He grins. “Damn right you do.”
I walk out of that warehouse lighter than I should be.
But sharper, too.
I’ve got what we need now.
And for the first time in years, I don’t feel like just a chef.
I feel like a weapon.
When I get back to the safehouse, my blood chill in my veins.
The door’s open.
Not busted, not pried. Just... ajar. Swinging slightly on a crooked hinge like it’s forgotten how to close without her hand guiding it. My pulse spikes. Every instinct I ever buried under chef whites and spice dust screamstrap,wrong,too quiet.
I’m inside before I realize I’ve drawn my knife. The good one. The one with the handle worn smooth by years of dicing roots and slashing throats. The safehouse smells like cold air and burnt caf. But not blood. No blood.
That’s something.
Still, my eyes flick across the room, counting. The mess on the counter’s undisturbed. The datapads are gone. The backup drive? Missing. Good. She took the important stuff.
My boot scuffs something.
A note.
No—my pad. Flipped face-up on the floor, blinking with a single message.
“Relocated. I’m safe. But they’re moving faster.”
I read it twice. A third time. Like if I stare hard enough I’ll conjure her breath on my neck, the way her voice curls around my ribs when she’s close. But all I get is static. Cold silence.
The air tastes wrong.
She’s gone.
And I wasn’t here.
I sink down hard on the edge of the table, my body heavy like it's just remembered how old the war made me. My hand curls around the hilt of the blade until my knuckles ache.
She’s smart. Smarter than I ever was. If she says she’s safe, she means it.
But safe’s a temporary thing in this city.
Especially when you’re carrying the kind of truth that gets folks disappeared.
I scrub a hand down my face, the stubble catching on my fingers. I hate this. This sitting. This waiting. I’ve lived through fire, through siege. I’ve seen cities collapse under orbital barrage. But nothing shakes me like not knowing where Kristi is.
Because I’ve had enough loss to last a lifetime.
And I sure as hell ain’t burying her.
I stand.
The drawer creaks as I open it. Inside, my kit—culinary and otherwise. I run my fingers over the blades. Some stained, some shining. I pull out the twin crescent knives, the ones forged with folded steel and embedded microfilament. My hands move with muscle memory, checking their balance, testing the edges.
Then I roll them in their cloth, tuck them against my back, and grab the whetstone.
