I slammed my hand against the steering wheel and leaned on the horn. The cars ahead didn't move.
Red lights took forever, while stupid cars lined in front of mine.
"Impressive."
She must've been impressed by my fighting skills. I was trained, I had to be skilled. Women being impressed, was nothing new for me. For the formality, I asked-
"What?"
"You fight like a royal and honk like a stressed-out uncle."
She said casually from the passenger seat.
Oh. The horn.
I glanced at her, disappointed. She was smiling. Actually smiling. Like we hadn't just sprinted away from men who very clearly did not want a friendly conversation.
"You really want to joke right now?"
Okay fine. I was annoyed.
I eased off the horn and slammed it again as someone inserted their god damn cars in front of our.
"It's the perfect time to joke. I mean, do you really want me to analyse the situation? That'll ruin your day honey."
That was the only thing making me uncomfortable.
Most people breathe heavily after adrenaline fades. Some shake. Some cry. She adjusted the seatbelt and stared out the window like this was an inconvenient delay between errands. Like it wasn't a big deal at all.
Traffic crawled and I tapped my foot at the pedal. I checked the mirror.
No cars. No cameras. No familiar vehicles.
Good.
"So," she said, turning slightly toward me,
"do random men attack you often, or was today some kind of limited-edition experience?"
"Special occasion," I replied. "Corporate nonsense."
She snorted. "Ah yes. Rich people problems."
If only.
I told her the clean version. The one meant for strangers. That I ran a mass media company. That competitors played dirty. That sometimes business spilled out at unusual places.
I didn't tell her why they came without cameras. Or why they wanted me alive. She didn't have to know.
"You're weirdly calm," I said.
She smiled. "You're weirdly bad at lying."
That should've made me lose my shit more than it did.
The car rolled forward again. Red light. She stretched her arms above her head.
"That'll bruise," I noted.
"Worth it," she replied. "He was annoying."
I glanced at her knuckles, looked actually. The skin across her knuckles already turned faint purple with tints of blood red.
"Family emergency,"
she said suddenly, like she'd continued a conversation I hadn't heard. "That's what I'll tell my boss."
I frowned. "Family emergency?"
"Works every time," she said. "People stop asking questions when emotions are involved."
"What do you do?" I asked.
"Forensics," she replied. "Ecological, unfortunately."
"Unfortunately?"
She sighed. "Earthworms are not the intellectual thrill people think they are."
That almost made me smile.
"My department's being reviewed,"
she added casually, like it was an afterthought.
"Might get transferred."
I tightened my grip on the wheel.
"Transferred where?"
She shrugged. "Something field-based. Reconstruction work, maybe. Utterly dramatic."
It wasn't dramatic. It was dangerous.
Because once someone reconstructs an event properly, narratives collapse. And narratives are my business.
Traffic finally thinned as we reached the business district. Glass buildings rose like quiet threats. I slowed as we approached a familiar structure- sleek, steel-framed, bearing the understated logo of Helix Forensic Institute.
"That's me," she said, pointing. "Drop me anywhere nearby."
I pulled in closer than she expected.
"You sure you wanna go? It's kinda late for lunch break." I asked.
She smirked. "I survived men with fists. I can survive Dr. Holtz."
"Dr. Holtz?" I repeated.
"Head of my division," she said. "Runs on caffeine and disappointment."
I cut the engine. The sudden silence felt heavier than the traffic.
She reached for the door, then paused.
"We didn't exchange names," she said.
"No," I replied.
"Elara."
I nodded. "Adrian."
She tilted her head. "Just Adrian?"
"For now."
She seemed to accept that, which was rare.
"Thanks for the ride, Adrian," she said, opening the door. "And the knife handling practice."
"Try not to punch anyone else today," I replied.
"No promises."
She stepped out, then turned back.
"By the way- your lie? Needs work."
Before I could respond, she shut the door and walked toward the building, shoulders normalised like she'd never been anything but fine.
I waited until she disappeared inside before driving off.
From across the street, I watched through the windshield.
She entered the building and was intercepted almost immediately by a woman with sharp eyes and sharper posture. Dr. Holtz, I assumed. They spoke briefly. Elara gestured vaguely, then flexed her fingers.
Dr. Holtz's gaze dropped to Elara's hands.
I saw the shift. The softening. Concern replacing suspicion.
Family emergency.
Clever.
I pulled away, already late to my own meeting.
Voxen Media Group didn't sleep.
Screens lined the walls of the top floor, displaying breaking news from every major network we owned or influenced. Assistants moved with practiced efficiency. People stopped talking when I walked past- not out of fear, but habit.
"Meeting in five," my assistant said.
"PR flagged a potential incident near Tiergarten."
"Handled," I replied.
She nodded, already moving on.
I stepped into my office and closed the door.
Helix Forensic Institute.
Reconstruction division.
Elara.
I didn't pull files. Didn't make calls.
Not yet.
Three hours later, I dialed an unknown number.
Adrian:
Nice acting. Purple knuckles do help.
Elara:
Guess who just got promoted?
Adrian:
Congratulations.
Elara:
Thanks. Turns out punching people counts as field aptitude.
Adrian:
Coffee? You might owe me details.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
Elara:
Sure. But fair warning- I ask uncomfortable questions.
I smiled for the first time that day.
Adrian:
So do I.