Too predictable.
“Stay sharp,” Lazarus adds. “I’ll scramble a shadow ping to reroute public cams. But you’re in his line of sight now. Both of you.”
“Copy that.”
“Don’t get attached, Voltar.”
The line cuts before I can answer.
I exhale through my nose.
Too late.
The next thing I know…
“You want me towhat?”
“Train,” I say. “Physically. Tactically. Now.”
Sable blinks up at me, eyebrows raised, a comb halfway through a client’s ends.
“You’re serious.”
“Always.”
“You want me to play G.I. Jane in the salon?”
I glance around. “It’s after hours. No clients. You have space. You have crates. I have threats.”
She snorts. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Assassins don’t knock,” I say flatly.
That shuts her up.
Just for a second.
Then she tosses the comb onto the counter, sighs like I asked her to renounce coffee, and marches into the back room. “Fine. But I swear if you break another styling chair?—”
“No promises.”
The salonat night has a different feel.
No music. No chatter. Just the low whir of sanitizers and the soft glow of wall lights casting long shadows across product displays. I move through the space methodically, repurposing everything I can get my hands on.
Mannequin heads? Check.
Empty conditioner crates? Stacked into low walls.
Towel bins? Now trip hazards.
The training zone takes shape in less than five minutes.
“Is this what you used in the Vakutan army?” Sable deadpans, watching me flip a styling chair on its side for cover.
“Worse,” I say. “We trained in meteor storms.”
She stretches her arms. “How quaint.”
