"Let me guess—bureaucratic differences?"
"Philosophical ones." His green eyes stayed locked on mine. "They preferred arrests. I preferred solutions."
"And now you're what, exactly? Besides a very rude houseguest."
"Independent contractor. I solve problems for people who can't go through official channels." He tilted his head slightly. "Currently, I'm deciding if you're a problem that needs solving."
My apartment door was still cracked open behind me. I could dive through it, but he'd get at least one shot off. Probably center mass—he had that careful aim of someone who'd fired thousands of practice rounds.
"You knew what I was downstairs," I said. "If you were going to shoot me, you'd have done it then."
"I was curious. Now I'm concerned." His eyes flicked to my gun hand. "Lilah. Tell me she's actually dead."
"She is." I smiled, the broken doll expression that made people uncomfortable. "Has been since week four at the Mire Institute. I just borrowed her skin for a while."
"That's not an answer."
"The real question," I continued, "is why former FBI is looking for trafficking victims off the books. That's not a typical career transition."
"Lower your weapon and I'll tell you."
"You first."
"Together then?"
I nodded. We moved in synchrony, arms lowering at identical speeds. Neither of us holstered our weapons, but at least they weren't aimed at vital organs anymore.
"Inside," I said. "Unless you want Mrs. Cathy from 4B calling the cops about armed standoffs in the hallway."
He followed me into my apartment, and I felt the exact moment he noticed. His body went perfectly still, that predator awareness when entering another predator's den. I flicked on the lights, illuminating what I'd built.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed.
The entire far wall was covered in what I privately called my murder map. Photos, strings, documents, newspaper clippings. A sprawling web of connections centered on the Volkov network but spreading outward like infection. Three years of hunting mapped out in obsessive detail.
"Welcome to my hobby room," I said, locking the door behind us. "Tea?"
He moved toward the wall like it was magnetized, weapon forgotten in his hand. His eyes tracked the connections—names, dates, locations. The red strings marking confirmed kills. The black ones marking targets still breathing.
"This is..." He trailed off, leaning closer to examine a cluster of photos. "This is three years of work."
"Technically only five months worth." I moved to the kitchen, keeping him in my peripheral vision. "Started the day Gabriel, or the institute, sold me and I disposed of my handlers."
"And you chose this."
"I chose to hunt the things that created me." I filled the kettle, movements automatic. "Seemed poetic."
He found Gabriel's photo at the center of the web, surrounded by question marks and dead ends. "No trace of him?"
"Nothing. It's like he evaporated." I set out two mugs, pleased when he didn't object.
"Maybe he's dead."
"No." The word came out sharper than intended. "I'd know. I'd feel it. We're connected."
Nathan turned from the wall to study me. "Trauma bonding. It's common in—"
"Don't." I gripped the counter edge. "Don't reduce it to psychology terms. You didn't know him. Didn't know what we had."
