The secure channel connected at 19:47 local time.
No video feed. Audio only. Encrypted through three separate proxy layers with randomized routing that changed every forty seconds. The kind of communication infrastructure that required both expertise and paranoia to maintain.
Locke had initiated the contact himself—not from need, but from protocol. The Black Veil operated on scheduled check-ins, irregular enough to avoid pattern recognition but frequent enough to maintain operational awareness.
Missing one without explanation created questions.
Questions created attention.
Attention was unacceptable.
So he made the call.
"Status," came the first voice. Female. Precise diction with a faint accent that suggested expensive education and deliberate neutralization of regional markers.
Juno "Keys" Vega. Logistics coordinator. Digital infrastructure specialist. The person who ensured safehouses rotated appropriately, financial transactions left no traceable patterns, and Locke's digital footprint remained suppressed across every database that mattered.
"Functional," Locke said. "Mobile. Continuing preparation."
"Medical?"
"Managed."
A pause. Two seconds. Long enough to indicate Keys was cross-referencing something.
"Your last biometric upload shows discrepancies," she said. Her tone remained light, almost conversational—a practiced contrast to the implications of what she was discussing. "Heart rate variability outside baseline. Delayed wound healing markers. Gaps in the medication schedule I forwarded."
"Noted."
"The data suggests you're not at optimal field readiness."
"The data is accurate," Locke said. "The conclusion is premature."
Another pause. Shorter this time.
"I'm recommending a two-week extension before accepting new contracts."
"Recommendation acknowledged."
Keys understood what that meant. Acknowledged, not accepted. She didn't push. That was part of why the arrangement worked—she provided information and analysis, Locke made decisions, and neither pretended the relationship was anything more than professional coordination.
"Equipment requests?" she asked, moving forward.
"Standard resupply. List transmitted separately."
"Received. Processing. Anything time-sensitive?"
"No."
The channel clicked as another participant joined.
"Keys." The new voice was male. Baritone. Measured cadence that suggested someone accustomed to interrogation rooms and witness testimony.
Detective Marlow Kane. NYPD Homicide, officially. Black Veil intelligence asset, practically. The person who provided law enforcement perspective, identified patterns in police investigations, and occasionally made inconvenient evidence disappear when operational security required it.
His participation in the Black Veil existed in the grey space between corruption and pragmatism—he didn't work for criminals, but he understood that certain operations served larger strategic interests that police procedure couldn't accommodate.
"Kane," Keys confirmed.
"Locke." Kane's acknowledgment was minimal. "You operational?"
"Yes."
"Injuries?"
"Managed."
"That's not what I asked."
Locke's jaw tightened fractionally. Kane had a talent for cutting through evasion without hostility. It made him effective. It also made him irritating.
"Shoulder laceration. Rib trauma. Soft tissue damage. All within recovery parameters."
"Parameters you defined or parameters a medical professional defined?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does if you're about to take a contract that requires full physical capability and you collapse halfway through."
"I won't."
Kane was silent for three seconds. Evaluating tone, confidence, the subtle vocal indicators that suggested truth or bluster.
"Your risk exposure is higher than normal," Kane said finally. "The warehouse incident generated chatter. People are asking questions about what happened, who survived, why no one's claiming responsibility."
"Let them ask."
"Attention increases operational friction."
"I'm aware."
"Are you?" Kane's tone remained professional, but the question carried weight. "Because from my perspective, you're showing all the behavioral markers of someone who's trying to prove something. And proving something gets people killed."
Locke didn't respond immediately.
Kane wasn't wrong.
But acknowledging that would require engagement he wasn't prepared to provide.
"My operational readiness is not your concern," Locke said.
"It is if it affects team security."
"It won't."
Another pause. Kane accepted the answer without believing it. The distinction mattered.
"I'm flagging this conversation in the file," Kane said. "If something goes wrong, there's documentation that concerns were raised."
"Understood."
Kane disconnected.
The channel remained active for another four seconds before a third presence made itself known.
"Still there, Locke?"
The voice was quieter than the others. Female. No accent. No inflection that suggested anything beyond professional calm.
Nadia Rael. An expert assassin. Her background is relatively unknown and untraceable. I believe her once be part of an organisation but also seems so be knowledgeable on medicine.
She didn't join calls often. When she did, it was because something had triggered her professional concern.
"Still here," Locke confirmed.
Silence stretched. Not uncomfortable—Nadia didn't rush conversations. She observed, processed, then spoke only when she had something worth saying.
"You're compensating," she said finally.
No accusation. No judgment. Just observation from someone trained to recognize the subtle shifts in movement patterns, speech rhythm, breathing cadence that indicated physical trauma.
"Everyone compensates," Locke said.
"Not like this."
"Elaborate."
"Your vocal pattern suggests restricted breathing. Probably rib damage affecting lung expansion. The pauses in your speech are longer than baseline—compensation for pain management. And your response time to questions has increased by point-three seconds on average."
Locke said nothing.
"You're functional," Nadia continued. "But you're not optimal. And the gap between functional and optimal is where mistakes happen."
"Noted."
"That's all you're going to say?"
"What else would I say?"
Nadia's silence carried a different quality now. Not evaluation. Resignation.
"Be careful, Locke," she said quietly. "The body adapts slower than the will."
The line went quiet again.
Keys rejoined the channel. "Anything else requiring coordination?"
"No," Locke said.
"Then I have one more item." Her tone shifted slightly—less technical, more direct. "Are you actually ready to go back in the field?"
The channel went completely silent.
No background noise. No ambient sound. Just the empty space where a response should be.
Keys had asked the question no one else would phrase so directly. Not Kane with his professional skepticism. Not Nadia with her medical assessment.
Just the simple, unavoidable question: was he ready?
"Yes," Locke said.
One word. No hesitation. No elaboration. No metrics or justification.
Just certainty.
Keys started to respond—her tone softer now, carrying something that might have been concern if she'd allowed it to fully form.
Locke cut her off.
"Operational parameters remain unchanged," he said, reframing the conversation entirely. "Standard contract criteria. No adjustments to risk assessment protocols. Timeline flexible but active."
He redirected away from himself and toward logistics. Objectives. Constraints. The mechanical aspects of coordination that didn't require personal engagement.
Concern was inefficiency.
Inefficiency created complications.
"Understood," Keys said after a moment. "Monitoring for suitable opportunities. I'll forward options when they develop."
"Acceptable."
"Locke—" she started.
"Channel closing," he said. "Next check-in as scheduled."
He disconnected before she could finish.
The room returned to silence.
No residual sound from the call. No echo of voices or implication of concern. Just Locke, alone in the concrete space, with the conversation replaying briefly in his mind.
Keys' question. Kane's skepticism. Nadia's observation about will and body.
He dismissed it deliberately.
They were competent. Valuable. Their assessments weren't wrong.
But they were irrelevant.
Care created obligation.
Obligation created hesitation.
Hesitation created vulnerability.
The Black Veil existed as a coordination framework, not a support system. They provided resources, intelligence, technical infrastructure. They did not provide emotional scaffolding or validation.
That was the arrangement. That was what made it functional.
Locke moved back to the training area and recalibrated the combat rig. Increased the speed setting by fifteen percent. Adjusted the strike patterns to include more unpredictable angles.
Not recklessly.
Methodically.
Testing limits without spectacle. Measuring capability without audience.
The rig activated. Its arm swept toward him immediately—faster than the previous sessions, less forgiving of delayed reactions.
He slipped the first strike. Deflected the second. The third caught him across the ribs—exactly where the existing damage was most severe.
Pain flared. Sharp. Immediate.
He ignored it.
Moved through the sequence.
The rig didn't care about his injury. Didn't adjust for his limitations. Didn't hesitate out of concern or reduce difficulty out of consideration.
It just executed its programming.
That made it honest.
That made it useful.
Locke continued for twenty minutes. Each strike that landed was documented mentally—not as failure, but as data. Each successful deflection was noted without satisfaction.
By the end, new bruises layered over old ones. His breathing was labored. Sweat soaked through his shirt again.
He deactivated the rig and sat against the wall.
The Black Veil existed. They were competent. They were valuable.
But they were not allowed inside the process.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Because what he was building required isolation that concern would compromise. Required honesty that care would soften. Required a clarity that emotional investment would distort.
The team had their function.
This space had its own.
And the two didn't overlap.
Locke closed his eyes and regulated his breathing. Four counts in. Hold. Four counts out.
Outside, the world continued. Contracts being negotiated. Intelligence being gathered. Resources being coordinated.
Inside, he rebuilt alone.
One drill at a time.
One limit tested.
One step toward something the team couldn't help him become.
The conversation was archived in his memory, categorized, and set aside.
Tomorrow would bring more drills.
More assessment.
More preparation.
The Black Veil would continue their work.
And he would continue his.
In parallel.
But never intersecting.
Not until he'd earned the right to return to the field on terms he could trust.
His own.