𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The murderer had been circling the Bureau for months, his taunts calculated, his cruelty sharp. He left notes, voicemails, even fragments of evidence, each message designed to mock the men and women trying to catch him. But this time he went further. He said a name. The boss’s daughter’s name.

Brian had been in the room when it happened. He’d watched the shift in his boss’s expression, the way professional authority cracked into something far more human—panic, raw and unguarded. That was all it took. Within the hour, Brian had been reassigned. Not to track the killer. Not to play undercover. His job was to be a wall. A shadow. A bodyguard.

The order was clear: keep her alive.

So the days became routine, heavy and colorless. Curtains stayed drawn. Locks were checked and rechecked. The television hummed constantly, filling the silence with noise neither of them listened to. For her, time dragged. For Brian, it sharpened. Every sound outside was catalogued. Every car that slowed near the curb was noted. He lived in the details, because that was the only way to stay ahead of a man who thrived on exploiting weakness.

Brian didn’t allow himself to blur the lines. He wore a suit every day, tie knotted tight, ear piece tucked in so he could stay wired into the Bureau’s chatter. The image wasn’t for her—it was for him. Discipline. Distance. She wasn’t a friend, or a partner, or someone to ease the tension with conversation. She was the reason he was there, and that was enough.

Still, he noticed the way she unraveled. She was restless, pacing rooms as if the walls pressed closer every hour. Aimlessly roaming, cleaning, organizing. Anything to try and fulfill the boredom. Even trying one-way conversations with Brian.

But he rarely spoke to her. Only speaking when confirming the strange noise at night or car driving by slowly wasn’t a threat.

By the fourth morning, her patience cracked.

Brian stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, coffee cooling in his hand. She sat across from him at the island, fork dragging in slow circles through scrambled eggs she hadn’t touched. The house was quiet, too quiet, broken only by the low static of his radio.

She huffed, a sound heavy with boredom. “Hey, you think we could go somewhere today? The mall, the beach?”

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t shift, didn’t hesitate. The answer was the same it had always been, but this time he spoke it out loud.

“No.”