I don’t like it.
Vito pauses at the edge of a cross-aisle and raises a hand.
I stop instantly.
He points with two fingers toward a camera dome mounted high in the corner, angled down to cover the intersection.
There it is.
Not the front gate setup. Interior coverage.
I shift my weight, watching the camera’s sweep pattern. It’s slow. Lazy. A loop. A second and a half where the blind spot exists if you’re paying attention.
Vito watches it too, jaw tight, and then he looks at me.
“On your count,” he whispers.
I nod once.
The camera drifts left.
I start moving.
We cross the intersection in two smooth strides, close to the stacks on the far side, then flatten ourselves into the shadow of a tall pallet rack.
The camera sweeps back.
We’re already still.
Vito exhales through his nose, silent, almost a laugh. He’s enjoying it.
I don’t.
Not because I’m afraid. Because this is exactly the kind of place where someone gets comfortable right before they get hit.
I point down the next aisle. Left.
Vito follows without argument, which tells me he’s taking it seriously. He’s impulsive, but not stupid.
The next aisle smells different.
Cardboard. Plastic. That faint chemical bite of new electronics, sealed and waiting. It’s not strong, but it’s there.
Vito’s gaze flicks to me as he catches it too.
We keep going.
Past a stack of bulk paper towels. Past cleaning supplies. Past a row of cheap furniture boxes. The labels are turned inward as if someone didn’t want them visible from the main aisle.
We stop at a cluster of pallets wrapped in opaque black shrink, thicker than the clear stuff everyone uses when they don’t care who sees what.
Vito crouches and peels a corner back just enough to look.
He shakes his head once and presses it back into place.
“Not it,” he whispers.
I don’t ask how he knows.
