My phone buzzes. The screen reads: Upload complete. Secure. I pocket it.
The job is over.
"What are you drinking?"
She looks at the glass as if it appeared while she wasn't watching, then at me. Up close, her eyes are a problem. Hazel, but not the soft kind. Layered, almost amber near the pupil, darker at the edges. Tired, but still burning.
"Something they can't screw up," she says.
Her voice is low, rough. Hasn't been used in a while, or used too much on people who didn't listen.
I glance at the untouched martini. "How's that working out for you?"
A corner of her mouth flicks upward. Small, crooked, and gone too fast, but it hits like a round I didn't hear coming.
"I wasn't planning on finishing it. Needed somewhere to sit."
The way she says it makes it sound finite. This place is a means.
"You picked the one seat that watches the door and the mirror, but you haven't touched your drink."
Her grip locks on the stem. "You noticed."
"I notice a lot." I look her over, unhurried, then find her eyes.
She studies me, chin tilted. I let her see the plain black shirt, the scuffed boots, the scars across my knuckles, how I've angled my body to watch the room without appearing to watch the room.
"You always sit where you can see everything?" she asks.
"Yeah." Another sip of rye. "Who doesn't?"
"Those who trust the world," she says.
Nobody's born watching exits that way. Someone taught her what happened if she didn't.
"Do you?"
She laughs once, a short sound with no humor in it. "No."
"Didn't think so." I don't smile, but the muscles across my shoulders drop a fraction. "You've been looking at that door as if you expect it to bite you."
Her attention snaps to the entrance. "Maybe I do."
"Whoever you're waiting on? They're not worth that kind of vigilance."
She swallows. "You don't know that."
"I know fear when I see it," I say. "And I know it's not the only thing there."
"What else?"
"Wanting," I say. "You're tired of being hunted and really fucking tired of being alone."
Her focus settles on my hand, lingers on the faded scars. She traces their shapes, imagining the stories without asking for them.
"What's your name?" she asks.
"Knox."
