Page 30 of Isaac

And this is an absolute truth that comes from Dallas, not Hawk.

"Why did you come to Vegas?" he asks after yet another pause. His voice is steady and measured with a hint of threat.

"I thought I made myself clear." I add in a shrug. "Looking for more opportunities."

His wings up his eyebrow. "Are there no opportunities back in Arizona?"

"Not much left for a guy like me."

Isaac releases a soft chuckle, rippling through the otherwise somber room. "What kind of experience do you bring to the table?"

"Well, after two tours in Afghanistan…" The words tumble out, hanging heavy in the air like lead, threatening to detonate any remaining sense of comfort. As I find myself grappling with my past jumbled in today’s reality, I sense Isaac's eyes boring into me, sick anticipation electrifying every corner of the office. "Close-quarters combat, reconnaissance, sniping... I know my way around firearms—M16A4, M240, M203 grenade launcher... But I can handle my way around a pistol too. Glock, Beretta, even your classy SIG Sauer…Let’s just say I’m overqualified for most job vets without a college education can get there."

"Sounds like you've seen your fair share of action," Isaac comments nonchalantly. There's an indecipherable shift in his tone—a subtle blend of curiosity mingled with skepticism that triggers a bulletproof defense system inside me. "So why flirt so willingly with danger over here when you’ve been through hell back there?"

I chuckle darkly. "You're never really out of the war zone. They don’t come with exit signs, you know. If you've been to the places I've been sent to, you would understand." The latter leaves my mouth, and again, I'm not sure if it comes from Dallas or Hawk. The line between us seems to blur from time to time. I blame my superiors for giving Hawk the same experience Dallas had. "Once you’ve been to that hell, you’re stuck in it. Might as well do what you’re good at."

"Fair enough," Isaac concedes, his eyes never leaving mine. "We might have some extra opportunities around here."

"I appreciate that."

"Alright then," Isaac concludes, standing up from his desk, and immediately the power balance between us shifts. "I'll let you know if I need you." He studies me for a moment, his brown eyes dark and unreadable.

I know he’s going to test me, test my loyalty. He’s going to figure out a creative way to see if I'm truly someone he can trust. And as the silence inside the office stretches on, I find myself fighting the urge to fill it, to prove myself to this man. But I can’t rush it. Can’t seem too eager. It will raise the suspicion.

"Understood." I nod, turning to leave the office.

Isaac says nothing. He just watches me and I can feel his eyes burning a hole in my back as I step through the door to return to work.

"Ugh, I can't believe they're coming back tonight," Jessica groans, leaning against the bar. The dull red—signature Purgatory—lights from above flirt with her fiery hair that's piled high in charming disarray. She looks like that one night of aschool bonfire that etches itself into the recesses of your mind, refusing to fade away.

It has a flavor all its own; gritty yet affectionate memories birthed from questionable food, watered-down drinks tinted with youthful naivety, and sloppy sex on some secluded spot on the beach.

And the reason you remember it all is because it happened before life really struck, before it draped its clammy hands around your neck, before you realized how fucked up the world is.

Getting sand out of your crack the next morning after that bonfire was the epitome of your problem.

And then six months later you watch people die, ripped apart limb by limb by a suicide bomb—images that burn themselves onto your eyelids each time you blink.

This kind of shit sticks to you. Like fucking gum to the bottom of a shoe and you can’t get rid of it. No matter how hard you scrub, the leftovers are there. The shoe is messed up for good. Damaged goods.

And perhaps, Isaac Thoreau just reminded me that I’m that fucking shoe. Those damaged goods. Because my memories suddenly start to come back to me, memories of my time in the Corpse I desperately try to forget, to erase, to wipe out of my brain. Because I questioned the things I did. I thought I was saving people. But I caused deaths too.

Doesn’t matter which side. Human lives are human lives.

Joining the Bureau, fighting the good fight, felt like an opportunity to wash the blood off my hands that I spilled during my time overseas.

But life has a funny way of showing you who you really are, what your true nature is.

I’m back where I started—in the underbelly of Vegas, in the darkness, surrounded by people above the law.

"Can’t stand those douchebags," Jessica’s voice punches through the haze in my head and I’m transported to Purgatory. The club is still closed with the staff making final preparations for the opening. My shift is about to start too and I’m using the five minutes of spare time I have on a task that most likely won’t give me any leads.

Sadly, Jessica hasn't proven to be a valuable asset. Her knowledge of the inner workings of Hellhounds’ operations seems as foggy as an overcast morning.

"Some bigwigs with oversized egos?" I supply casually, aiming to keep a polite veneer over our conversation.

"I wish some of these people Isaac lets party here found another club." She flashes me a frustrated smile from behind the bar counter as she polishes a glass. "I’m sure you can tell the crowd in the VIP has questionable manners."

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