Page 16 of Tyson
"It's a simple three-point verification—"
"It's prison rules." The words burst out sharp and bitter before she caught herself, jaw snapping shut.
I filed that reaction away. Prison rules. Someone had caged her before. Made her feel trapped. The knowledge sat heavy in my chest, another piece of the Lena puzzle clicking into place.
"These aren't rules," I kept my voice calm, even. "They're precautions. The Serpents are escalating. That kid this morning—"
"Was probably some junkie looking for an easy score." She picked up another laminated sheet, reading aloud in a voice dripping with mockery. "All packages must be verified before opening. Staff must vary arrival and departure times. Panic button installation at each station."
Her voice rose with each item, color flooding her cheeks.
"You want to turn my shop into a fortress! What's next, guard towers? Razor wire? Maybe a moat?"
"I want to keep you safe."
The words came out harder than intended. More intense. More personal than professional.
She froze, the paper trembling slightly in her grip. For a heartbeat, maybe two, that vulnerable look flashed across her face again. Young. Scared. Desperate for something she couldn't name.
Then the brat came roaring back.
"I don't need a keeper." She crumpled my protocol sheet, lamination crackling under her fingers. "I've been taking care of myself since—"
Another sharp cutoff. Another swallowed secret.
"—for a long time," she finished. “These rules are dumb as shit.”
My hands clenched at my sides. Part of me wanted to put her over my knee right here, show her what happened when naughty little girls destroyed hours of careful planning. Part of me wanted to pull her close, promise that no one would cage her again, that my protection came without chains.
Both impulses were wildly inappropriate.
"Then help me make better ones."
The words surprised us both. Her eyes widened.
"What?"
"You know this space," I gestured around the shop. "Know the flow, the blind spots, the vulnerabilities. Show me your way."
She blinked. Once. Twice. Like I was speaking a different language.
"My way?"
"You've already got defensive positions set up." I nodded toward the baseball bat art. "Weapons within reach. You think tactically even if you don't realize it. So show me."
I could see it in her face—the shock of being asked instead of told. Of having her instincts valued instead of dismissed.
"I . . ." She smoothed out the crumpled paper, not quite meeting my eyes. "I mean, I have some stuff. It's not all official and laminated."
"Show me."
For a long moment, she studied me like I might be setting a trap. Then, slowly, she moved around the station.
"Okay, so the bat you already spotted." She touched it briefly. "But there's also this."
She pulled open an ink drawer, revealing a tactical knife tucked between bottles.
"And here." A flip of the plant pot showed pepper spray duct-taped to the bottom. "Plus I've got a taser in my bag, another knife in my boot, and Thor taught me this trick with a tattoo machine that'll put someone on their ass."
