Kang glanced at Griffin. "I'll clear a route. Griffin will accompany you with additional security at a distance. Timed check-ins. Two hours maximum."
"Thank you."
The briefing ended. Jinwoo left first, still tense. Soyeon followed.
I stood up to leave.
Griffin stopped me. "The walk. We'll go whenever you're ready."
"Now?"
"Now works."
Twenty minutes later, we left through the service entrance. The air was cool, and the pavement was damp. Portland's weather promised rain.
Griffin fell into step beside me. Officer Yoon, a recent addition, dropped back twenty meters, visible but not intrusive.
We walked west toward the Willamette River. The streets were quieter than San Francisco or Vancouver. People passed without looking twice. I watched a woman with a dog and then a cyclist. Someone carried coffee and strolled like they had nowhere urgent to be.
For ninety minutes, I could almost pretend I was an ordinary person out for a walk.
"Kang's route keeps us visible," Griffin said quietly. "No alleys. No enclosed spaces. If you want to stop, we stop."
I pulled my cap lower. "I understand the constraints."
We crossed into Waterfront Park. The river stretched gray-green to our left. Trees lined the path.
A couple sat on a bench ahead, quiet and simply existing together.
"We can sit," Griffin said. "There's a bench with clear sight lines thirty meters ahead. It fits the approved parameters."
It was a careful, professional offer.
"Okay."
We walked to the bench. I sat on the left, and Griffin took the right, leaving six inches between us. Officer Yoon stopped at his twenty-meter mark.
I spoke first. "In another life, I could be a regular person sitting by the river. No one would know my name, and they wouldn't care who was with me."
"You'd still write songs."
I glanced at Griffin. "How do you know?"
"Because that's part of who you are."
His observation carried weight.
"Maybe, but I would write honestly. I wouldn't worry about who gets hurt when people figure out what the metaphors actually mean."
"You already write honestly."
"No. I write carefully. There's a difference."
Griffin rested his hand on the bench between us. I wanted to close the gap, but I didn't move.
I was restless. I stood and kept walking.
We crossed under the Morrison Bridge, steel latticework casting geometric shadows. Portland had a different feel from San Francisco's aggressive energy or Vancouver's polished waterfront. It was quieter, less performative.
