She nodded, already turning back toward the window, the conversation already forgotten, already gone.
I walked out without looking back, couldn't bear to see her sitting there alone in all that light.
At the door, I stopped, closed my eyes, and whispered to whoever might be listening—God, the universe, anyone who gave a damn.
Please. Take her peacefully. She's been through enough.
The hallway was empty. No one at the front desk to ask how the visit went or offer condolences or be kind with their practiced concern.
Good.
I wasn't in the mood for kindness I didn't deserve.
Fuck vacation. I needed to get back to work. My team leader had been direct—don't come back until the clock runs out on three weeks. Standard mandatory leave after extended deployment. Rest and reset. Process and decompress.
Fine. I'd hole up somewhere. Build things. Tools of my trade. Tools for killing. At least working with my hands made sense. At least metal and mechanisms followed rules, didn't forget you, didn't fade away while you watched.
At least, I couldn't disappoint them.
The heat hit me the second I stepped outside, dry and brutal, baking the asphalt until it softened, making the air shimmer like water. I welcomed it. Let it burn away whatever softness had tried to creep in during that visit.
Then I saw him.
A man leaning against my truck, casual as hell, hands visible and empty, posture relaxed.
But his eyes told a different story.
Killer's eyes. Sharp. Alert. The kind that tracked movement before conscious thought, that calculated distances and threat levels automatically.
Just like mine.
I stopped ten feet away, every instinct firing at once, muscle memory taking over. Threat assessment. Escape routes. Weapon in my waistband. "What do you want?"
He straightened slowly, offering a slight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Wyatt Dane. You come highly recommended."
"I'm on vacation."
His smile widened, like I'd said something funny. "Yeah. I used to feel the same way about mandatory leave. Boring, right? Three weeks of nothing. Sitting around. Thinking too much."
That snapped my focus into place like a rifle bolt sliding home. "Who the hell are you?"
He raised his hands slowly, deliberately, stepping away from the truck to show he wasn't a threat. Yet. "Easy. I come in peace."
"Answer the question."
"You've got a couple weeks on your hands," he said, ignoring me completely. "Why not do something with them?"
"Like what?"
"Come to Charleston."
I stared at him. "Charleston."
"South Carolina. Beautiful city. Good food. Better company. All expenses paid."
"For what?"
"There might be a new opportunity in it for you."
