FIVE
Talia
PATTERN RECOGNITION
The safe housedoor closes behind us with a soft click that feels too final. Jackson engages three different locks, the sequential snaps echoing in the quiet space. The apartment is sparse—functional furniture, blackout curtains, and a kitchen that looks unused. Everything is in shades of gray and black, like color would be a security risk.
I’m covered in blood. Some mine, most not. The stocky operative’s blood spatters my face and neck. My torn clothes hang off me like rags.
Jackson turns from checking the window and really looks at me for the first time since the alley. His eyes catalog damage with the same intention he uses for everything.
“You’re covered in blood.” Statement, not question.
“I know.”
He steps closer, fingers hovering near a cut on my temple I didn’t know was there. “This needs cleaning. Your ribs?”
I touch my side, wince. The leader’s boot left its mark.
“Bathroom’s through there.” He indicates a door. “Clean clothes in the cabinet. Take your time.”
Take your time.Like we have time. Like those men aren’t still hunting us.
But I need to wash their blood off me. Need to think without Jackson filling my vision, making my skin prickle with awareness.
The bathroom is as utilitarian as the rest of the place—white tile, basic fixtures, a stack of black towels that look military-issue. I close the door and engage the lock even though it’s pointless. If danger comes, a bathroom door won’t stop it.
I turn the shower on. The water hisses against the tile, steam rising to fog the mirror.
I stare at my reflection. Dark smudges under my eyes. Blood dried in a crust along my jaw. The woman looking back seems like a stranger—someone hollowed out and filled with fear.
I step under the spray without adjusting the temperature. The water is lukewarm, then hot, pounding against my skin. I grab the bar of soap, lathering my hands, scrubbing at my arms.
Scrub.
Red swirls down the drain.
Scrub harder.
But my mind isn’t here. It’s back in the alley. It’s back on the rooftop. It’s cataloging the trajectory of the bullet that hit the operative’s head. The angle of his fall. The volume of blood spatter.
Jackson’s body slamming into mine. His weight. His heat. The solid wall of him taking every impact.
The explosion should have killed us. Statistical probability of survival at that proximity to detonation is less than five percent. He threw himself over me without hesitation, made his bodyinto my shield. Every piece of debris that hit him could have hit me.Wouldhave hit me.
But he took it all.
My hands stop moving. The soap slips from my fingers, clattering against the tub.
I stand there, water beating down on my head, but I don’t feel it. I’m dissociated, floating above the scene. My body is a data point I can’t quite integrate.
Nathan never protected me from anything. Three years together, and he never once put himself between me and harm. Not physically, not emotionally. He was too busy cataloging my flaws and dissecting my inadequacies.
“You’re exhausting, Talia. Always talking, always analyzing.”
But Jackson protected me with his body. Wordlessly. Completely.
Something fundamental cracked open in that alley. Not from the explosion—from him. From the absolute safety of his weight, the brutal certainty of his protection, the way his body absorbed violence meant for mine.
