leaving them totally exposed to the elements. I stand at the ledge, eyes closed, letting the water droplets wash over me, cooling off my temper.

I count my breaths, centering the strength of my body and soul for what comes next, until I hear my name being called. Softly. Slowly. Pulling me back from my meditations like a siren song.

Owen.

My eyes snap open and I turn to him.

He’s there, right behind me. Without his mask. I hadn’t realized just how much I missed that charming smile, punctuated by those dimples. His face is open. Eager.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

My preoccupied mind completely forgot about my birthday.

Owen pulls a flower from behind his back.

It’s the most alien-looking flower I’ve ever seen, an exquisite combination of yellow and electric pink, with a fringelike crown that looks like its thin tendrils are frozen in a slow dance.

“Lucía said it’s a Mexican passionflower,” he says with a sheepish shrug, handing it to me. It smells pungent, like a storage closet filled with mothballs. It’s unexpected. Strange.

Like my growing feelings for him.

“I love it,” I say.

When did Owen find time to remember birthdays and pluck flowers?

Our eyes meet, and all at once the butterflies floating in my stomach are set on fire. Heat flies through my limbs, reigniting my temperature.

I step forward, closing the gap between us.

“You came back,” I say.

I slowly trace the curves of his face with my fingertips, leaving rivulets of rainwater in their wake. The heat between us grows stronger.

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he promises. He grabs my hand, places it in his, gently caressing my bruised knuckles.

My heart broke at Rayla’s funeral, fled its cage in my chest at the death of her, Pawel, and my father.

I never thought it would return.

But right now, standing here with Owen, so close, body vibrating, aching, I feel as if he’s given back a piece of my heart to me.

It beats like the wings of a hummingbird.

“Ava, I want you to know—” Owen starts to say, but I press a finger to his lips.

“Show me,” I breathe, drunk on his whisky-colored eyes.

We smile, then wrap our arms around each other, crushing the passionflower between our chests.

Our mouths don’t part for the next twenty minutes.

And he shows me everything.

MIRA

I look down at my wrist and watch the time tick to 7:44 p.m.

The hour and minute my father pulled me into this world. And thirty minutes before my mother left it.

Father would always try to make this day feel special. Normal. A celebration of life, ritualized with cake and gifts and music.

Ava would get the “real” birthday party topside, a lavish show for our classmates and Father’s coworkers, meant to cloak our family secret and keep our lie alive.

The lie, meaning me.

Afterward, Father and Ava would bring the festivities downstairs, singing, laughing, pretending that my own private basement after-party was fine, normal, better.

VIPs only, Father would make-believe.

Ava would end the night in a toast, wishing us a happy day of birth and hearty congratulations.

Birthdays are meant to be mile markers, and it was a tradition of mine to end the night singing, to myself, my own untraditional “Birthday Song.”

Congratulations to you!

Another victory lap around the sun.

Another year of being alive.

Another year won.

Another year I survived as a twin, an illegal second-born. Another triumphant year in the game that’s life.

This is the first time I can tell someone that on this day, this very minute, I was born. I exist. But being alone like this, staring at the hazy orange sun setting on a horizon of skyscrapers, another year won, it feels right, normal, to be on my own.

It’s better this way, I tell myself.

And there’s still the night, the battle, ahead.

I move closer to the edge of the unfinished room, to the wall made only of air. I let the tips of my boots hang off the floor, forty-five stories high, and gaze out at the bloated metropolis.

A steady shower of rain falls from low scattered clouds. I watch the water pour down from the slanted rooftops all across the district, collecting and funneling into bright-red gutters. I follow the invaluable water’s route in my mind’s eye, as it feeds into the network of aqueducts and pipelines, every drop leading to the Salazar stronghold.

It’s a shadow on the distant skyline, but I see it. The blinding lights of the Salazar Reservoir and its adjacent mansion. If I squint, I imagine I can see inside, the meeting place, the players gathered around the table.

The capo. Director Wix. And the potential President Roth.

Theo, are you seated by his side? The visual turns my stomach, but it’s better than accepting the alternative. We’re too late. Theo’s already suffered the same fate as his brother, Halton. And he’s lost to us for good.

Every year, Ava gave me the best gifts for our name day. She invariably found the most elusive items on the Black Market; foreign liqueurs, sweets, flowers. The gifts were always perishable, illegal items that could disappear, cease to exist and show no evidence they were ever really there. Kind of like me.