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Rook: Quick question - does the Garrison have good security? Like actual professional security, not just a manager who tells you to smile at creepy patrons?

The response came faster than expected. Ethan must still be awake.

Ethan: That’s a very specific question. Is this concern about Brad or a general threat assessment?

Rook: General. I was thinking about the theater district late at night, and you dealing with drunk people regularly. Just want to know you’re not walking to your car alone through dark alleys.

Ethan: I park in the staff lot behind the building. Theater security walks evening shift employees to their vehicles. It’s adequate for standard risk scenarios.

Standard risk scenarios. What about a high-risk scenario? Rook wanted to text back that twelve people had disappeared, that there was nothing standard about the current threat level, and that Ethan should probably consider not going to work until they eliminated the trafficking network. Except that would sound insane and definitely scare off his maybe-mate before his shadows even had a chance to embarrass him.

Rook: Good. That’s good. See you Thursday.

Ethan: 7:30. Don’t forget to read the play.

Rook set down his phone to find everyone watching him with varying degrees of amusement.

“Very subtle,” Cillian said. “Not obvious at all.”

“Shut up.” Rook headed for the stairs, needing his own space before his shadows started shredding more furniture. “I’m doing reconnaissance. Thursday. Professional intelligence gathering.”

“Of course,” Julian agreed, not looking up from his container organization. “Though you might want to review Silas’s files first. If you’re going to observe potential threats, knowing what you’re looking for would be strategically sound.”

Rook paused halfway up the stairs. Julian was frustratingly right, as per usual. “Send them to my room.”

“Already done,” Silas called from the kitchen. “I’ve also included victim testimony from related trafficking cases and common recruitment tactics. Consider it preparatory reading.”

Rook continued upstairs, his shadows trailing behind him like anxious puppies. They kept reaching toward his phone, toward the last message from Ethan, like they could somehow touch him through the screen.

“He hasn’t even met you yet,” Rook told them. “Don’t get attached.”

His shadows completely ignored him, wrapping around his wrist where he held the phone. They were absolutely getting attached. They’d probably try to braid themselves into Ethan’s hair the first chance they got, or wrap around his ankles, or do something else equally mortifying that would make Ethan document “shadow harassment” in his observation protocols. He might need a new tab for that - if he was someone who had an organized spreadsheet.

Rook flopped onto his bed, pulling up Silas’s files on his phone. Twelve faces stared back at him from the victim photos. Twelve people who’d worked late shifts in theater district venues and never made it home, leaving twelve families still looking for answers.

His shadows tightened around his wrist, claws extending slightly. They understood that someone was hunting in Ethan’s territory, and that made them predators worth eliminating.

Thursday. He’d go to the Garrison Theater, learn about colonial power dynamics and Prospero’s problematic authority, watch Ethan serve drinks and catalog patron behavior, while Rook did his best to appear normal as he figured out who the fuck thought they could hunt in his maybe-mate’s workplace.

His phone buzzed one more time.

Ethan: For what it’s worth, your concern about security protocols is noted and appreciated. Most people don’t think about service worker safety.

Rook stared at that message, something warm unspooling in his chest. Most people didn’t think about it. But Ethan did, to the point of cataloging it and likely documenting his observations specifically because he understood the risks most people ignored.

Rook: Most people are idiots. You’re smart to pay attention.

Ethan: That’s the most functional compliment I’ve received in months. Thank you.

Rook smiled at his phone like an idiot, his shadows twirling contentedly against his skin. Thursday couldn’t come fast enough.

Chapter Four

“Fiona didn’t show up,” Ethan said to the bar counter first, making sure that the statement was factually accurate and couldn’t be misconstrued, before repeating it to Ryan, the evening manager. Ryan stood three feet away, adjusting his tie in the staff room mirror.

“She called in sick?” Ryan glanced at Ethan’s reflection. “We’ll need someone to cover…”

“She didn’t call.” Ethan kept his voice level. Nothing would be gained by being emotional about things. “Fiona’s never missed a shift without advance notice. Her attendance record is flawless across nine months of employment.”