“You moved fast,” I said. “Like you’d already mapped where everyone was.”
“I had.”
“Do you always do that? Map rooms?”
“Yes. Knowing where people are means knowing where they’re going to be. If I know where they’re going to be, I can see problems before they happen.”
I thought about that, living in constant anticipatory awareness. Never entering a room without calculating threat vectors and exit routes. It sounded exhausting but familiar, too.
“I do that with lyrics,” I said. “Map them. Figure out where the words need to go before I know what they’re saying.”
“Does it work?”
“Sometimes. Other times, I map everything perfectly and then realize I was trying to say something they won’t allow me to say.” I tapped fingers against my side. “So I have to rebuild the whole thing until it sounds true enough to matter but vague enough to be safe.”
“That sounds difficult.”
“It is sometimes.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket. “Someone posted a photo. From rehearsal. You and me. The redirect.”
“I saw it,” he said carefully.
“The angle was strange. Like someone was watching at that specific moment on purpose. Waiting for it.” I pulled up the screenshot and turned the phone toward him. “This isn’t impromptu documentation. This is deliberate.”
He took the phone. Studied the image. His thumb moved across the screen, zooming in.
“Equipment cases,” he breathed. “Northwest position.”
“Does that matter?”
“Maybe.” He handed the phone back. Our fingers brushed. Electric. “That’s not a staff position. That’s a gap in coverage.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning someone could have been standing where they shouldn’t have been.” His eyes met mine. "And if they were, you were their focus."
The air between us thickened.
“Has anything felt off?” he asked. “Before today.”
“The text threats, but management tells us they’re standard.”
“Are they?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never received specific ones directed at me before the last few weeks.” I tilted my head. “Are you asking as security or as something else?”
“As security.”
“Then why do you look worried?”
He smiled briefly. “Because I’m paid to be worried.”
“You’re paid to be vigilant. Worried is different.”
He didn’t deny it.
I was acutely aware of the space between us. Less than six feet. Close enough to see his chest rise and fall with each breath.
“That photo makes me feel exposed,” I said quietly. “Not because it’s intimate. Because I know someone was watching.”
