The spreadsheet was a blur of meaningless grey cells.
Arvin sat at his desk, staring at the monitor, but seeing nothing. His heart was doing a frantic drum solo against his bruised ribs. Thump-thump-thump.
Every time the elevator chimed, he flinched. Every time a phone rang, his muscles locked up.
Paranoia is a calorie-burner, Dante observed dryly. You're going to pass out before lunch if you don't regulate your breathing.
Someone followed me, Arvin thought, typing ERROR into a cell that required a date. On the subway. I felt it.
You felt eyes. It's a big city. People stare.
Not like that, Arvin insisted.
"Arvin!"
Henderson's voice cut through the noise. Arvin didn't jump this time; he was too exhausted. He just turned his chair.
"Front desk called," Henderson grunted, checking his watch. "Someone's here for you. Delivery or something. Go sign for it so they stop clogging up the lobby."
Arvin frowned. "I didn't order anything."
"Just go." Henderson waved a dismissal and went back to his office.
Arvin stood up. His legs felt like lead. He walked to the elevators, pressing the button with a damp finger.
Don't go, a instinct screamed.
It's probably Nova, Dante countered. Or a courier. Stop acting like a fugitive.
The elevator took him down to the lobby. The marble floor echoed with the click of expensive heels and the squeak of sneakers.
Arvin walked to the reception desk.
"You have a package for me?" he asked the receptionist.
She looked up, confused. "No? I didn't call you."
Arvin froze. The blood drained from his face. "But... Henderson said..."
"Hey, buddy."
A hand clamped onto Arvin's shoulder.
It wasn't a friendly grip. It was a vice. The thumb dug deep into the trapezius muscle, pressing on a nerve.
Arvin turned.
Standing there was the man from the subway. Heavy coat. Baseball cap. Eyes that looked like they had seen the bottom of too many whiskey bottles. He smelled of sulfur and stale mints.
"You dropped this," the man said, holding up a plain white envelope. It was empty. Arvin could tell by the way it folded.
"I... that's not mine," Arvin stammered, trying to pull away.
The man didn't let go. He stepped closer, invading Arvin's personal space. He moved his hand from Arvin's shoulder down to his side.
He slapped Arvin's ribs.
It looked like a friendly pat to anyone watching. To Arvin, it was an explosion of white-hot agony.
Arvin gasped, knees buckling. He grabbed the desk to stay upright, vision swimming.
The man smiled. It was a small, tight smile.
"Ribs tender?" the man whispered. "Rough night in the alley?"
Arvin couldn't breathe. He stared at the man's face. This wasn't a mugger. This was a professional.
"Don't worry," the man said, leaning in until his lips brushed Arvin's ear. "Vargas wants to meet you. We'll be waiting outside at five. Don't make us come in and get you. We break furniture."
The man patted Arvin's cheek—two soft, humiliating taps—and walked away. He pushed through the revolving doors and vanished into the street.
Arvin stood there, clutching the reception desk. The lobby spun.
"Sir? Are you okay?" the receptionist asked, her voice sounding very far away.
Arvin nodded blindly. He stumbled toward the elevators. He needed to hide. He needed to get off the ground floor.
He made it into the empty elevator car and mashed the button for the 12th floor.
As the doors closed, the panic finally broke the dam.
"Oh god, oh god," Arvin hyperventilated, sliding down the wall to the floor. "They know. They found us."
Vargas, Dante's voice was sharp. Alert. That's the local syndicate head. The fat one who runs the port.
"He said five o'clock," Arvin choked out. "They're going to kill me."
They want to interrogate you, Dante corrected. If they wanted you dead, that man would have stabbed you in the lobby. He had a shiv in his sleeve. I saw the handle.
"What do we do?" Arvin grabbed his hair, pulling until it hurt. "Call the police? Call Erin?"
Call the police? Dante laughed. A cold, dark sound. Vargas owns half the precinct. You call the cops, and a patrol car picks us up and delivers us straight to his butcher shop.
Then what? Arvin screamed internally.
The elevator dinged at the 12th floor. The doors opened.
Arvin didn't move. He sat on the floor, shaking.
We have two options, Dante said, his voice dropping to that terrifyingly calm register. Option A: You go out there at five o'clock, let them take us, and I kill everyone in the room.
"No," Arvin whispered. "No more killing."
Option B, Dante continued, ignoring him. We run. We leave the building now, through the service exit. We disappear.
"But my job..."
Your job is dead, Arvin. You are burnt. If you stay here, you die.
Arvin stood up slowly. He wiped the sweat from his face.
"We run," Arvin decided.
Smart boy.
Arvin stepped out of the elevator. He walked toward his desk to get his bag.
"Arvin!" Nova waved from her cubicle. She was smiling, holding a folder. "Hey, I need to go over the inventory logs with you. Have a sec?"
Arvin stopped.
If he ran, he left her here.
If Vargas's men came up at five and Arvin was gone... who would they ask? Who was the only person in the office who talked to Arvin?
Nova.
The man said: Don't make us come in. We break furniture.
Nova was the furniture.
Arvin stared at her smile. He felt the cold weight of the decision settle in his gut.
If we run, she bleeds, Dante observed.
Arvin turned away from his desk. He turned away from the service exit.
"I have a second," Arvin said, his voice surprisingly steady. He walked over to her.
He wasn't going to run.
Change of plans? Dante asked.
Yeah, Arvin thought, looking at Nova's kind eyes. Option C.
And what is Option C?
I go down there at five, Arvin thought. And I let you out.