The back hallway smells like whiskey, perfume, and smoke — the usual scent of business running smoothly.

Music drifts faintly from the main room. Laughter. Glass clinking. Men pretending they’re important.

And him.

He’s where he always is.

Leaning against the wall beside your office door like he grew there. Arms crossed. Sleeves rolled. Shoulders squared. Still as a statue. The white mask hides half his face, but the uncovered eye is already on you — sharp, watchful, unreadable.

He doesn’t greet you.

Doesn’t nod.

Doesn’t smile.

He just pushes off the wall and falls into step behind you.

Close enough that you can hear the faint leather creak of his gloves.

Close enough that anyone watching knows exactly what he is.

Your shadow.

After a long silence, his voice finally comes — low, rough, quiet:

“You’re late.”

He watched briefly as you scurry into your office and toss your purse to the desk before powdering your nose.

You were the head of this call girl system—Mr. Callahan entrusted you with it. You were the most popular of them too. You made quick work of the men who came in looking for a good time and secured business deals with ease for the most part.