The Wraith’s Balance — Part 1

The coffee in my chipped mug was instant, black, and mean enough to sandblast a throat, and it was the only thing anchoring me to the fact that it was 7:00 a.m. in a Brooklyn apartment that always smelled faintly of tired pipes and lemon cleaner. I stood at the narrow counter and stared at a hairline crack running down the ceramic like a fault line nobody bothered repairing, the kind of quiet fracture that waited patiently for the day it would split wide open, and the longer I looked at it, the more it felt like a mirror. My thumb drifted along the rim, slow and absent, because my life had been reduced to a handful of controllable objects: a bed, a stove, a door I’d reinforced too many times, and a silence I could almost use to drown out the echoes of places the government pretended never existed if I tried hard enough.

I glanced down at what I wore because I always did before stepping into the world, and the gray cardigan was unraveling at one cuff, soft from too many washes and too many years of pretending to be harmless, while my jeans were worn at the knees in the honest way of a woman who took buses and walked because it was cheaper, slower, and safer. To anyone watching, I looked like someone barely holding herself together, someone easy to ignore, someone the city could swallow without even clearing its throat. That was the entire point, because invisibility was the last kind of armor that actually worked, and I had learned the hard way that armor wasn’t something you wore for battles, it was something you wore to buy groceries.

My phone buzzed on the laminate counter, vibrating like a trapped insect, and the screen lit up hard enough to slice through the dim morning like a blade. The notification was simple and polite in the way corporate threats always were: PRESTIGE FIRST NATIONAL BANK. ACCOUNT MAINTENANCE REQUIRED. PLEASE VISIT YOUR LOCAL BRANCH IN PERSON. I stared at it until the letters stopped being words and became a problem, because “in person” meant variables, and variables meant crowds, and crowds meant sudden movements, loud noises, unpredictable hands, and the exhausting performance of being only a woman in a cardigan instead of what I had been trained into, dismantled into, rebuilt into, and then shoved back into civilian life like a weapon system someone had labeled “decommissioned” while forgetting the part where nothing inside me had truly shut off.

My pulse didn’t spike, because it rarely did anymore, not since a night extraction in a country that never made the news taught my body the difference between fear and function, but a cold knot tightened in my gut anyway as I grabbed my keys, and when my sleeve rode up my wrist, I saw the ink before I could stop myself. Numbers. Coordinates. Black once, now faded toward charcoal, marking a location that didn’t exist on any public map and never would, and I yanked the cuff down as if cloth could erase memory. “Check the perimeter,” I whispered to the empty room, because old habits didn’t die, they just changed costumes. I checked the locks once, then twice, then stepped into the hallway and let the door click shut behind me with a sound that felt too much like a weapon being readied.

Outside, the city screamed, or that’s what it sounded like to me even when everyone else called it “Friday morning,” because traffic hummed, horns complained, bass thumped from passing cars, and voices collided in a thousand separate stories, and my brain tried to catalog it all like it still had a headset in its ear. I moved with my head down and my hands buried deep in my pockets, shoulders slightly hunched to make myself smaller, because blending was a skill and I had been taught to become background. A mother with a stroller clipped my elbow and I didn’t flinch; a man barking into a headset about quarterly projections nearly collided with me and I slid aside with the kind of fluid economy he would never notice. I was a ghost in a cardigan, and ghosts survived by being overlooked.

Prestige First National Bank sat on the corner of Fifth and Hamilton like a monument to intimidation, all marble columns and brass fixtures, a building that didn’t welcome you so much as measure you, whispering with every polished surface that wealth lived here and power slept here and you were either invited or you were trespassing. The revolving doors shone like mirrors, reflecting my shape back at me in warped fragments, and a doorman in white gloves and a burgundy coat performed a professional sweep that felt uncomfortably familiar. It was the same motion I’d seen at checkpoints, only his threat criteria were different, because he wasn’t scanning for wires or weapons, he was scanning for poverty. His gaze paused on the frayed cuff, the canvas tote, the scuffed boots, and he filed me away in a heartbeat as nonessential, low value, not worth the effort of courtesy, and he didn’t open the door, didn’t nod, didn’t even fully look at me so much as look through me, so I pushed the glass myself and stepped into the lobby.

The quiet hit first, not the quiet of peace but the quiet of vacuum, the air conditioned into sterile cold that smelled like leather and expensive cologne, the ceiling vaulted up toward chandeliers that looked like frozen starlight, and the cream marble floor was so polished that every footstep snapped sharp, too loud, too clean. Leather chairs clustered like small kingdoms, abstract art screamed in reds and blacks that probably cost more than my apartment building, and everyone inside looked finished, pressed, fitted, completed, men in charcoal suits that hugged their bodies like second skins and women in dresses that announced designer without needing a logo. Watches flashed status like Morse code. People here weren’t merely wealthy, they were curated.

I joined the line that snaked through velvet ropes toward the tellers and waited, because waiting was something my body understood down to the bone. A woman ahead of me adjusted sunglasses indoors, and I didn’t need a logo to recognize the hinge, because the kind of life I’d lived made you notice details. She glanced back, saw the cardigan, saw the tote, and her eyes did a top-to-bottom inventory like I was contamination, then she stepped forward to widen the buffer between her silk and my cotton. My brain tried to do what it always did in unfamiliar rooms, mapping the exits, counting the guards, finding the cameras, calculating blind spots near the pillars, and I forced the thought down hard because I was not here for war, I was here to check a balance, I was here to be ordinary, and ordinary was supposed to be easy.

The line shuffled. A teller called “Next,” and I moved with the slow patience of someone who had once waited days without moving for reasons no one would ever write down. The lobby’s atmosphere shifted before I even heard the sound, because there is a particular kind of pressure drop that happens when a predator enters a clearing, and the hush that followed wasn’t respect so much as obedience. I didn’t turn, but the polished brass of a nearby pillar gave me a reflection, and in it I watched the revolving doors spin as a man entered like he owned oxygen itself. He was in his fifties with silver hair swept back in perfect control, and his suit was shark-gray and tailored to hide softness, his stride the stride of someone who had never waited for anything in his life because waiting was for other people.

Two assistants trailed him, one stabbing at a tablet, the other juggling a coffee and a phone, and he cut past the line as if the velvet ropes were decorative, heading straight for the VIP counter at the far end and slamming his palm on the marble like a gavel. “Mason,” he boomed at a young banker who looked like he was about to fold in half. “I don’t have time for delays. Motion is money.” The banker stammered, apologizing, offering to schedule, offering to fix, and the man dismissed him with a flick of arrogance that said he didn’t make appointments, he made reality.

He turned to survey the room, searching for an audience the way some men searched for mirrors, and his eyes landed on me because I was the wrong shade of gray in his polished world. He tilted his head as if studying an insect. “Is this the food court line?” he asked loudly enough for the acoustics to do the work for him, and nervous laughter scattered around the lobby like crumbs. The sunglasses woman shifted again, eager to align herself with power, eager to be on the safe side of humiliation.

I kept my face still because stillness was control and control was survival, but when the man drifted closer to the velvet ropes, enjoying himself, savoring his own cruelty, I turned my head slowly until my eyes met his. “I’m in the right place,” I said, my voice low, flat, and factual, the tone you used when you were reporting weather or confirming coordinates. He raised his brows like I had entertained him. “Are you,” he said, drawing out the syllables, “because this is Prestige First, sweetheart, and we have standards. Minimum balances. This isn’t a walk-in-and-beg situation.” His gaze flicked over my clothes as if he were reading a label. “I’m sure you’re… nice, whatever you are, but we don’t do handouts here.”

He waited for me to react in a way he could consume, to blush, to stammer, to shrink, and when I didn’t, he leaned into the mockery as if volume could replace wit. “There’s a community credit union a few blocks east,” he added, syrupy with fake pity. “I hear they’ve got free lollipops. More your… demographic.” His assistants smirked. One laughed too sharply. The guard by the door straightened, not because a billionaire was harassing a customer, but because the poor woman might cause a scene.

I held the man’s gaze for three seconds, and in those three seconds my mind noted his weak left knee, the expensive dye job hiding his fear of age, the softness of a jaw that had never been punched, and then I turned back to the counter because the fastest way to end a performance was to refuse to be the audience. Behind me, his voice floated again, bright with cruelty. “She’ll be out in ninety seconds,” he announced. “Taking bets, gentlemen. How long does it take to check a zero balance?”

When it was finally my turn, I stepped up to the station and faced a young teller with a name tag that read Rowan, and his eyes were kind in the tired way of someone who survived customer service by learning how to look gentle even when the room wasn’t. He flicked a nervous glance toward the billionaire leaning at the VIP counter like a king watching peasants, then lowered his voice. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said, already bracing for my embarrassment. “How can I help you?” I kept my words simple. “I need to check my balance,” I said. “I got a maintenance notification.” He nodded quickly. “Of course. Do you have your card?”

I reached into my canvas bag, fingers brushing past the small hard shape of a legal civilian deterrent I carried more out of habit than faith, and pulled out the card. It was plain white, no logo, no bank name, no friendly branding, just a chip and a strip, the kind of thing that looked less like money and more like access. I slid it across the marble. Rowan turned it over, frowning. “Ma’am, I’m not sure this—” “Swipe it,” I said, and my voice didn’t rise, because commands didn’t need volume when certainty did the job.

Behind me, the billionaire snickered. “Go on, Rowan, don’t keep the lady waiting,” he called. “She’s got cans to collect.” Rowan exhaled as if apologizing to himself, then slid the card through the reader, and the terminal flickered, and I watched his face because faces told the truth long before mouths did. He typed, paused, squinted, clicked, typed again with more force like he could bully the machine into understanding, and then his expression shifted into confusion that edged rapidly toward fear.

“That’s… strange,” he muttered, and I kept my tone calm. “What is it?” “It’s requesting a secondary protocol,” he said, voice thinning. “Is this corporate? Joint? Holding?” “It’s a checking account,” I answered, and he swallowed and hit Enter, and the monitor didn’t simply change screens, it changed the entire light in the space. It flashed RED, deep and violent, bathing Rowan’s face in an alarm glow that reflected off the marble counter and caught everyone’s attention like a flare.

Rowan jerked back in his chair. “Whoa.” Text cascaded down his display so quickly it looked like a storm, and I couldn’t read it from my angle, but I caught the reflection in his glasses: warnings, code, access blocks, a language that wasn’t meant for ordinary customers. He stared at it like it had turned into a weapon. “I… I can’t—” he stammered, fingers hovering above the keyboard. “It locked me out. It’s— it’s triggering lockdown.” The guard’s hand went to his radio. “Control, situation at Station Four,” he said, voice tight.

The billionaire drifted closer, smelling entertainment. “What did you do?” he called, grinning too wide. “Did she break the system? Is that a poverty alert, Rowan?” Rowan didn’t even look at him, and that alone made the room colder, because the teller’s attention was fixed entirely on the red screen as if it were a live grenade. “I need the manager,” Rowan said, and the fear in his eyes was real now. “Right now.” He scrambled up so fast his chair clattered back into the wall, and he nearly ran toward the offices in the rear.

I stood alone at the counter while the screen pulsed its ominous red, and the billionaire pressed up to the rope like he wanted to taste the chaos. “What is that?” he demanded. “You trying to hack the bank? Some kind of scam?” His laugh came out brittle. “That’s a fraud flag if I’ve ever seen one.” Then the back office door opened hard enough to snap heads around, and Rowan returned behind a woman who walked like she was marching into a fight, steel-gray suit, hair pulled back tight, eyes sharp as broken glass, and the name on her badge read Selene Hart, Regional Manager.

Selene didn’t glance at the line, didn’t acknowledge the VIP counter, didn’t even spare the billionaire a courtesy look, because her entire focus was the terminal glowing red like a wound. She stopped, read the scrolling warnings, and the color drained from her face so fast it looked like someone had unplugged her. She lifted her eyes to mine, and her hands shook as she reached for the keyboard. “Ma’am,” she said, voice cracking, “I… I apologize. We didn’t know.” The billionaire snorted. “Didn’t know what, that she’s broke?” Selene ignored him and typed a long code with trembling fingers. “I need to verify clearance,” she whispered. “This is a Tier One federal hold. I’ve never seen— I’ve only heard—” She hit Enter, and the red blinked away into a stark, blinding white, and then numbers appeared that turned the room into something else entirely.

Selene’s throat worked as she swallowed, her eyes locked on the display like it was a ghost, and she read silently for a moment before whispering, “There’s an attached flag,” and her voice sounded like it belonged to someone standing on the edge of a cliff. “Presidential citation marker. And a sealed designation.” The billionaire pushed forward, furious that he wasn’t the center of the universe. “I want to know why this… person is holding up my transaction,” he snapped, stepping around the rope, and Selene’s head turned with sudden authority that cut him down like a blade. “Mr. Wexler, step back,” she said, and the name landed with weight because it was his, not a title, not a compliment, just a command.

“Excuse me?” he sputtered, offended by the concept of being addressed like an ordinary man, but Selene didn’t flinch. “Step back,” she repeated, sharper, and then she turned to me again with something like awe and fear tangled together. “Ma’am… the profile unlocked. It’s showing a call sign.” I kept my voice steady because steady was all I had left. “I just need my balance,” I said.

Selene stared at the monitor again, then murmured, “There’s a name attached,” and when she said it, she didn’t speak it like gossip, she spoke it like a warning. “Wraith.” One of the billionaire’s assistants dropped his tablet so hard it cracked on the marble, and nobody looked down because the crack wasn’t the loudest thing in the room anymore, not even close. The billionaire froze mid-breath. “Wraith?” he repeated, and his certainty suddenly sounded thin. “That’s… that’s not real. That’s contractor folklore.”

Selene’s fingers moved again, and the screen displayed itemized deposits with sources that looked like they had been ripped straight out of classified folders, and she read them with the kind of disbelief that had no place in a luxury bank. “Deposits from classified operations,” she whispered. “Authorization marks. Hazard compensation. Survivor disbursements.” The billionaire’s assistant began stammering, scrolling frantically on his phone. “Sir,” he hissed, pale, “forums— mirrors— defense chatter— they talk about Wraith like she’s a ghost entry. Solo extractions. Sealed records.” The billionaire snapped at him, confused and scared. “Stop talking nonsense.” The assistant kept going anyway because fear made people talk. “They mention a valley extraction in 2019,” he said, voice trembling, “a team pinned with no air, one operator went in—”

“Enough,” I said quietly, and my tone was calm but final, because I did not want my dead piling up inside a marble lobby for strangers to consume. Selene hesitated, looking at me like she needed permission to breathe. “Protocol requires verification,” she murmured, then swallowed. “There’s a message flag,” she added, voice softer. “From SOCOM.” I didn’t want it read, but the billionaire did, because men like him believed information was a right. “Read it,” he demanded, and his voice lacked its earlier swagger now, so Selene clicked and read with shaking precision.

“Account holder: Lt. Commander N. Vance,” she said, and the name sounded too clean for the life behind it. “Call sign: WRAITH. Service records sealed under Title Ten authority. Balance reflects hazard compensation, operational bonuses, and survivor benefits.” Her voice caught, then she read the attached note. “We will not forget what you did in the Arghandab Valley. Thank you for bringing them home. — Admiral J. Harold.”

Selene finally turned the display outward so the room could see what the screen declared, and her voice echoed into a silence that had become absolute. “The balance available,” she said, and there was no pride in it, only shock. “Eight point four million dollars.” The number hung in the air like smoke after an explosion, and the lobby’s luxury froze into irrelevance, because it wasn’t the money that changed the temperature, it was what the money meant, what it had been purchased with.

Part 2

The billionaire’s mouth opened and closed like his body couldn’t decide which emotion to commit to, and I watched him struggle because men like that were rarely forced to confront anything beyond inconvenience. His suit, his watch, his assistants, his posture, all of it had been built on the assumption that everyone else was lesser by default, and now his eyes kept flicking toward the teller terminal like it might bite him. “I didn’t know,” he managed finally, and the words sounded like a plea he wasn’t practiced at making. I turned fully toward him, not squaring off because I didn’t need to, but allowing my presence to fill the space the way it always had when rooms tried to push me smaller.

“You asked if I was in the right place,” I said softly, and he flinched as if the memory of his own cruelty had suddenly grown teeth. I didn’t raise my voice because I didn’t have to. “I’ve been in places where heat melts rubber off your boots,” I continued, and the lobby’s marble suddenly felt like a joke. “I’ve been in safe houses that smelled like rot and fear. I’ve been in rooms where the wrong decision means the person beside you never makes it home to see their kid grow up.” I let the words land without flourish, because truth didn’t need drama, and then I gestured once, small and dismissive, toward the bank’s chandeliers and gold-veined floor. “This is easy,” I said. “Standing in line is easy. Being polite is easy.”

The billionaire’s face drained toward the color of ash. “I own three companies,” he stammered, clinging to the only form of value he understood. “I employ thousands.” I nodded as if he had told me the weather. “That’s fine,” I said. “But you looked at my cardigan and decided I didn’t matter. You decided worth was what a screen could prove.” I took one slow step closer, and the guard didn’t stop me, because his body had shifted from suspicion into something like respect without him even realizing it. “You don’t need to know who I am,” I told the billionaire. “You just needed to treat me like a human being, and that shouldn’t cost eight million dollars.”

I turned back to the counter because I was done giving him space in my day. Selene’s eyes were glossy with something like tears she refused to let fall in public, and Rowan looked like he couldn’t decide whether to apologize or salute. “My balance is fine,” I said simply, and Rowan swallowed and nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, then added in a voice so quiet it barely existed, “Thank you. For… everything.” I took the card, slipped it into my tote beside my legal little canister of civilian hope, and stepped away from the station.

The line of wealthy patrons parted like water because shame moved people faster than manners ever did, and I walked toward the doors through a corridor of people who suddenly found the floor fascinating. The billionaire croaked, “Wait,” and I paused without turning, because I knew what he wanted to say before he did. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the apology sounded awkward and forced, but the fear underneath it was real enough to make it honest in its own pathetic way. I glanced back over my shoulder and met his eyes once. “That’s the problem,” I said. “You shouldn’t have to believe someone can hurt you before you treat them with respect.”

I kept walking, and at the revolving doors the older security guard stepped forward and held the exit open manually, bypassing the mechanism like he didn’t want anything between me and open air. His eyes were the kind that had seen things he didn’t advertise, and when he murmured, “Semper Fi, ma’am,” the words carried the weight of recognition. I noticed the small tie clip on his uniform, a tiny gold emblem, and my answer came out low and automatic. “Hoo-yah,” I replied, and then I stepped out into sunlight and street noise and the city’s messy, indifferent living.

The moment the doors sealed behind me, the world’s volume came rushing back, sirens, horns, voices, and I walked half a block before my hands started to shake, not from fear and not from adrenaline, but from the crash that always followed pretending too hard. For ten minutes I had been the call sign again, the ghost story, the operator people whispered about, and I hated it because she was easier to wear than my real name. I found a bench by a bus stop and sat down, breathing slowly until my fingers obeyed me again, then pulled out my phone and opened a thread labeled Echo Team.

The last message was from two weeks earlier, a joke about drinks and who was buying, and my chest tightened in that familiar way grief had of making itself physical. I typed: Checked the balance. We’re good. Three dots appeared instantly, and a reply came fast. Diego: You actually walked into a bank? Did you break anyone? Me: Only with words. A billionaire in a gray suit. Diego: Clean hit. Damon would’ve loved that. The name punched a hole through me, and the screen blurred for a second as I blinked hard and reminded my body it was on a bench in Brooklyn, not somewhere else, not in the dark, not with blood soaking into sand.

The money wasn’t a prize. It wasn’t a win. It was hazard pay for missions that didn’t officially happen, it was compensation for nights that never existed on paper, it was the price the country quietly put on our souls, and the cruelest part was that I was still alive to hold it. The deposits were built from other people’s endings, from Damon bleeding out while trying to make me laugh, from friends who never got to see their kids grow, and the weight of it sat in my tote like a brick I couldn’t put down.

Part 3

When I got home, the apartment was exactly as I’d left it, but it felt smaller, like the bank had pulled the walls closer, and I locked the door in the same sequence I always used—deadbolt, chain, floor latch—then rested my forehead against the wood for a heartbeat and let the memories settle like dust. The encounter had rattled the cage, and the past loved any excuse to wake up. I crossed to the dresser and picked up the photo frame I always kept face down, then flipped it over because sometimes you had to look straight at what hurt you or it grew teeth. Six of us stood in front of a battered vehicle in harsh sunlight, dust on our faces, grinning like we had figured out how to cheat death, and Damon had his arm slung around my neck, laughing so hard you could see it in the crinkles beside his eyes.

“I told them,” I whispered to the room, feeling ridiculous and raw, “I told them I was just checking the balance,” and then I changed out of the cardigan and into running clothes—dark, utilitarian—because I needed motion the way some people needed prayer. I ran until my lungs burned, until my legs turned heavy, until the loop in my head loosened slightly, and when I slowed, I realized my feet had carried me somewhere my mind hadn’t planned, three blocks from home, in front of a squat brick storefront with a faded sign that read VETERANS OUTREACH CENTER — KANDAHAR CHAPTER.

It wasn’t glamorous, just a converted shop with flickering fluorescents and mismatched furniture, but it was real in the way marble banks never were, and when I pushed the door open, the scent of stale coffee and floor wax and unspoken trauma hit me like familiarity. Behind the desk, Hector Ruiz was sorting donated coats, and he looked up with a smile that didn’t ask questions first. “Nora,” he said, voice warm. “You’re late. Coffee’s been burning for three hours.” I walked to the pot and poured a cup of black sludge. “Ideally coffee should be liquid,” I muttered. “Not a weaponized substance.” Hector laughed, a good sound, and asked, “Rough day?” I answered honestly in the only way I could. “Interesting day,” I said, then added, “I went to the bank,” and Hector’s smile tightened because he understood enough to know what that meant.

I sat at one of the plastic tables, and the center was quiet except for an older man reading a newspaper with a magnifying glass and a kid who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two staring at the wall while his leg bounced in a frantic rhythm. I watched the bounce because I knew it, because bodies remembered even when mouths refused, and I spoke to him gently. “Hey,” I said, and he snapped his head around, eyes wide and feral. “Easy,” I told him, keeping my tone low. “You’re in Brooklyn. Floor’s solid. Roof is clear.” He blinked, forced a breath, then another. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I know.” I introduced myself as Nora, and he said his name was Jace and that he’d been Marines, and we shared the smallest grim smile two veterans gave each other when words were too expensive.

I sipped the terrible coffee and looked around at the donated coats, the tired chairs, the worn floor, and I thought about the eight point four million sitting in a digital vault like an accusation, and I knew exactly where it belonged, not in a marble temple built for the rich, but here, where heating bills and therapy sessions and job training could turn survival into something closer to living. I pulled out my phone and saw an incoming message that made my stomach drop in a way the billionaire never could, because it wasn’t from someone with money, it was from someone with authority, the kind that reached into sealed files.

Incoming Message: CMD. HARPER QUINN. My throat went tight, because Harper Quinn didn’t text to chat, and if she reached out, it meant the past had found my address again. Need to talk. Not urgent, but soon. You available? I stared at the words and felt the universe tug on the thread, and for a moment I imagined ignoring it, disappearing into some quiet place with trees and distance and a name nobody recognized, but I looked at the kid bouncing his leg and at Hector folding coats like care could be built one sleeve at a time, and I understood that leaving was never as simple as wanting to.

I typed back: Available. Tomorrow. 1400. The reply came fast. See you then. I set the phone down and Hector asked, “You okay?” and I gave him the closest thing to truth I could manage. “Yeah,” I said. “Just… maintenance.” Then I stood and told him, “Hector, I’m making a donation to this place,” and he started to protest the way good people always did, but I cut him off gently. “I checked the balance,” I said. “It’s too much for one person. Too much for one ghost.” Hector studied my face, reading the lines civilians never learned to interpret, then nodded slowly. “We’ll use it right,” he promised, and I believed him.

I walked home under a sky turning gold and bruised purple, and back in my apartment I left the lights off and stood at the window watching strangers hurry to dinners and families and streaming shows and small arguments, living lives that were mundane and beautiful precisely because they didn’t know what it took to keep mundanity possible. They didn’t know about the call sign and they didn’t need to, because that was the deal, the unspoken math of it all, that some of us carried weight so other people could stay light. I looked at the photo again and at Damon’s grin, and my voice came out as a whisper meant for the dead. “I’m not done,” I said, not as a vow to violence, but as a vow to purpose, because the money wasn’t a ticket out, it was fuel, and fuel could keep a place like Hector’s alive long enough for a kid like Jace to stop bouncing his leg.

My phone buzzed again with a message from Diego, and I didn’t have to see it to know what it would say, because we all knew the pattern. We never really leave, do we? I stared at the coordinates inked under my sleeve and felt the warmth of memory under skin, then answered the truth without dramatics. Not until the work is finished. I went to the kitchen, washed the chipped mug, set it on the rack, and stood in the dark listening to the city breathe. Tomorrow I would meet Harper Quinn, and tomorrow might ask me to step back into something I had tried to bury, but tonight the rent was paid, the outreach center would be funded, and somewhere a billionaire in a perfect suit was probably lying awake, staring at his ceiling, wondering how he had missed the predator standing quietly in front of him the entire time, and that thought pulled a small, sharp smile out of me.

Some accounts can’t be closed, some debts don’t accept cash, and some of us exist purely to make sure the numbers—human, brutal, hidden numbers—finally add up.