22:13 → Camera C-17 malfunction. Duration = 00:32.
22:26 → Unmarked sedan, plate TXD-4982, idled for four minutes and seventeen seconds.
22:54 → Claire’s Bookstore closed, lights off, exit secure.
The data glows cold against the dark. Data first, reaction second, that's the rule drilled into every Halvorsen from the cradle. Facts before feelings. Numbers before names.
But tonight, reaction wins.
I strip off the shirt and let it fall where it lands. The window glass is cool when I lean against it, the chill cutting through the humidity. Hermann Park stretches below, a wash of black trees and sodium light. A jogger’s headlamp flickers across the trail, a ghost in motion. The city never sleeps; it only changes its masks.
Every instinct says to assign a guard. Put one of our men across the street, anonymous and armed. Every part of her would hate that. She guards her independence like it’s breath itself. To her, protection still looks too much like control.
So, I choose to compromise. I open the secondary feed, my private network of silent sensors that no one, not even Bjorn, knows exists. Motion, heat, frequency. A perimeter of silent guardians weaves through the neighborhood like an invisible thread. I toggle the grid to active and watch the map bloom faintly green. A man can protect without smothering.
My phone vibrates once, soft and insistent.
Bjorn: If the pattern holds, SableCorp is probing. Stay sharp.
Me: Always.
The words used to mean something: discipline, readiness, and control. Now it just means her name echoes in my head at inconvenient hours.
I pour a double measure of whisky, the good one, Islay, peat thick as smoke. The scent fills the loft, earthy and sharp. I log out of the system, but my mind stays online, tracing probabilities and faces. SableCorp doesn’t test for sport; they test for weakness. Grace’s abduction taught them which nerves to touch. They’ll come again, smarter this time.
I close my eyes and see Claire’s hands, ink-smudged, delicate, trembling slightly as she pours the tea. When I told her to lock the door, her delicate and quiet defiance.
Kameliablomst.Winter bloom. Beautiful. Resilient. It appears fragile only to those who lack a profound understanding of its roots.
The whisky burns a clean path down my throat. I switch off the main lights, letting the city’s glow spill through the windows. Reflections move across the glass, my face, the skyline, and the faint ghost of her outline still imprinted behind my eyes.
I could sleep, but sleep has never come easily. Instead, I walk the perimeter once more, a habit from years of deployments and corporate wars. Doors locked. Systems armed. Safe, in theory. The only thing I can’t barricade is the thought of her smile when she teased me:You always know.
Tomorrow, I’ll drop by the bookstore. Offer to replace the faulty camera. Pretend it’s logistics.
It’s not. I just want to make sure the light in her window is still there.
Claire
Sleep won’t come. I lie on my side, staring at the shadow-stitched ceiling. Every time I close my eyes, I remember the flickering lights and the fleeting moment when his body touched mine, solid and steady, as if gravity had remembered me. My pulse answers in rhythm with the storm.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand, thumbing through emails to chase the thought away. Junk. Receipts. I received a newsletter from the distributor of the bookstore.
Then, I open a single email with a company logo I thought had long since disappeared, and the notification completely captivates me.
Subject: Service Alert – Security Update Pending
From: [email protected]
Time: 10:02 PM
Veritek. The name crawls under my skin. I canceled that service months ago, after they tried to upcharge for“cloud storage optimization.”They shouldn’t have my address anymore, much less the camera serial numbers.
I hesitate, thumb hovering above the message. My reflection stares back from the black glass, hair loose, eyes weary, mouth set like my grandmother’s when she used to sense a storm coming. The little redurgentflag pulses like a heartbeat.
I should report it. I discard it instead. It’s probably just a mishap accidentally sent to me by mistake. I recall old billersmailing me notices when I had canceled services with them long before, so naturally this could be just like that.
In the dark, everything sharpens: the scent of him still clinging, the taste of black tea on my tongue, and the phantom heat where his hand steadied me. The quiet hum of the fridge becomes the rhythm of a heartbeat.
