"Yes. After tomorrow's lunch, you debrief with me first. Before you see Lana, before you process the recording, you call me. Tell me what happened, how you're feeling, whether you violated any rules. External accountability before emotional processing." He stands, signaling the conversation is ending. "That's non-negotiable. If you go straight to her, if you let the adrenaline and protective instinct take over before you've grounded yourself, you'll say or do things you'll regret."
"Understood."
He walks me to the door, and I step out into the evening. The temperature has dropped, September giving way to October's edge.
"Text me tomorrow if you need talking down," Elias says. "And Jax? Remember rule three. Let her fight her own battles. She's stronger than you think."
The drive back to my apartment takes twenty-three minutes. I spend them thinking about Elias's rules, about tomorrow's lunch, about the honest conversation I'm supposed to have with Lana about attraction I've been hiding behind professional obligation.
At home, I pull out my laptop, review tomorrow's logistics one final time. Marconi's layout, table positioning, exit routes. Then I pull up Lana's apartment camera feeds.
She's home. I can see her moving through her living room, carrying something—a mug, probably. She's changed into what looks like pajamas, hair down, the necklace no longervisible. She must have taken it off after I left, stored it somewhere safe for tomorrow.
I watch her settle onto her couch with the mug and pull her knees up. She's looking at something on her phone, probably reviewing notes for tomorrow's attorney meeting.
This is the line. The cameras exist for threat monitoring—checking for breaches, unfamiliar visitors, signs of forced entry. What they don't exist for is watching her private moments, cataloging how she moves through her space when she thinks no one is observing.
I do a security sweep. Check each feed systematically: entrance shows no activity in the hallway, kitchen is empty, living room shows her on the couch with her phone. No threats. No anomalies. The apartment is secure.
The professional assessment takes thirty seconds.
But I'm still watching. Watching the way she pulls her knees up, the way her hair falls forward when she leans over her phone, the domestic intimacy of seeing her in pajamas instead of the professional armor she wears for the world.
This is where professional surveillance crosses into personal voyeurism. The threat assessment is complete. Continuing to watch serves no security purpose.
I close the laptop. The feeds stay active—motion alerts will notify me if someone approaches her door, if there's any unusual activity. But I won't sit here watching her exist in private space.
That's the distinction. Monitoring for threats versus watching because I want to see her. The first is protection. The second is possession.
My phone buzzes. Text from Lana:Are you still awake?
I respond immediately:Yes. Everything okay?
Fine. Just nervous about tomorrow. All of it.
That's normal. You're walking into hostile territory.
Will you really be there? At the restaurant?
The question suggests she needs reassurance more than tactical confirmation.I'll be there. Different table, monitoring everything. You're not alone in this.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally:Thank you. For the preparation. For the necklace. For not making me feel crazy for being afraid.
You're not crazy. You're appropriately cautious about someone who wants to discredit you.I pause, then add:Get some sleep. Tomorrow requires energy you won't have if you're exhausted.
Says the man who probably hasn't slept properly in weeks.
The observation is accurate enough to sting.Fair point. I'll try to sleep if you will.
Deal. Goodnight, Jax.
Goodnight, Lana.
I set down my phone and stare at the ceiling of my bedroom, thinking about proximity and boundaries and the fact that I'll spend tomorrow watching someone I'm attracted to be interrogated by someone who wants to destroy her. The urge to intervene will be overwhelming. The need to protect will conflict with the tactical necessity of letting her handle the psychological warfare herself.
Elias's rules are in my pocket. I pull them out, read them again:
1. Document, don't intervene. Your job is witness, not defender.
