The rain shifts outside from drizzle to down pour. The door opens and breathes cold into the room. Somewhere in the line, someone orders soup. The smell is wrong for morning. I drink the rest of the coffee and watch the minutes tick to the hour. Lila checks her watch, then makes aughface. “I have to go supervise interns,” she says. “Pray for me. They think bubble wrap is a toy.”
“Bubble wrap is a toy,” I say.
“Bubble wrap is a liability,” she says, and slides out of the booth. She points two fingers at my eyes and then at her own as if to say I’m watching you. “Text me if your mood shifts. Text me if you see the word Ward too many times on your phone. Text me if Jonah becomes a person you want out of your space. Text me if you want a dress and a knife.”
“I want a dress with a pocket,” I say.
“Knife fits in pocket,” she sings as she backs toward the door, almost colliding with a stroller. She apologizes with a hand over her heart, then blows me a kiss. “You’re not prey,” she says, back to the jokes and the truth.
“Not prey,” I say back, softer than I mean to.
She’s gone. The door shuts. The room closes the space she left with sound and motion. I sit in the booth for three more minutes and put dates into my phone.Preview: Thurs 4 p.m. Mirrow walkthrough: Wed 11 a.m. Gala: Sat 7 p.m.I set three alarms I will ignore and one I won’t. The unknown-number text stays at the top of my thread until two new emails push it down. I don’t scroll back up.
When I stand, I get the bag organized like a person going to a job: sketchbook, pencil tin, invitation, phone, and wallet. I angle my body to slip out from the booth without bumping the table behind me. The guy with the kouign-amann pitch bumps my arm anyway. He says sorry with his mouth and not his eyes. It’s fine. I’m out the door before the apology finishes.
The rain does the thing it does when it can’t decide what it wants to be—it spits and then commits. I pull my coat tight and step into the stream of people who live here. The city smells like wet concrete and something green that didn’t die for the winter yet. I pass a woman wrangling two dogs into tiny jackets. I pass a man arguing into his headset in two languages. I pass a teenager drawing a cartoon on a wet window with his finger.
And as I walk, a part of me softly asks what the hell I am getting myself into.
Chapter 8 – Cassian
From up here, the harbor looks like a sheet of dull metal, scored by the wake of a tug heading for the far pier. Gulls work the wind near the seawall, angling for updrafts, flipping white against gray. The conference room’s glass walls turn the city into a moving postcard: cranes, stacked containers, a commuter ferry sliding in with its lights still on.
Her voice won’t leave either. It lives where I keep vital signs: brittle, accusing, and steady.
The war-room table is too clean for what it does. Files spread in three stacks: intake reports from the Sanctuaries—med sheets, therapy schedules, exit plans; press clippings from Aurora’s show—Ledger, two smaller outlets, a handful of online pieces; and the mock-ups for the Foundation Gala—glossy invitation stock, floor plan overlays, VIP list drafts. On top of the press stack sits a print of the anchor piece from her show. The photographer had good light that night. The band along the base reads as a stripe to untrained eyes. To the right eyes, it’s the exact curve it has to be.
The door hisses at the carpet and opens. Mara Patel slides in with a tablet already glowing. Mid-forties, ex-aid-worker, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back without drama with a mind like a ledger. She takes the seat to my left without waiting to be offered.
“Morning,” she greets, not looking at the harbor. She scans the table first, then me. “You’re early.”
“I was up,” I respond.
She knows what that means and doesn’t poke at it. “You’re going to want to hear the top-line first.” She taps her tablet, mirrors the screen to the wall. Graphs rise. “Social uplift across all channels since Block 17: plus 182% impressions, plus 71% engagement, click-through to program pages up 55%. Donationssmall-dollar moved ten points. Mid-level pledges doubled in three days. We have five inbound inquiries from foundations that ignored us last quarter.”
“Press?” I ask.
“Ledger piece was clean. No trauma bait. They lifted her consent language correctly.” She flicks to a slide of clippings. “Two smaller outlets did the respectful profile thing. One blog tried to ride the rumor angle—‘underground clinics’—but died in the comments. Your note to the editor about legal risk helped.”
“Don’t put my name in that sentence,” I say.
“Right,” she says. “The foundation’snote.”
“Her sales?”
“Two holds from Mirrow’s board. One private collector with a museum habit wants the mid-size runner. Jessa”—she means our grants officer—“says the grant paperwork is on track for the first disbursement Monday. She wants you to sign the letter to keep the relationship ‘personal.’ Your word. Not mine.”
“Not mine either,” I say. “Put my signature on the money. Keep my name off the wall.”
“Understood.” Mara sets the tablet flat and reaches for the press stack without asking. She reads fast, lips moving on two lines like she’s measuring tone.
The door opens again. Reid steps in. My head of security is built like every doorframe he’s ever tested and chosen not to break. Early forties. Minimal talk. The cuff of his suit betrays a glimpse of a wristwatch that belonged to his father with scratched crystal, the kind of sentimental detail that never shows up in his incident reports. Under one arm, he carries a folder stampedINTERNAL USE ONLY. He lays it on the table and slides it across the wood with two fingers, precise enough that it stops dead in front of me.
“Morning,” he says.
I nod. “Report.”
He opens a legal pad, pen already uncapped. “Aurora Hale,” he begins, as if I don’t know her name. It’s not for me. It’s for the record. “Routine: studio, gallery, coffee shop on Third. Companion-of-note: Lila R., —friendly, protective, no flag. Night schedule: variable. Studio camera remains covered per asset’s action. Back alley sweep was clean. Building entry points are unchanged. We added a man across the street, third floor, window box, line-of-sight on her door. He rotates at noon to avoid pattern.”
