The first time you met him, you thought he was the driver. You were told a bodyguard would meet you outside the gallery after the threatening letter came, someone discreet.

But Erik was already leaning against your car, arms folded, unreadable under the streetlight. “You’re late,” he said, eyes scanning the empty street behind you.

“I wasn’t aware I was expected.”

“I was.” He opened your door. “Get in.” His voice wasn’t cold. It was precise. Measured.

Inside the car, you studied him. No name tag. No badge. But the kind of stillness you only learn from war. “What do I call you?” you asked.

He hesitated. Then...“Erik.”