“Or hurried. Either way, someone else will die soon unless we identify them first.”
“What do you need?”
I pull up the analysis I started this morning to show him the gaps in the data. “I can't synthesize a counteragent or build a detection system without specialized tools. I'll need better equipment than what’s here.”
“Make a list.”
“Here it is.” I transfer the requisition document to his tablet with a gesture, organized by priority tier because organization is the only thing that anchors me when everything else threatens to spin beyond control. “The items at the top give the most analytical power for the least expenditure. Bottom items are optimal but not essential.”
He scrolls through the list, claws tapping against the screen. He keeps them retracted around me, I've noticed, the tips visible now as dark curves against the tablet's edge but controlled.
“You also created a budget analysis.”
“I made you an equipment requisition.”
“With four different priority tiers and a cost-benefit breakdown.” The corner of his mouth curves in a way that transforms his face. “You included projected timelines for each tier.”
“Different equipment means different analysis speeds. If you want results in days, you need the first tier. If you can wait weeks, tier three is sufficient.”
“And if I want results now?”
“Then you need all four tiers, and I need to stop sleeping.”
The almost-smile fades, replaced by something I can't read. “You've already slept poorly.”
It isn't a question, and I don't bother pretending otherwise. “The files kept me busy thinking.”
“The files arrived at 0500. You weren't sleeping before that.”
He probably heard my restless turning through the walls, tracked my breathing patterns, counted the rhythm of my pulse. “I had other things to think about.”
“What things?”
The question hangs between us, and I can't confess that I spent half the night wondering what would have happened if he hadn't pulled back.
“The shape of the threat.” My lie comes out smooth enough.
He watches me for a long moment before nodding, a small motion that suggests he heard what I didn't say. “Finish your analysis. I'll arrange the equipment.”
He turns toward the door, and the words escape before I can stop them: “You're leaving me here?”
He pauses at the threshold, looking back at me with that unreadable expression. “Briefly. You need equipment I need to acquire. I'll return within the hour.” A pause. “Don't leave this room without me.”
“Is that an order?”
“It's a request. Whoever is killing my enforcers may be aware of your involvement, and until we identify them, you stay where I can protect you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know.” His gaze holds mine for a heartbeat longer. “Stay anyway.”
Then he's gone, footsteps silent on the stone floor, presence withdrawing like a tide that takes all the temperature with it. I turn back to my analysis and tell myself the shiver running down my spine is from the cold.
He returns in forty-three minutes to take me back to the medical bay where cases are stacked in a corner: molecular analysis arrays, compound isolation chambers, a toxin identification system that makes me want to weep with professional envy.
“This is tier one and tier two.” I run my fingers over the cases, unable to keep the wonder from my voice. “You acquired this in less than an hour.”
“The Crimson Bazaar opens early for those who pay premium rates.”
