Nate
Mornings are ideal for observing others, as people tend to be very predictable before they've had their first coffee fix of the day.
They're slower. Sloppier. Less aware of their surroundings. Which makes them easier to read — and easier to avoid.
I complete my run at precisely six twenty-three, as I do every morning. The consistency of this routine is a comfort, a reassurance that some things remain steady regardless of what else changes. Before the watch has a chance to vibrate and potentially draw attention, I stop it—an ingrained habit from years of needing to be cautious. In a neighbourhood as quiet as this one, it's almost unnecessary, but these small rituals are what keep me safe, or at the very least, ensure that I remain unnoticed.
I stretch beside my car, scanning reflections in windows I pretend not to notice. No one is watching. No one is paying attention. A woman walks her dog, so small it might as well be a Tamagotchi; she refuses to let it die. A man standing on the stoop of his apartment building, smoking a cigarette that is most probably a joint. The young woman is taking the walk of shame with the face that says, "I regret my decisions".
I chuckle to myself, "Oh, to be young again".
After a short drive home, I step into the shower. The water is barely warm — just enough to take the edge off without inviting me to linger. Hot showers make people reflective. Reflective people make mistakes.
By the time I'm dressed, the city has properly woken up.
Breakfast is efficient. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Black coffee. I eat standing at the counter while the coffee finishes brewing, scrolling absently through the news on my phone. Not headlines — I don't care what people are being told to worry about. I skim quieter things. Court notices. Local police updates. Disciplinary actions are buried three clicks deep.
Nothing familiar.
Good.
Once the plate is rinsed and I've refilled my mug with more coffee, I move to the desk in the corner of my living room. Three screens come to life, their glow muted, unassuming. From the outside, it would look like I'm just another freelancer working remotely, another man staring too long at data he doesn't enjoy.
That's the point.
This is where the real work happens — not the mess part people imagine, but the waiting.
The filtering. The listening.
I slip into spaces most people don't know exist, let alone know how to find. No names. No faces. Just text, symbols, and intentions disguised as casual curiosity. People don't say what they want outright — not at first. They circle it. Test the water. Pretend they're joking.
They never are.
I sit at the edge of the group chat, watching names flicker by, letting conversations scroll past. Requests wrapped in euphemism. Offers dressed up as favours. Desperation leaks through careful phrasing.
"Subtle," I murmur. "Very subtle."
I don't respond to anything. I never do at this stage. This part isn't about accepting work — it's about understanding who's looking, and why. About spotting patterns before they become problems.
People think the kind of work I do would make someone like me enjoy violence. They're wrong.
Violence is inefficient.
Loud. Unpredictable. It draws attention.
What I do isn't personal.
It's transactional.
Every job starts here — with information. Watching long enough to know what someone actually wants, and whether they're prepared to pay for it.
Most of them aren't.
I close one window and open another, reviewing encrypted notes I keep compartmentalised. Not trophies. Audits. Risk assessments. Outcomes. A running ledger of who followed through and who wasted my time.
One name catches my eye. Still incarcerated.
Good.
Means I didn't miscalculate.
I shut everything down in reverse order, clearing the slate until my screens show nothing more interesting than a blank desktop.
The second screen flickers as a message comes through — not unexpected, but not scheduled either.
JACKSON:
Morning, sunshine. You're up early.
I snort. "Says the man who never sleeps."
Jackson operates in places most people don't know exist. He opens doors that aren't supposed to open. Pulls records that don't officially leave their servers. If I need access, Jackson provides it. If he can't, it isn't available.
He's careful. Paranoid in the right ways. And more importantly, he doesn't talk unless there's a reason.
I type back.
NATE:
You don't message just to chat what's up?
The reply comes almost instantly.
JACKSON:
Relax. No fires. Just doing my usual sweep. Thought you'd want to know — everything's still quiet on your end.
Good.
That means nothing tied to me has resurfaced. No internal flags. No retroactive interest from people who should've stayed buried.
"Still invisible," I mutter, more to myself than the screen.
Jackson sends one more line before signing off.
JACKSON:
If that changes, you'll hear it from me first.
He's reliable, and that's all that matters.
That's not something I do lightly.
The screen goes dark again, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the soft hum of hardware doing exactly what it's meant to do.
Everything is quiet.
Which means everything is as it should be.
Quiet mornings like this reassure me that my carefulness pays off. That my past choices will stay buried — at least for now.
I lean back in my chair and let my eyes drift to the ceiling, counting breaths, letting the hum of the apartment settle into something almost peaceful.
Almost.
The alert chimes once.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just a soft, deliberate sound that doesn't exist for accidents.
"Well," I murmur, rolling the chair forward again. "That didn't last long."
A single notification glows on the centre screen. No name. No identifier. Just a request flagged by the filters Jackson and I built for situations exactly like this.
Someone is looking.
After a moment, I click.
He doesn't lead with panic.
He leads with money.
He says his long-term girlfriend disappeared two years ago and emptied one of his accounts before she left. Took cash. Took valuables. Took advantage of his trust. He frames it as betrayal, as if he's been patient longer than most men would be.
She used me.
That's the phrase he chooses.
He says he didn't want to involve lawyers. Didn't want to drag things through court. Just wants to know where she went so he can retrieve what's his and finally close the chapter.
He calls it unfinished business.
I read it twice.
People who've been robbed don't write like this. They're angry. Specific. They list amounts, timelines, and serial numbers.
This man stays vague.
No figures. No inventory.
Just wounded pride dressed up as financial loss.
"She took advantage of you," I murmur.
He paints himself as generous. Says he gave her everything. House. Stability. Security. Says she repaid him by disappearing with his money and leaving him to clean up the mess.
Gold digger.
User.
Opportunist.
He never once mentions loving her.
Noted.
There's no demand in the message. No threat. Just an implication. He's willing to pay well for information. Willing to compensate for discretion. Willing to make it worth my time.
That part I believe.
I lean back in my chair.
This is easier to sell.
Not a rescue.
Not a reconciliation.
Asset recovery.
People come to me for leverage all the time. Missing partners who suddenly owe money. Former employees who vanish with sensitive material. Exes who take more than they're entitled to.
Not to mention the clients who need people to "disappear".
Same pattern. Different packaging.
I don't feel anything about her yet.
She's a name I don't have.
A problem I haven't priced.
I open a blank document and start logging.
— Claims theft
— Avoids amounts
— Frames himself as generous
— Positions her as opportunistic
— Wants location, not confrontation
That tells me what kind of client he is.
Not emotional.
Transactional.
Good.
That makes things simple.
I don't respond right away.
I never do.
Letting people wait shows you how badly they want something.
I lean back, folding my hands behind my head, watching the cursor blink.
Once I reply, this becomes a job.
Money will change hands.
Time will be invested.
Resources will be allocated.
Curiosity isn't morality.
It's due diligence.
"Alright," I murmur, eyes narrowing on the screen.
"Let's talk."