SUMMER: What happened?
ME: Old contractor credentials accessed the assigned vehicle manifest. Mine specifically. Route changed. Aircraft and luggage cleared. Nick is handling it.
The climate control hummed above the door, too smooth and too cold. I checked the lock without meaning to. Green light. Deadbolt. Chain.
Still, my shoulder blades refused to lower.
ANNIE: Specifically yours?
RAYANN: I hate that.
SUMMER: Was the access contained?
ME: Pending final confirmation. Sarah is sending the Johannesburg contact details. I’ll route through the revised itinerary tonight.
BRYNN: I’m sorry, did we all just skip over “Nick is handling it” written in post-orgasm punctuation?
The chat stopped.
Long enough for me to regret every word after “luggage.”
RAYANN: Oh.
BRYNN: OHHHH, fuck.
SUMMER: Interesting.
ME: Do notinterestingme.
ANNIE: You answered that very quickly.
EMME: With unusual confidence.
BRYNN: Confirm how many times you fucked the ranger, because your punctuation has changed.
BRYNN: That was a trust reflex. Do we call a doctor? A priest? Max?
ME: He is head of security. His involvement is implied.
RAYANN: Max is head of security too. I know what “implied” looks like when a woman is trying not to say “I let him boss me around and liked it.”
EMME: Rayann.
RAYANN: What? She has a tone.
BRYNN: She has a post-orgasm security-event tone.
SUMMER: Brynn.
BRYNN: Responsible correction: possible post-orgasm security-event tone.
ANNIE: Statistically, her avoidance pattern supports Brynn’s theory.
ME: I am blocking all of you.
RAYANN: You won’t. You need witnesses.
I walked to the window. Beyond the glass, Johannesburg moved in hazy afternoon light, all service roads, security fencing, hotel shuttles, and sun-struck pavement pretending to be an arrival experience. Cars slid along the access road below. A shuttle bus idled at the curb with its hazard lights blinking like it had disappointing news.
