"Shh!" Multiple voices, urgent. "Boss is sleeping!"
"Sorry, sorry." That sounds like Davis. Whispering now. "Just—the soap tower fell—"
"Then rebuild it quietly," Finn hisses. "She said ten hours minimum for proper recovery."
She said. They're following her medical orders. About me.
The feeling starts in my chest. Hot. Tight. My throat closes—actually closes, muscles forgetting basic function.
They're being quiet. For me. Not from fear—I know the sound of fear-based compliance. This is... care? Consideration?
My killers tiptoe around because they think I need rest.
I can't breathe. The warm blanket feels like chains, like being held, like being seen as something other than weapon-shaped. They protected my sleep. These people who should scatter when I stir, who should report immediately upon my waking—they chose silence. Chose my rest over protocol.
When did I become someone worth being quiet for?
"Syl, tell Tooth the north corner's done." Gray Streak again, still discussing what sounds like room assignments. "He can start on the kitchen charts."
Kitchen charts. I force myself to standing, the blanket falling away. My body responds perfectly. No grinding joints, no spots in my vision, no disorientation. Just smooth, painless movement.
The warehouse hasn't changed—still trying to murder us through environmental hazards. But I move through it differently now, without the constant companion of pain. My steps are silent from habit, not necessity. No one notices as I navigate the familiar decay.
Salvaged wood leans against walls. One says "BEDROOM ASSIGNMENTS" in handwriting I recognize. Another charts some kind of rotation system. Everywhere I look, evidence of planning. Of hope.
In what used to be our weapons maintenance corner, Tooth is teaching Davis to fold fitted sheets. The same hands that have pulled fingernails for information now smooth hospital corners with focused concentration.
"No, see, you find the corners first," Tooth explains patiently. "Then it's like tactical folding. Corner management with purpose."
Corner management with purpose.
My enforcer has militarized laundry.
I drift closer to the voices, each step revealing new impossibilities. Syl signing enthusiastically to several others about something involving hot water. Finn carrying what appears to be a stack of folded towels with the same care he'dtransport explosives. The cold morning air carries no scent of violence, just dust and lavender soap.
Following the loudest discussion leads me to what used to be our tactical planning area. Now it's... this.
Olivia stands in the center of my assembled guild, covered in charcoal dust, gesturing at more wood charts while explaining water systems. My shadows—
My shadows are wrapped around her shoulders. Not threatening. Not attacking. Just... there. Draped like a living shawl, moving with her gestures, flowing with her enthusiasm.
"—and hot water, available constantly, no more kettle heating or sharing or that thing where someone uses all the warm water and everyone else suffers—"
She's radiant. Covered in dust, hair escaping everywhere, wearing my darkness like it chose her. Which it did. They left me. My shadows left me for someone who makes charts about plumbing.
"The security's solid," Gray Streak adds, pointing at something on another chart. "Multiple entrance points, all defensible. Windows on upper floors only. Good sight lines."
"See? Practical AND comfortable." She beams at my assembled killers, who are nodding along like this is reasonable. Like we're a social club deciding on new headquarters instead of the most feared criminal organization in the city. "Questions?"
Finn raises his hand. Actually raises his hand like he's in lessons. "What about training space?"
"Ballroom on the second floor. Terrible for dancing, perfect for stabbing practice."
They laugh. My guild laughs at her joke about repurposing aristocratic architecture for violence.
"What is this?"
Every head turns. The laughter dies. Except for her. She lights up like I've given her a gift.
