“Only what anyone knows.” He starts polishing the glass again, even though it’s already spotless. “Name’s Kelsea. Pays on time. Quiet. Works hard. That’s all I got.”
His eyes twitch—just a flick—to the curtain that leads to backstage.
Too smooth. Too rehearsed.
“She got family?”
He hesitates, just long enough to confirm the answer before it comes. “Not that I’ve seen.”
“Friends?”
“She keeps to herself.” He shrugs. “Some girls are like that.”
I lean in slightly. Not enough to menace. Just enough to cast a shadow. “You always this helpful?”
His jaw tenses. “Look, she ain’t mine to answer for.”
“Didn’t say she was.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The bar is silent now, the kind of stillness that feels like waiting for a bomb to go off. Only the hum of the refrigeration unit murmurs behind us.
I narrow my eyes. “She here legal?”
“I don’t ask.”
“You should.”
He meets my gaze again. There’s a glint in his eye now—defensive, or maybe just tired. “What do you want from me, Roja? You want dirt, you’re not gonna get it from me. I run a clean house.”
“No house with that many secrets is clean.”
“Then maybe you oughta stop hanging around it.”
We stare each other down for a beat. He blinks first.
I back off, slow. Let the tension bleed out of my shoulders. “She’s not just another girl.”
“I didn’t say she was.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I turn and walk. His eyes follow me all the way to the door.
He’s hiding something. I can smell it in the air. The stale sweat under the citrus scrub. The way he wouldn't answer what I didn't ask. He's not scared—but he’s wary. That’s enough.
At home, I don’t sleep.
I pull up old data threads, dark web caches, coalition backchannels. Old favors come due. Names, pings, shadows. Irun every alias I can conjure. I start mapping her movements from the last six months. Every scrap of data. Every glimpse.
Something’s off. And I’m going to find it.
I try to keep her out of my mind. But I can’t. Soon I’m throwing on my coat even though I have the early shift in the morning and heading out.
The streets bleed neon and motor oil, choked in steam and too many lies. I walk slow. Every step echoes off metal grates and cracked ferrocrete. The wind hisses through old alley ducts, reeking of rust and rot, but I barely notice. I’m already sweating under my jacket. The weight of the pistol at my hip, the tension knotted in my gut, and the thought of her—it all clings heavier than humidity.
By the time I reach the Coil, my pulse is a steady hammer. Not fast. Not nervous.
