We walk along the streets of Bree's new turf. These parts of the city seem unnaturally quiet and empty. Not a single soul is in sight. The doors of the shops are shut, and the windows are covered with thick curtains.

“What do you think is going on?” I ask.

Bree glances around before continuing with her silent stride.

“Nothing really.” Eyeing me, she explains, “Whistling is how gangs in town communicate. They call each other and signal when and where to set up ambushes. People know something bad will happen shortly, and they are wise enough to stay indoors for their safety and close shops to protect their merchandise. You could’ve noticed this if you weren't so busy running around like a headless chicken.”

“Point taken,” I mutter.

Strolling through the streets with Bree at my side, I feel strangely at ease, even in the midst of such an eerie silence.

It’s good to have someone walking next to me, although it probably has more to do with my subconscious wanting her company. But I'm not