I turn to find Lucas standing in the hallway, watching me with the kind of wide-eyed curiosity that six-year-olds haven't learned to hide yet. He's wearing a t-shirt two-sizes too big and shorts. There are grass stains on his knees. Fresh from playing outside.
Dark hair sticks up at odd angles. Brown eyes study me with an intensity that reminds me of his mother. He's small for six, all gangly limbs and baby fat starting to give way to muscle.
"Yeah," I say, because there's no point lying to a kid who's already seen too much. "I'm a soldier."
Face lights up. "Cool. What kind of soldier? Like on TV?" He bounces on his toes. "Do you have a gun? Can I see it? Does it make loud noises?"
"Special Forces. Yes, I have a gun, but no, you can't see it. And yes, they're very loud." I answer them in order, keeping my voice level. Non-threatening. The way you talk to kids when you don't want to scare them.
"Why can't I see it?" Lucas takes a step closer, practically vibrating with excitement. "Mom says guns are dangerous, but you're a soldier so you know how to use them safe, right?"
"Your mom's right. Guns are dangerous. That's why they stay locked up when I'm here."
"But—"
"No." Rachel's voice cuts across the room from the kitchen doorway, sharp enough to make Lucas flinch. "Absolutely not. No gun talk. No weapons. No military anything."
One hand braces against the doorframe, the other hanging loose at her side—ready to move if she needs to.
Shoulders slump. "But Mom?—"
"I said no, Lucas. Mr. Stryker is here to help us stay safe, not to show you dangerous things."
Her eyes find mine over her son's head, and the message is clear. We had rules. Don't touch Lucas's sense of safety. This conversation is over.
"Fine." Lucas drags the word out, disappointment written across his face. Then he perks up slightly. "But you can still tell me about being a soldier, right? Like stories?"
Rachel's jaw tightens, but she nods. "Stories are fine. As long as they're appropriate for a six-year-old."
"Awesome." Lucas grins at me, hero worship already cementing itself in his expression. "Do you have any cool gear? Mom said you brought a bag. Does it have special stuff? Can I see?"
Questions start again, and I glance at Rachel for permission. She gives a slight nod, though her posture doesn't relax.
"Some of it," I say carefully. "But most of the equipment is for protecting people, not fighting."
"Like what?"
I move to my duffel, making my movements slow and obvious. Rachel watches every motion, and I can practically feel her calculating how fast she could reach her biometric safe if this goes wrong. Still doesn't trust me. Can't blame her.
I pull out the motion sensors first. Small black boxes that look innocuous enough. "These detect movement. If someone comes near the house who shouldn't be here, they send an alert to my phone and to my team's operations center. They monitor in shifts, round the clock, so someone's always watching."
Lucas leans closer, fascinated. "Like a burglar alarm?"
"Similar. But better." I show him the wireless camera next, equally small and nondescript. "This records video so we can see who's around even when we're inside. Also feeds to the operations center."
"That's so cool." Lucas reaches for it, then pulls his hand back and looks at his mother. "Can I touch it?"
Rachel's expression softens slightly. "Gently."
Lucas takes the camera with the kind of reverence most kids reserve for video game controllers. He turns it over in his hands, examining every angle. "Where does the video go?"
"To a secure server. Only people with the right password can access it."
"And you have the password?"
"I do."
"Can I have it?"
