I tiptoe to the door, still wearing yesterday's shirt, which has a coffee stain shaped like a continent I can't identify.
I press my eye to the peephole.
Kruk stands on my doorstep.
He's wearing a tuxedo t-shirt. It stretches across his chest in a way that seems structurally unsound. His arms, bare and tattooed, look like they could bend rebar. In one hand, he holds a battle axe.
Anactual battle axe.
The blade gleams in the morning sun. There's a leather strap around the handle.
He rings the bell again, staring directly at the peephole like he can see me through it.
I stop breathing.
Maybe if I'm very quiet, he'll think I'm not home. Maybe he'll leave. Maybe this is a nightmare and I'll wake up in a reality where I make good choices and drink water between cocktails.
His voice comes through the door, deep and certain.
"I know you are inside."
Of course he does.
I close my eyes. Debate fleeing out the back window. Remember I live on the third floor.
"Colletta Fears," he says, formal and final. "I am ready for the mission."
The mission.
Oh god.
I unlock the door because my body has apparently decided that humiliation is less fatal than making an Orc wait. It swings open. Kruk fills the frame, all massive shoulders and gold tusks and unblinking focus.
He looks me up and down. Takes in the stained shirt, the hair that's staging a revolt, the smudged eyeliner I forgot to remove.
"You are not ready," he observes.
"It's nine a.m."
"The contract specifies preparation begins seventy-two hours before the event." He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, and I have to shuffle backward or get trampled. "We must begin tactical assessment."
"Tactical, what?"
He closes the door behind him. Scans my apartment with the intensity of someone sweeping for explosives. His gaze lands on the pile of laundry I've been meaning to fold for a week, the stack of true crime books on the coffee table, the half-eaten pizza box balanced on the arm of the couch.
"Your perimeter is compromised," he says.
"My perimeter is fine."
"There are three points of entry. The door"—he gestures with the axe—"the window, and the fire escape window you have blocked with dead plants."
"Those aren't dead. They're dormant."
He gives me a look that says he's not arguing about my killing of succulents. He moves to the window, inspects the lock, frowns.
"This lock would not stop a child," he says, his voice carrying someone delivering a tactical briefing.
"Well, good thing children aren't actively trying to break into my apartment," I say, aiming for levity, for some normal human interaction that doesn't involve threat assessment of my living space.
