“PRIORITY: House Harrington Verification Required.”
This one will go straight to the family, and there’s no dodging it. The Harringtons have their own internal review process, separate from the Ministries. If I don’t respond, they’ll assign someone else to do it—and that someone will not hesitate.
I tap my fingers on the desk, an old nervous tic. I hate being forced into a corner, even by my own blood.
Tapping on the alert, I open the verification form. The questions are short and brutal: “Do you verify the asset’s current risk status?” “Has the asset made contact with anyone outside approved channels?” “Is the asset aware of their exposure?”
I answer each with the same practiced deflection:
“Yes. No. No.”
Then I add a note, as if to pre-empt suspicion: “Subject shows no sign of wanting to expose information following recent intervention. Monitoring continues. Will advise if anomaly develops.”
I submit the form, then sit back and watch as the system processes the update. The line of risk under Landon’s name shifts from red to orange. The counter beside his case resets to 24 hours. A little timer starts to count down, the digital equivalent of a stay of execution.
I’ll take the extra hours to figure out what to do. They will never release him into my custody because he knows too much, but they now think that I am interrogating him for more information.
Which buys me a day to figure it all out.
It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.
I close the restricted shell and power down the monitors, rubbing my eyes. The adrenaline leaves a cold space behind it. I get up, walk to the window, and look out over the city.
Somehow, I need to get him from here, to my house, where I can better protect him.
Which means going through Snake’s Valley, otherwise known as the hub for The Silent.
How the fuck I’m going to do that is beyond me, but I have to try.
He’s not a threat. He’s just a dork who wants to ‘help’ the world. I fully intend on making myself that world and having him help me.
My thoughts are interrupted as he yells. “Coffee’s ready!”
I hesitate, just for a second. I don’t know if anyone in the history of this apartment has ever shouted for something as domestic as coffee. Even my mother was more likely to throw a mug at your head than offer a cup. I like the way it sounds, though, the way his voice cuts through the granite and glass and echoes down the hall like it’s always belonged here.
I take my time walking to the kitchen. There’s no hurry; I can afford half an hour for some caffeine. Landon is at the counter, back to me, posture loose. He’s pulled his hair up into a stubby bun, and the sight is enough to make me smile for no reason. My shirt hangs off him like a borrowed identity, and he looks up as I enter, eyes bright under the morning’s raw lighting.
“You look like shit,” he says. It’s affectionate, which is a new and uncomfortable sensation.
I nod, take the mug he offers. I can’t remember the last time someone did that for me. I raise an eyebrow, wait for him to start in on the questions. But he doesn’t, not right away. He moves to the window, sips his coffee with the expression of a man waiting for it to self-destruct.
“Did you always get to be the guy with the view?” he asks, not turning around.
“Wasn’t much of a choice,” I answer. “Harringtons get the view, or they get nothing.”
“Huh.”
He doesn’t press. He just sips, eyes out over the skyline. I watch him, the lines of his shoulders through the thin cotton, the way he stands like he’s perpetually braced for a blow or a hug and has no idea which is coming.
I want to say something. Something normal, comforting, maybe even kind. I never learned how. My mind is always three moves ahead, running situational models for every word, every breath, every goddamn smile.
The silence spreads out. I ride it, unwilling to kill it with small talk.
Instead, I step in behind him, crowding his space. He doesn’t spook, just glances back, wary but not afraid.
I rest a hand at the base of his spine, feeling the heat through the shirt. “You sleep okay?” My voice is lower than I mean, grating with leftover adrenaline.
He shrugs. “Better than I thought. Hard to have nightmares with someone like you hogging the bed.”
