The walk back to Karl's apartment was conducted in a tense, silent ballet. Karl led, his senses hyper-aware, not just for new threats, but cataloging Josh's presence behind him—the rhythm of his footsteps, the way he scanned the street, the casual yet professional ease with he carried himself. It was the walk of a man who'd never truly left the game.
At the building, Karl didn't just unlock the door. He performed a subtle, pre-entry ritual, his fingers brushing a nearly invisible thread of tape he'd placed on the jamb. It was intact. Josh noticed, a faint, approving smirk touching his lips.
They ascended the groaning stairs. The silence felt heavier here, in the confined space. Karl unlocked his apartment door, repeating the security check before pushing it open and stepping aside to let Josh enter first—a courtesy, and a way to keep the potential threat in front of him.
Josh stepped over the threshold and stopped dead.
He let out a low, appreciative whistle, his eyes scanning the room. It wasn't the shampoo that caught his attention now.
"Well, I'll be damned," he murmured, his voice full of genuine awe.
The apartment was a masterpiece of paranoid preparation. The reinforced door, the tinted windows, the clear lines of sight to both exits. The rolled-up rug, the worn spot on the floor where Karl trained. The small fold-out table with a single place setting, next to a laptop that was undoubtedly a digital fortress. It was austere, brutally efficient, and screamed of a man who was perpetually ready for war.
"Welcome to the vault," Karl said dryly, engaging the multiple locks on the door behind them with a series of solid, final-sounding clicks.
Josh wandered further in, his trained eyes missing nothing. He nodded toward the reinforced doorframe. "Nice. Grade-8 steel screws, three and a half inches, minimum. Won't pull out without taking half the frame with it." He glanced at the window tint. "One-way? Bullet-resistant?"
"To a point," Karl said, heading to the small kitchen area. "Water?"
"Please." Josh ran a hand over the back of the single, straight-backed chair—the one Karl had tied Anya to. "Minimalist decor. I like it. Really brings out the essence of… impending doom."
Karl handed him a bottle of water, his expression unamused. "It serves its purpose."
Josh took the water, his smirk fading into something more serious as he truly took in the reality of Karl's existence. The absolute isolation of it. The constant, grinding vigilance. The shopping trip, the shampoo—they were tiny, desperate flails at a normalcy that this apartment completely denied.
"Hell of a way to live, brother," Josh said, his tone losing its teasing edge.
Karl met his gaze, his own eyes flat and hard. "It's not living," he stated simply. "It's waiting. Now, you said you were here to help. Start talking."
The brief moment of camaraderie was over. They were no longer two old friends catching up. They were two operatives in a secure location, and the mission was back on.