Page 162 of Let Me In

Steel me up.

Make me clean enough to carry out what has to be done—without a tremble, without a second thought.

When I finally shut the water off, I don’t feel softer.

I feel clear. Not cold. Not cruel.

Just ready.

I towel off fast. Pull on the black clothes that I haven't touched in years, the layers that fit like armor.

No creases.

No color.

No room for error.

I check the gear once more. Every piece where it should be, every weapon chosen with care, every movement silent.

Efficient.

Final.

I cross the room barefoot, the floor cool beneath me.

The rug shifts just slightly when I drag it back.

My fingers find the seam in the boards by muscle memory.

One firm tug.

The panel lifts clean.

And there it is.

The compartment I hoped I’d never open again.

But always kept ready.

Because part of me always knew: peace is borrowed. Protection is earned.

It's a mantra I’ve carried in my bones since long before I met her—sharpened by every mission, every vow I made and kept in blood. It steadies me now, not softens. A promise to myself as much as to her; that nothing gentle survives unless someone hard stands guard around it.

I crouch low.

My hand reaches in.

One by one, I take what I need.

A matte black Glock. Silenced. Clean.

The weight fits my hand like it never left.

A sheathed blade. Sharp. Silent.

A burner phone. New. Preloaded. Wiped.

The gloves—plain, dark, thin—but lined with memory. I pull them on, flexing my fingers once. They still fit like they were made for me.

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