Something in my chest tightens.
“That wouldn’t be public.”
“The brunch was,” he says easily, like he’s been waiting for the question. “It was advertised. We’re coming up on the window now.”
He says it smoothly. Too smoothly.
Logical, on the surface. Public-facing event. Scheduled appearance. Reasonable assumption that Hartley would attend. It fits. It almost convinces me.
Almost.
Because the way he explains it carries more detail than people usually volunteer, especially when that detail involves where powerful men eat breakfast. Locations don’t get broadcast. Attendee lists don’t get confirmed. Not for safety. Not for men like Hartley.
I catalog it quietly and let my face go neutral.
“Fine,” I say, opening the passenger door and getting in. “Let’s go.”
The engine turns over, and we pull into traffic.
I don’t press him.
Not yet.
We pull away cleanly,merging into traffic like we belong there.
At the red light, my flip phone vibrates.
I pull it out low, hidden by my jacket, and read the single message.
GRIM: Got it.
I finally let myselfbreathe.
We abandon the car four blocks out, which is close enough to matter and far enough to pretend it doesn’t. Anything nearer would put us in range of cameras meant to catch plates, not people. The Atlas Building rises ahead of us, all glass and authority, the kind of place that pretends transparency while hiding everything that matters. We’re still walking when we pass the back entrance, and that’s when the plan finalizes itself.
Staff are arriving in plain clothes, jackets slung over shoulders, coffee cups in hand. A service door stands propped open with a five-gallon bucket, metal scuffed and dented, doing more work than any security checkpoint ever will. A few people linger off to the side, half-hidden by the building’s shadow, cigarettes burning down between fingers as they kill the last minutes before clock-in.
No badges. No scrutiny. Just routine.
Saint slows half a step. I glance at her, and she glances back. Nothing passes between us that anyone else would recognize as communication, but the agreement lands cleanly.
That’s the way in.
We pivot without breaking stride, turning toward the open door like it was always the destination. No hesitation.No adjustment. We walk in the way people do when they belong somewhere, when they’ve done it a thousand times before and expect to do it a thousand more.
No one looks up.
No one asks a question.
We follow the sound of lockers slamming shut, metal on metal, the rhythm of people arriving for work. It leads us down a narrower corridor where the air smells faintly of detergent and stale coffee, to a window cut into the wall with UNIFORMS stenciled above it in peeling letters.
A small line has already formed.
The people ahead of us are familiar to the teller. Not friends, exactly, but known. One leans in with a half-smile and a comment about the shift. Another complains about the air conditioning like it’s a shared joke. Names aren’t exchanged, but recognition is enough. The teller slides folded fabric across the counter without breaking conversation.
The person directly in front of us hesitates. Too long. Gives their size, voice careful. The teller doesn’t comment, doesn’t smile. Just reaches back and pulls a bundle from the shelf.
New, then. Or at least not liked enough to be remembered.
