-Devon.
It still threw me off that every manager in this goddamn perimeter had their own private office tucked somewhere inside the mansion. The place was massive, sure, but something about the idea of everyone having a door with their name on it inside a client's home felt borderline excessive. As if we were part of some corporate organism pulsing under a gilded shell.
Mark's office was on the second floor, near the west wing. I knocked twice. No answer, but I could hear him talking on the phone. I pushed the door slightly open, letting the smooth grain of wood creak beneath my fingers, and stepped inside.
Mark was leaning back in his leather chair, phone to ear, eyes on his laptop. He glanced at me but didn't pause his call.
"Yeah, I got it," he said. "Yeah, he's here now. Okay, bye."
The call ended with a soft beep. He dropped the phone on the desk and gave me a nod.
"Devon," he said, like he was picking up from some conversation we were never actually having, "how are you finding the work so far?"
I stepped further into the office, closing the door behind me with a quiet click. His desk was a mess of files, tablets, two cups—one empty, one still steaming—and a subtle citrus scent clung to the air, likely from the reed diffuser near the window.
"It's fine," I said. "Not much has come up yet. Starting to wonder what exactly the job is here."
Mark smiled, not quite amused but clearly expecting the question. "Great question," he said, leaning forward. "That's actually why I called you in. Mr. Maxwell has requested you on the perimeter strategy team for the summit next week."
I blinked. "The summit?"
"There's a separate location briefing this evening. Pack light, you'll be gone for three nights."
The silence that followed wasn't exactly awkward, but it settled thick between us. I shifted my weight slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
"Just wondering," I said carefully, "is that the kind of decision Mr. Maxwell gets to make? Assigning bodyguards, I mean. I thought that was your call."
"It's in alignment," Mark said with a shrug. "We've been reviewing operations since we got here. After evaluating the environment and personnel, we believe you're better suited working on-site with the external protocol teams. You're detail-oriented, adaptable, and focused. That's what we need there. We'll explain more once we arrive at the site."
I nodded. There wasn't much else to say.
"Alright," I told him. "I'll get ready."
As I stepped out of his office and made my way back downstairs, my boots felt heavier than usual. The halls were too quiet, padded in layers of soundproofing and silence, like the mansion was trying not to wake itself. I spotted Michael and Sandro just outside near the east courtyard, huddled near a stone planter and sharing a cigarette, the smoke curling up against the sunlight like a secret.
I stepped up and leaned against the cold stone wall. "Hey. Either of you been given any assignments yet? Or is it still just... chilling?"
Michael looked at me through the haze of smoke. "Nah. No movement. Mark hasn't said a word."
"Any of you get moved around?" I asked. "Like different locations?"
Sandro shook his head. "Still where we were. Haven't even been asked to shift rotation."
I rubbed the back of my neck, the skin warm from the sun, but the unease was cold.
"Huh," I muttered. "Weird. They're relocating me."
Michael raised a brow. "To a different client?"
"No," I said. "Different perimeter. Something about a summit happening next week. I'm apparently needed there."
Sandro exhaled sharply through his nose. "They didn't tell us anything about that."
"They just told me to pack light."
Michael offered me the cigarette. I waved it off. The taste of smoke never sat right with me—bitter, clinging. I ran a hand through my hair instead, pushing it back and letting it fall messily into place again. My fingers stayed pressed to my scalp for a moment longer than necessary.
I didn't know what it was, but something about this entire setup felt… off. Not in the obvious ways—no red flags waving in the air, no alarms screaming—but in the undercurrent. It was the way things shifted too easily. The way instructions came after decisions had already been made. The way the halls echoed when they shouldn't.
Most of my life, I'd never really known what came next. Nothing was ever set in stone—not the home I lived in, not the city I'd end up in, not even the people who stayed. My mother remarried and I was gone before I knew what I was leaving behind. I was the one who disappeared, who left the court, the karate center, the city where everything still smelled like wet grass and weekend sweat. I was the one who blinked and suddenly years had passed, and the boy who once kissed me to test the waters had slipped through time like a memory I didn't realize I needed to chase until it was too late.
Everything always happened on a whim. There was no grand design to how we got here. Just choices that looked like nothing until they started to build a life.
But here, in this place, that same whim feels manufactured. Packaged into rules and corridors and commands that seem too curated to be random. Something about this house, this job, this perimeter—none of it feels like the kind of unpredictability I've grown used to. It feels like a controlled current. Like I'm already being pulled under something I haven't even seen the shape of yet.
And I don't know what part I'm meant to play in it.
I went back to the room without saying much to anyone. The air in there felt still, like it had been holding its breath while I was gone. I pulled open the wardrobe and reached for the black backpack they'd issued us—standard, stiff straps, new but already smelling faintly of starch and rubber. I filled it with the folded sets of uniforms, a change of civilian clothes, the regulation boots, and the sealed envelope they'd tucked into our drawers during the initial briefing. I hadn't opened mine yet. I zipped the bag closed with one hand and swung it over my shoulder, feeling the weight settle.
I was nearly done when the door creaked open behind me.
I didn't need to look up. I could tell by the silence it was Treasure. The way he lingered in the doorway without saying anything—he always did that, like testing the air before stepping in. I zipped the backpack closed and stood upright, letting the weight settle on one shoulder.
"Where are you going?" he finally asked.
His voice wasn't accusatory. It wasn't soft either. Just… uncertain. And something about that made me feel like I was being caught in the act of something I hadn't figured out how to explain yet.
"I'm needed somewhere else," I said, without turning. I adjusted the strap again, then glanced over my shoulder. "Guess I got picked."
He was standing just inside the room now, his bare feet quiet against the cold tile. His shirt was wrinkled, like he'd pulled it over his head in a rush. Or maybe he'd just woken up. His hair was uncombed, that soft mess that never stayed down no matter how many times he ran his fingers through it. He looked like a question no one had asked out loud yet.
"They didn't say anything to me," he said.
"They didn't have to," I replied. "It's a different post. Short-term. They're rotating coverage for the summit next week, I guess."
He didn't respond right away. He looked around the room instead, like something had already started disappearing.
"You'll be gone long?"
"Three nights."
Treasure nodded, more to himself than to me. He didn't say much, just stood there for a second too long, like he couldn't decide whether to walk further in or leave. His arms crossed over his chest, a quiet defense. His eyes flicked to the backpack again, then to my face, unreadable.
I adjusted the strap over my shoulder, letting the silence stretch just a beat longer. Then I said it—low, steady, not looking directly at him.
"Guess I'll see you in three nights."
It wasn't a question. It was closer to a statement dressed in implication, the kind that hovered in the air long after it was spoken. I didn't need to say the rest out loud. We both knew what I meant. If Elias was going, Treasure wouldn't be far behind.
He blinked, slow. I saw the way his jaw shifted, like he wanted to reply but chose not to.
"Don't get all dramatic," he muttered, half-turning already. "It's just a job."
I didn't respond. Didn't need to. The moment had already landed.
He left without another word, the door clicking gently behind him.
By the time I stepped outside, the sun had begun its slow descent behind the trees, painting long shadows across the courtyard. Mark was waiting beside the van, speaking with two other men I didn't recognize—one lean and buzzed, the other broader, with a slight limp in his left leg. They weren't chatty. Just nodded when they saw me approach, their attention still split between the clipboard in Mark's hand and the vehicle behind them.
Mark opened the sliding door and gestured inside. I climbed in, settled against the window, and watched as the trees blurred once we pulled off the estate grounds.
A few minutes passed in silence. The hum of the road filled the van like white noise. Then Mark finally turned slightly toward me, resting his elbow on the back of his seat.
"Alright. Here's what you need to know."
I glanced at him. His tone had shifted from casual to clipped. He was in briefing mode now.
"There's a private summit happening next week," he said, "off-site, secluded. This isn't a tech launch or a media showcase. This is internal. A gathering of high-tier stakeholders, private investors, a couple of political figures, and Elias himself. Off the books. Confidential. The kind of thing that doesn't go on calendars."
The van took a turn, smooth but fast. The motion rocked my shoulder gently against the frame.
"The location is a remote lodge owned by one of Elias's holding companies," Mark continued. "Surrounded by forest on all sides, no public access roads on record. It used to be a hunting property, then converted for private retreats. There's a perimeter wall, a service tunnel, helipad, one main structure, and a backup power grid. No internet signal unless it's unlocked manually through their satellite dish. We're not expecting a threat, but that's when people get sloppy."
I nodded slowly. "So what's the assignment?"
Mark tapped the folder in his lap. "Perimeter coordination. You're being assigned to lead it. Ground layout, shift distribution, choke point tracking, blind zones, entry and exit assessments. We already have schematics, but we need someone who doesn't just read maps but knows how to move around them."
I took that in. It made sense, in a way. The drills, the way I studied routes, the time I spent building simulations even during rest hours—I had a reputation for knowing how to make things airtight.
"You'll be working alongside Felix and Roan here," Mark said, nodding to the two men across from me. "Felix handles comms. Roan's ex-special ops, logistics-trained. You call it, they'll run it."
Felix gave me a quick thumbs-up without looking away from the window. Roan just nodded once, his eyes sharp but unreadable.
Mark opened the tablet in front of him and began flipping through blueprints, turning it so I could see. "Main lodge has six entry points. Two main doors, four secondary access routes, including a ground-level maintenance crawl and a roof exit. You're to assess each and assign coverage. Each shift rotates every six hours, and nobody works more than twelve without clearance. You'll report directly to me, but I'm not going to micromanage. You're in charge of your team. Your decisions will hold."
My eyes followed the clean lines of the building plans, my mind already calculating distance, angle, elevation shifts. I saw the land before we even reached it—its layout already piecing itself together like a mental jigsaw. I could smell pine, could feel the crunch of gravel under my boots. I was already walking it in my head.
"There's also surveillance," Mark added. "You'll assist the setup team in determining the placement. Once it's installed, you'll monitor the feed with the rest of your squad, focusing on movement outside the gates. We don't want them to know they're being watched unless it's necessary."
"And inside?" I asked.
"That's someone else's job," Mark said, with a small smile. "Your work is everything beyond the threshold. What's out there. You'll be the reason nobody gets too close."
I leaned back, my fingers still curled loosely around the strap of my backpack. There was something grounding about it—this kind of clarity. Even if the job came wrapped in secrets and half-truths, this part, at least, was math. Distance and time. Height and shadow. A body could only move so fast. A car could only come from so many angles. The mind, when focused, could account for everything.
Still, I couldn't shake the tightness low in my stomach. Not dread exactly, but something colder. Less defined. Something like when you walk into a room and all the frames are tilted just enough to notice. Something is off. Not loud. Just… off.
Mark shut the tablet. "We'll arrive in about forty minutes. There's a room for you in the east wing. Use tonight to familiarize yourself with the terrain. You'll walk it first thing tomorrow, map in hand."
I nodded again, slower this time.
"Understood."
I looked back out the window. The sky was changing color, and with it, the trees darkened, their outlines bleeding into one another. It was quiet again. But inside my head, things had already started to move.
The drive took longer than I thought it would. The road narrowed into silence somewhere past the third checkpoint, where the trees on either side grew denser, almost leaning in like they were listening. Pines mostly, and cypress, their shadows stitched into the gravel by the late sun. There were no streetlights. No signage. No signal. Just winding asphalt and the occasional crunch of branches under the tires. The men in the van didn't speak much. Mark scrolled through a tablet in the front seat, his eyes catching the dim light of the screen, while Felix and Roan traded clipped notes about relay coverage and gate frequency like they'd done this kind of thing before.
I kept my focus outward. Watched the terrain shift, watched the trees get taller. The deeper we went, the more I felt the outside world dissolve behind us. It was the kind of silence you couldn't fake—not the professional quiet we'd learned to hold, but the stillness that came when there were no other cars for miles. No hum of cities. No accidental sounds.
Eventually, we turned onto a narrow path, unpaved and uneven. Moss crept along the stones. A gate loomed ahead—black iron, old, but well-maintained. A camera blinked once overhead. The van slowed. A coded transmission was sent through. Seconds passed, then the gate groaned open with mechanical slowness, like it hadn't been used in a while but still knew its job.
We drove through, the tires crackling over the gravel. The property opened up around us. It was all stone and height, tucked between the trees as though trying not to be seen. The lodge was massive, but quiet in the way expensive things are quiet. Built from old-world timber and polished basalt, with a low sloping roof and windows that reflected nothing but the forest behind us. The structure had a strange kind of stillness to it, as though the air around it had agreed to keep its secrets.
Mark stepped out first. He inhaled like someone who'd been here before, like the scent of pine and ash settled him.
"This way," he said, motioning us toward the eastern wing.
We followed him in through a side entrance. The hallway we entered was long and cool, the lights low and recessed, barely illuminating the lacquered wood walls. Our boots echoed gently against polished stone, not loud enough to be disruptive, but noticeable enough that you felt like a stranger walking through someone else's home.
"Your rooms are down this hall," Mark said, tapping the side of his tablet. "Temporary quarters. You'll rotate out once we finalize the perimeter positions. Devon, you're room 2A. Drop your bag and meet us in the control room. It's three doors down on the right."
I nodded and stepped into my assigned space. The room was utilitarian—bed, small table, a built-in wardrobe, and a window with blackout curtains already drawn. The mattress still smelled like plastic. I dropped my backpack on the bed and peeled the zipper open halfway, taking out only what I needed: the layout folder, my notebook, the pen I liked writing with. Everything else could wait.
Back in the hallway, I followed the muffled hum of voices until I found them—Mark, Felix, Roan, and a fourth man I hadn't seen before, seated in front of a large monitor array, wires spilling out from under the table like veins from a heart. The screens were still dark, save for one displaying a flickering blueprint of the lodge grounds.
"This is Armin," Mark said, without looking up. "He's our tech op. He'll get the surveillance grid running once you approve the placement zones. But until then, we're blind."
I stepped closer to the screen. The layout was more expansive than I expected. One main structure, three satellite buildings, dense forest beyond the fence line, and a helipad situated near the southwest slope. The terrain was uneven, full of blind angles and natural dips, which made me uneasy.
"You're responsible for covering these," Mark said, pointing to the entry markers on the map. "Two gates, four outer access points. You'll assign posts, rotate shifts, and approve sightlines. Tomorrow morning, I want you walking the full boundary. No theory. Feel it with your own steps. These woods distort distance."
I studied the lines, tracing each route in my head. Everything had to be measured—not just space, but visibility. Where the trees thinned. Where the wind moved the grass in ways that could cover a crouched figure. Where light pooled and where it didn't reach. You don't secure places like this through cameras. You secure them by understanding how they breathe.
"Power source?" I asked.
"Independent generator. Buried. Triple-backed," Armin answered. "I've tested the system before. If anything fails, the backup kicks in within three seconds."
"And the terrain past the fence?"
"No man's land," Roan said. "Four hundred meters of raw slope and brush. The only passable angle is the service tunnel, and even that's coded shut on both sides."
"Still," Mark added, "we don't assume no one will try."
I nodded. My fingers brushed the paper in my folder. I didn't speak again. I just started taking notes—angles, code placements, elevation gradients. The kind of notes that didn't look like much until they saved someone's life.
After a while, the others filtered out, heading toward dinner or showers or silence. I stayed behind, eyes still fixed on the schematic, watching how the lines curved and intersected, thinking about who might walk them, and why. Thinking about the quiet out here, and how sometimes, the loudest things were the ones that didn't make sound at all.
Armin stayed behind with me. The only sound now was the soft hum of the monitors and the faint tap of my pen against the folder as I mapped out overnight rotations. My eyes flicked to the blueprint again, following the thin corridor that led to the private wing. Elias's room was marked but walled off from the general path, nestled in a spot that felt too quiet.
I tapped my knuckle lightly on the screen.
"What coverage do we have on this hallway?" I asked.
Armin leaned in, narrowing his eyes. "That one's part of the interior sweep. Two corners are blind."
"Let's put a camera facing the bedroom door," I said, voice even.
His brow twitched, not enough to challenge me, but enough to make his skepticism known. "Elias doesn't like surveillance in that area. He's had them removed before."
"We won't monitor it unless necessary," I said, keeping my gaze on the screen. "But we need eyes on the approach. Guests are sleeping under the same roof. We're here to protect him, not make him comfortable."
Armin scratched the back of his head and leaned back in the chair, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"If he asks, I'll say it was part of perimeter reinforcement," I added, before he could speak. "If he presses, I'll take the heat. But I want that feed in the grid. Nothing fancy. Low-light, wide angle. Just a view of the hallway."
He hesitated, drumming his fingers against the edge of the console. "You're not planning on watching it, are you?"
"I said only if necessary."
"You're sure about this?"
I looked at him then. "I know what I'm doing."
He nodded once, slow and measured. Then he slid the keyboard toward himself and began typing.
"Alright," he muttered. "Quiet install. I'll keep it out of the primary loop."
I didn't thank him. I just went back to my notes while the faint tapping of keys resumed behind me. The camera would be up by morning. I didn't need to say it out loud, but I had a feeling that whatever went on behind that door in the coming days—I didn't want to be the one caught unprepared.
Not again.
I skipped dinner.
Didn't feel hungry. Didn't feel like talking. I just needed air, something outside the dim glow of surveillance monitors and the tightening coil of responsibility at the base of my neck.
The room was still, walls silent except for the occasional creak of wood shifting in the cold. I stepped out onto the balcony and closed the door behind me, letting the night wrap itself around my shoulders like a heavy coat. The wind carried that sharp, pine-stained chill—thin, biting, full of secrets.
I leaned forward into the railing, bracing my forearms on the smooth metal. The cold soaked into my sleeves as I interlinked my fingers and rested my hands together. The silence wasn't peaceful. It never was. But it was better than pretending to be at ease inside.
Sometimes when things got like this—when my thoughts turned to static and I couldn't breathe right—I found myself rewinding time. Replaying something softer. Something that still had color.
And more often than not, it was him.
I don't know why my brain picked that specific day. Maybe because it had been simple. Uncomplicated. I remember it clearly. We were still nineteen, living in that shoebox apartment on Carrick Street, back when the mattress was still on the floor and we had to turn the heater off every few hours to keep the electric bill from crawling into three digits.
Treasure had never been to the farmer's market before.
Not once.
And the second we stepped off the bus and walked into the cluster of stalls and chatter and summer produce, he looked like someone seeing the world for the first time.
"Wait—Dev, are those actual peaches? Like real, not-from-the-supermarket peaches?"
He pointed at a stall, eyes wide. The seller was an older woman with a sun-wrinkled face and crates of soft, orange-gold fruit piled high like treasure. Treasure—not the person, the word—he looked at those peaches like they were sacred.
"Yeah," I said. "They're peaches. You've never had one that's not from a tin?"
He shook his head, already half-walking toward the table. "No. They always looked fake to me. Like wax. Are they furry?"
"A little. You eat around the pit."
"I want one."
"We'll get one."
I remember how carefully we picked it. Just one. We didn't have the money to buy more, but that didn't matter. It wasn't about hoarding. It was about tasting something real. We took turns biting into it as we walked, juice dripping down his wrist, his laugh full and unguarded.
He wrinkled his nose after the first bite. "It's weird," he said. "But good weird. Like soft sunshine. You know what I mean?"
I knew exactly what he meant.
We stopped at every stall he was curious about. He held up vegetables like they were artifacts—baby zucchini, striped tomatoes, herbs bundled with twine. He hadn't tried half of them before. So we bought small quantities. Little bags of unfamiliar flavors. Things we could afford if we stretched it just enough.
Then we passed the fruit vendor near the back. Exotic stuff. Imported. The kind of prices that made you glance twice before walking away. Dragon fruit, star fruit, cherimoya, lychees still clinging to the branch.
Treasure paused.
"What the hell is that?"
He pointed at the pink-spiked orb with pale green tips.
"Dragon fruit."
"Looks like something a Pokémon would hatch from."
I smirked. "Wanna try it?"
He hesitated. "It's probably, like, twenty pounds."
"Eighteen," I said, glancing at the tag. "But we'll ask if she can cut it for us. Just a slice."
We ended up getting a thin sliver, wrapped in wax paper. Split it between us while sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, elbows touching, backs pressed to the wall. The inside was white with tiny black seeds, soft like a pear, but milder. He took his bite and chewed slowly, then looked at me with this quiet grin.
"I don't even care what it tastes like. I just like that we're doing this."
That stuck with me.
Not the fruit. Not the price. Not the market noise or the summer heat or the aching walk back home. Just that.
That he was happy with what we had.
And I—at the time—I remember thinking maybe I could give him that. If nothing else, at least a few good memories. Moments that felt like life had paused for us. Moments I could store and replay like this, when the air grew too tight and the silence got too sharp.
Out here on this balcony, surrounded by unfamiliar woods and strangers I had to trust with my life, I remembered how Treasure leaned his head against my shoulder that day while we waited for the bus home. He didn't say anything. He just rested there.
And I let him.
~" I just bought a hammer, I'm trying to fix you
But where are my manners? I might have a screw loose"~