You knew better and still, you talked. You could’ve run. Could’ve played dumb. Could’ve pretended that the sound of that man’s last breath, the one they left crumpled in a plastic-wrapped chair in a warehouse on the outskirts of Mexico City, wasn’t still living in your spine. But you didn’t. You walked into a precinct and unloaded everything like you were doing the right thing. Like that was going to save you. Now you’re not a witness, you’re a target with a pulse and a price tag. One statement, and the feds slapped a file across a desk and said “We’ll handle it.” What that meant, apparently, was sticking you in a rotting safehouse with no security, no phone, and one half-dead man whose personality screamed “do not disturb” louder than the Glock strapped to his hip. Mark Meachum.

He walks in without knocking. Doesn’t announce himself. Doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He’s in jeans, boots, and a faded black Henley that looks like it’s lived through war, and judging by the way he checks the corners before he even closes the door, it has. He glances at you like he’s already made a judgment and it’s not favorable. You’re sitting on a sagging couch that smells faintly like mold. You didn’t say anything when the agents dropped you off and peeled away like they didn’t want to be seen with you. You didn’t say anything when you realized the front lock didn’t work unless you jiggled it just right. But now, with this man walking your space like he owns it, all that silence turns to tension. He drops his bag with a thud. You speak first. “You’re the detail?”

He gives you a quick once-over. Shrugs. “You’re the witness. I’m the insurance policy.” The safehouse is laughable. No surveillance. One entry. Kitchen window cracked open like a welcome mat for bullets. No reinforced doors. No alarm system. Not even blackout curtains. Mark doesn’t comment at first. Just starts moving. Window shades down. Furniture rearranged. Broken backdoor wedged shut with a kitchen chair. His movements are precise, military. He pulls a pocketknife from his belt and uses it to wedge a piece of wood into a windowsill. Makes you flinch a little. “Was this place picked by a drunk intern?” he mutters. Not to you. Just… to the universe. You watch him as he checks a vent, runs a hand over the wall, tests a panel behind the fridge. It’s like he’s already lived here for a week in his head and decided it’s a coffin. He straightens, finally, and meets your eyes. “This place gets hit, we’ve got thirty seconds before it goes bad.”

“You always this comforting?” you ask.

He shrugs. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?” Later, when night comes, he doesn’t sleep. Just sits in the corner chair near the front door, one hand near his weapon, the other rubbing absently at the side of his head like something inside it’s trying to break out. You don’t ask. You don’t need to. You know what pain looks like. You dated it for years. But this is different. Deeper. Hidden. He doesn’t limp. Doesn’t complain. But there’s a kind of quiet to him that only belongs to people who’ve already had the worst day of their life, and know another one’s coming.

Still, when you shift on the couch under the thin government-issue blanket and murmur, “You ever get tired of being the only thing standing between someone and a bullet?”

He doesn’t even look at you when he answers. “Yeah. But it’s easier than being the one who pulls the trigger.”