Page 5 of Painted Scars
Resident peacekeeper, Grayson, relocates the offending tech to prevent upsetting the print job. “Statistically speaking, he’s twelve percent less crabby after sunset.”
Knife-flavored affection is the love language of chaotic vigilante families everywhere. Katar’s winks are veiled threats. Grayson updates your firewall. I show that I care by not shooting someone. Call it murder-adjacent bonding. It’s a good week if we don’t kill each other, and that suits our mission. Anything more than functioning is a luxury we can’t afford.
I uncap my water bottle and point at them both. “The next statistic will be how long it takes me to break your keyboard and shove a knife up your ass if both of you don’t focus.”
Katar remains standing while I take my seat. He doesn’t sit. Ever. The man has too much restless energy to burn off. Lose two years in a psych ward when you’re not mentally ill, and you won’t stop moving when stillness locks you in a cage. It’s why his desk is a slab embedded with knives, and his tools consist of a burner phone with a cracked screen and a switchblade he spins when bored.
In comparison, Grayson’s setup is a hacker’s wet dream, complete with computers running open-source operating systems, VPNs, surveillance software, and programs tracking dark web chatter and Roman members’ activity and communications. Cables fucking everywhere. It’s no wonder he doesn’t trip.
My desk is spartan—one black laptop, a fireproof external drive, and analog backups in case digital goes down. You can take the cop out of the force, but you can’t take the force out ofthe cop. Instinct, mindset, and training stick with you, and I’m a paper trail kind of guy.
Grayson’s been holed up here for two months. Dark circles under his eyes. Twitchy hands. Pale and in need of sunlight. I should make him walk the perimeter. Not yet. He prefers the company of darkened screens and code to women, bars, sports, or a life. Crowds make him twitchy, eye contact short-circuits his brain, and the outside world is too loud, bright, and full of variables he can’t control. Down here, everything makes sense. Down here, he’s safe.
I nudge the food and chopsticks in his direction. “Eat this. It’s better than those shitty noodles you live on.”
“Thanks.” He opens it up like a man starved.
Katar helps himself and stabs at his sweet and sour pork.
“Found this.” I drop the file on his desk. “Thought you’ll want to take a look.”
Katar stops bouncing, rolls his neck once, laser focus coming to his eyes. Now he’s the blade he’s named after.
He grins like a maniac. “I’ll gladly take a look.” By “look” he means torture and dismemberment to get answers.
I rub my tired eyes and give him the order. “Scope the docks. Surveillance only. No redecorating with blood.”
Katar sighs like I’ve sucked the fun out of life. “You’re limiting my creative process here.” He loves to spike my blood pressure.
The second I stop giving him something to keep him occupied, he improvises, and someone dies. I try to keep him on a leash, but he creates his own with my intestines.
“I’m not here to be liked, I’m here to keep you breathing.” I’ve been up for forty-eight hours straight and am not in the mood.
Katar points his knife tip at me. “A laugh a day keeps the shivs away. Try smiling sometimes.”
I’m the shield. He’s my weapon. And Grayson is the glue that stops us from cracking. They irritate the hell out of me. Sand does the same thing to a mollusk and makes pearls, right? Something raw fashioned into something rare. They’re my pearls, only they’re sharp and dangerous. I’ll bleed for them both without hesitation.
I move on to the next item of business. “What did you find?”
Katar starts to clean and polish his blade with methodical precision. Swipe, turn, and inspect. A beloved ritual.
Grayson pulls up the Instagram comments under one of Katar’s thirst trap videos.
“Ah, some of my best work.” Katar praises his smokescreen of abs and thrusting hips.
Every time one of them goes viral, I grind my teeth so hard, I’m surprised I still have molars left. All it takes is one slip, one facial recognition algorithm to ID him, and it’s not just our mission that burns. It’s a death sentence to the thirty-two operatives working for us. Five active strike teams, eight embedded informants, and seven specialists who supply critical evidence, all moving under the Romans’ noses. My team. My responsibility. And Katar doesn’t lose sleep. I do.
He gets up to make Grayson and me a coffee from the barista machine my tech nerd insists we have on hand while we hole up down here. Steam hisses out, matching my waning patience for his fishing tactic.
It’s worked so far, and I permit it for several reasons.
One:Peacocking lowers Katar’s bloodlust and gives him a dopamine hit… along with the female population of the internet.
Two:Strategic reasons. The shirtless circus act is disguised as an espionage op, where Katar and Grayson work their magic, planting spyware in the DMs of the targeted women connected to Roman businesses or family members. No one’s looking for the man hunting them when they’re drooling over him. EvenI can admit it’s impressive watching the data harvest come in. Security codes to get in and out of Roman-owned buildings. Passwords to hack into their tech. You name it, those two mine it.
Christ, if the Romans don’t kill us, the comments section will.
I want to be trapped in the house with this man.
