That’s when I notice the fixer.
He approaches cautiously, like a man walking into a cave with two missing walls and hoping the roof still holds. His suit’s too expensive for this part of the hub — silk blend with custom stitching and a flashy wrist comp — but the way he moves, careful and calculating, tells me he isn’t here for a friendly chat.
He stops a respectful distance away, hands open and empty.
“You… walk with her,” he says. “The one they’re calling the Butcher?”
My brow ridge twitches — a slow, measured reflex. I don’t look at Roxy first. I watch this would-be connector. Because if he’s come this close with a smile, he’s already committed.
“Yes,” I reply, voice low, clipped, like a blade testing a hanger. “I’m with her.”
His eyes brighten — not eager exactly, butalert.Like he’s just discovered a feeding path he didn’t know existed.
“That reputation — would you say it’s accurate? Perhaps looking for new contracts? Important work?”
I let that hang in the air like a warning flare.
He doesn’t move away. He just smiles.
“I represent opportunities,” he says. “High tier. Discreet. Impactful.”
I don’t laugh. Not even close. But I do tilt my head, coldly evaluating.
“My business is mine,” I say. “Not up for auction.”
He holds my gaze for a moment longer, nervous but undeterred, like he’s betting everything on a poker hand he hasn’t fully seen.
Then he steps back.
“Consider this open,” he says, “if you change your mind.”
And just like that, he melts into the crowd again — part of the ripple, not the cause of it.
I turn.
My eyes find Roxy, who’s standing a few paces away, jaw tight, gaze flitting between me and the departing fixer.
Her breathing’s shallow. Not fear exactly — more likeawarenessspun up too fast, like a nervous engine revving with no brakes in sight.
She’s not running. That’s something.
But she’s watching.
Calculating.
Still dangerous.
I pull my jacket tighter around me and exhale slow, quiet enough that the crowd doesn’t hear it, but my body sure does.
I shift my weight, adjusting to the moment, measuring fallout like a man trained to read aftershocks.
“We move?” I ask.
She nods.
We walk, and the whispers follow us — heat seeping into the dock’s noisy background like a scent that won’t wash off.
“Did you plan that?” I ask once we’re far enough from the gang debris that tension stops hovering at my shoulders.
