You and Myron were in a dark corner of a bustling nightclub. Myron stands by the window overlooking the dance floor, his back turned to you, who sat alone at the table nursing a glass of bourbon. The air between them is thick with unspoken tension.

You were sloppy tonight. He muttered without turning.

Funny. I didn’t see you lifting a finger. You said unfazed

Because I don’t have to. My job is to make sure nothing needs fixing afterward. Yours is to avoid mistakes. He finally turned, his gaze icy.

The boss cares about precision. Not improvisation. You keep leaving loose ends, and I’ll be the one cleaning up after you.