I nod.
He looks at me for a long moment. I have nothing to hide, or rather, everything I'm hiding is buried so deep that surface observation won't find it.
"What happens now?" he asks.
The question has multiple interpretations. I choose the most immediate.
"I have a meeting at 0900. You'll stay here. Don't answer the door. Don't use the phone. Don't leave."
"And if someone comes?"
"No one will come." I pause. "But if they do, there's a knife in the second drawer. The bathroom has a lock. The window in the bedroom doesn't open, but the frame is weak enough to break if you need an exit."
He processes this. His expression cycles through confusion, fear, something that might be gratitude.
"You're giving me a weapon?"
"I'm giving you options."
He doesn't understand. I see it in his face, the way his brow furrows, the way his mouth opens and closes without producing sound.
No one has ever given him options before. Every choice in his life has been made for him, by handlers and owners and men who saw him as property instead of a person.
I don't see him as a person either. I don't see anyone as a person. The Foundry stripped that capacity out of me before I was old enough to know what I was losing.
But I see him asan anomaly. A point of interest. My property. And what's mine, I protect.
"I'll be back by 1400," I say. "There's more food in the fridge. Use anything you need."
I stand, collect my jacket, check my weapons. Knife at the hip, backup blade in the boot, garrote sewn into the collar. Standard loadout for a Ministry meeting. You never know when polite disagreement will escalate.
At the door, I pause.
"Elliot."
He looks up.
"You're safe here. That's not a promise I make lightly."
I leave before he can respond. The door locks behind me, three deadbolts engaging in sequence. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, running a mental count of the security cameras between here and the street.
The Ministry of Enforcement occupies the fourteenth floor of a building that doesn't officially exist. No street address, no public records, no acknowledgment in any government database. The elevator requires biometric clearance and a rotating access code that changes every six hours.
I arrive early. Thirteen minutes early because Ihatebeing late.
The waiting room is empty except for a receptionist who doesn't look up when I enter. She's Ministry too, probably Design based on the precise way she's arranged the items on her desk. Everything at right angles. Everything in its place.
I take a seat. Count the ceiling tiles (forty-seven). Count the cameras (three visible, two hidden). Count the exits (two doors, one vent, one window that's reinforced but not unbreakable).
At 0858, the inner door opens.
Director Abernathy stands in the threshold. He's a large man, broad through the shoulders, with a face that looks like it was carved from granite and never learned how to smile. He's beenrunning Enforcement for eleven years, which means he's survived at least three attempted coups and two full Ministry restructures.
He's also the man who approved my promotion to Reaper six years ago. He knows what I'm capable of. He knows what I'm worth.
The question is whether that value outweighs my deviation.
"Harrison." He steps aside, gestures me in. "Let's talk about your new acquisition."
