The stack of files on his desk.
The photo of me at twelve, holding my first gun, that he keeps in the corner where he thinks I don't see it.
"As long as it bloody takes," he says finally. "You know how this works."
I do know.
Protection details don't have end dates.
You stay until the threat is neutralized or the principal no longer requires your services.
It could be weeks. Months. Years.
My chest tightens with something that feels dangerously like hope.
"And if the threat is neutralized?" I press. "What then?"
"Then we reassess. There's always another assignment, RJ. Another principal who needs protecting."
Another assignment. Another principal.
Another life that isn't this one—waking up next to Dalla, holding her while she sleeps, watching her sketch and hum and exist in all the ways that make me feel more alive than I've ever felt.
The thought of leaving her—of being assigned somewhere else, protecting someone else—makes my stomach turn.
"Right," I say. "Of course."
Da is quiet for a moment. "She matters to you."
It's not a question.
"She does."
"Then make sure she stays safe. That's the best thing you can do for her—keep her alive long enough for this to be something real."
The words hit harder than they should. Because he's right. Whatever this is between us, whatever it could become—none of it matters if I can't protect her from the people trying to hurt her.
"I will," I say. "I promise."
"Good lad. Check in again in a few days. And RJ?"
"Yeah?"
"Be careful. Not just with the threats. With yourself."
He hangs up before I can respond.
I do a full perimeter check after the call, needing to move, needing to think.
The compound is quiet in the early morning, most of the club still sleeping off whatever happened last night.
I walk the fence line first, checking for gaps, weaknesses, anything that looks disturbed.
Then I expand outward, into the tree line beyond the property.
This is where they were watching from.
The dark sedan, parked on the road.
