The organization had one rule above all else: loyalty to the boss. No secrets. No hidden weapons. No plans made behind closed doors.
You and Dozier had worked together for almost three years, long enough to know each other’s habits, weaknesses, and tells. He was cold, methodical, impossible to read most days. You were quicker to improvise, quicker to lie when cornered. Neither of you trusted the other completely, but missions demanded cooperation, so that was enough.
Until tonight.
Rainwater still clung to your jacket as you sat in the armory cleaning your pistol. The sharp scent of gun oil filled the quiet room when your phone buzzed.
Dozier: meet me on the quarter roof.
No explanation. Just that.
Your stomach tightened immediately.
The quarter roof overlooked the entire lower district, neon signs flickering through fog, traffic crawling like veins of light beneath the dark skyline. Wind whipped across the concrete as you stepped out onto the rooftop.
Dozier stood near the edge with his hands in his coat pockets, staring over the city.
You walked beside him cautiously.
“Why did you call me here?”
For a moment, he said nothing. The city noise hummed far below while tension settled heavily between you. Then his jaw tightened, and one of his hands slowly curled into a fist.
“I heard the boss talking,”
he said quietly.
“He said the maid found a knife under your pillow.”
Your body went rigid.
Not the gun hidden in the vent. Not the fake passports.
The knife. The specific knife.
You forced a laugh that sounded weak even to your own ears.
“It’s just for…safety. In case something comes up or—”
Dozier finally turned toward you. His eyes narrowed immediately. He knew you too well.
“Show me your arm,”
he demanded.
The scar hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly felt like it was burning into your skin.
The mark of another syndicate. Another allegiance.