Mina’s fists clench and unclench at her sides, her internal struggle playing out in the taut lines of her posture. I can almost see the competing algorithms running behind her eyes—the urgent need to act versus the logical recognition that waiting for proper support gives her brother better odds.
“Dialysis isn’t something you can improvise. You know it’s true.”
She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes briefly. When she opens them, some of the frantic energy has dissipated, replaced by a reluctant pragmatism. “How sure are you about this Scalpel person?”
“He’s patched,” I say simply. In our world, that means something, a level of trust and brotherhood that transcends normal relationships. “And he owes me a favor from a situation in Galveston last year.”
“What kind of situation?” she asks, her natural suspicion reasserting itself.
“The kind that involved wiping security footage and forging a new identity for his sister after her ex-husband tried to kill her.” I meet her gaze steadily. “We take family protection seriously, especially when it comes to siblings.”
Something shifts in her posture—a subtle relaxation of her shoulders, an easing of the tight line of her jaw. She’s still coiled with tension, but it’s no longer directed at me.
“When will Scalpel arrive?” she asks.
“By noon tomorrow,” I reply. “We’ll make our move tomorrow night, during shift change at the hospital. The confusion provides better cover, and we’ll have darkness on our side.”
Mina nods slowly, her arms wrapping around herself in a gesture that seems unconscious. The weight of her brother’s life rests heavy on her shoulders.
“If anything happens to my brother because we waited,” she says quietly, “I will hold you personally responsible.”
“I’d expect nothing less.” I return to my laptop, already pulling up hospital staff schedules. “Now come here and tell me which of these names you recognize as cartel plants. We need to know exactly who we’re avoiding tomorrow night.”
She moves to stand beside me, her shoulder nearly touching mine as she leans in to study the screen. Her posture is still tense, but there’s a grudging acceptance in the way she focuses on the task at hand. We’re not friends, not yet allies in any true sense, but we’ve reached an understanding, atemporary truce built on mutual need and the shared knowledge that failing isn’t an option. For now, that’s enough to work with.
The blue light of my monitor casts Mina’s face in an ethereal glow as she leans over my shoulder, pointing out cartel associates on the hospital staff roster. Her focus is absolute, the same intensity I bring to cracking a particularly stubborn firewall. We work in tandem, her insider knowledge complementing my technical skills, until my eyes burn from screen fatigue and the numbers on my digital clock read 2:17 AM. Only then does the unavoidable question of sleeping arrangements materialize between us.
Mina straightens, pressing her palms against her lower back and stretching with a soft groan. “Is there any coffee left in the kitchen?” she asks, her voice rough.
“Nope. Drained the last of it an hour ago.” I stand, my joints protesting the sudden movement after being hunched over the keyboard.
Mina blinks slowly, fatigue etching shadows beneath her eyes. Despite her obvious exhaustion, there’s still that alertness in her gaze, the look of someone who’s trained themselves never to fully let their guard down.
“We should get some sleep,” I say, closing the laptop with a soft click. “Tomorrow’s going to require full processing capacity from both of us.”
She nods, then glances around the room with sudden awkwardness, her gaze landing on the floor beside my desk. “I’ll take the floor,” she offers, already moving to grab one of the pillows from my bed.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, gesturing toward my king-size bed. “It’s big enough for both of us.”
Mina freezes, pillow in hand, her eyes narrowing as they move from the bed to me. The assessment in her gaze is both calculating and wary.
“I’m not sharing a bed with you,” she says flatly.
“It’s a memory foam mattress. You won’t even know I’m there.” I shrug off my hoodie and drape it over my chair.
She sets the pillow back with deliberate slowness, her movements precise as she turns to face me. Then, to my surprise, she approaches with measured steps, stopping just inches away. She’s shorter than me by at least eight inches, but she tilts her chin up with such authority that the height difference seems irrelevant.
“If you try anything,” she says, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr, “I’ll cut off your balls and feed them to you.”
The threat should be menacing, but there’s something in the absurd specificity of it, combined with our mutual exhaustion and the surreal situation we’ve found ourselves in, that strikes a chord of unexpected humor. I grin, my eyes crinkling at the corners as I meet her deadly serious gaze.
“I have no doubt you’d do it,” I reply, the tension between us shifting into something less hostile but equally charged. “And I prefer my anatomy intact, so you have nothing to worry about.”
“Fine,” she says. “But I’m sleeping with this.” She pulls a small switchblade from the pocket of my borrowed sweatpants, flicking it open with practiced ease.
I raise an eyebrow as I recognize it. “Where did you get that?”
“Your sock drawer,” she admits without a trace of apology. “While you were talking to Vapor.”
