“Business doesn’t respect office hours.” I’m already moving toward the bedroom, changing into clothes appropriate for whatever Felix considers a minor situation. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“I’m coming with you.”
I stop. “No.”
“Why not? You’ve been taking me everywhere else.”
“This is different. Potentially dangerous.”
“So were half the places we’ve been this week.” She’s following me, determined. “You said you wanted me to understand your world. Let me understand all of it.”
Every rational instinct screams refusal. The warehouse situation could be anything from a broken lock to anactual threat. Bringing her adds a variable I can’t control, a vulnerability I can’t protect.
She’s right. I’ve been drawing her deeper into my world deliberately, showing her pieces most people never see. Refusing now would be arbitrary.
“Fine, but you do exactly what I say, when I say it. No arguments.”
“Agreed.”
The drive to Queens is quiet. Felix meets us there with Oleg and two security personnel I recognize. The warehouse is dark except for perimeter lighting, casting long shadows across cracked pavement.
“What’s the situation?” I ask.
“Motion sensors triggered on the east side. Could be animals, could be someone testing our security.” Felix hands me a tablet showing surveillance feeds. “We’re locked down until we clear it.”
I scan the feeds, seeing nothing obvious. “How long?”
“Thirty minutes. Maybe less.”
The warehouse itself is secure—reinforced doors, updated systems, guards rotating shifts. We wait in what used to be the main office, now converted to a monitoring station. Janice settles into a chair near the window, watching security feeds with the same focus she brings to everything.
“This happens often?” she asks.
“Monthly. Sometimes it’s nothing. Sometimes it’s competitors testing defenses.” I loosen my tie, suddenly too warm. “We take every trigger seriously.”
Felix coordinates with the patrol team via radio, Russian clipped and efficient. Oleg checks weapons with practiced ease,movements automatic. The whole thing feels routine because it is—we’ve done this dance dozens of times.
Janice doesn’t look frightened. Curious, maybe. Watchful. Absorbing information about how we operate when threats materialize.
The wait stretches. I remove my jacket, draping it over a chair, and roll my sleeves. The office is temperature-controlled but still feels stifling.
“Clear on the east perimeter,”Felix reports.“Probably a raccoon. We’re doing a final sweep.”
I nod, attention half on the radio chatter and half on Janice. She’s not watching the feeds anymore. She’s watching me.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. I just…” She stops. “Your scars. I’ve noticed them before, but never asked.”
I glance down. The movement exposed more than I intended—old wounds mapping violence across His arms and collarbones. Bullet scars, knife marks, one long line from a piece of rebar that nearly killed me when I was twenty-three.
“Occupational hazards,” I say.
“They look old.”
“Most of them are. Ten years, some longer.” I don’t elaborate. Don’t dramatize. The scars exist; explaining them feels unnecessary.
She stands, crosses the space between us. I tense instinctively, but she stops just short of touching. Her eyes trace the puckered tissue along my forearm, the jagged line across my wrist, the smaller marks scattered like punctuation.
