RYAN'S POV
The morning after a crisis and a bottle of high-proof bourbon usually felt like a tectonic shift in the skull. But as I stood in the secondary server annex, staring at the perfectly scrubbed obsidian floor where the glass had shattered only hours ago, the headache was the least of my problems.
My mouth still tasted faintly of smoke. My skin still felt the phantom weight of calloused hands.
I was leaning against the cool metal of a terminal rack, my eyes closed, trying to compile a logical narrative for why I, Ryan, the guy who had spent his life avoiding confrontation and keeping his tie straight, had practically collapsed into the arms of a man who was essentially a human weapon.
