“He said to make myself useful.”
“Did he specify how?”
“No.”
“Then he’s either testing you or too busy to be polite.”
“With Moth, can you tell the difference?”
“Sometimes. Usually, after it’s too late to matter.”
There’s a file on the left side of Saint’s desk, partly tucked beneath a stack of route notes and clipped invoices. I’ve avoided touching it all morning because the top sheet carries Saint’s handwriting, and because sitting in his office already feels intimate in a way I’m trying not to acknowledge. Opening his files feels like stepping deeper into him without permission.
But Moth called, and if he meant some other file, he can learn to use more words.
I pull the folder closer.
The moment I open it, Saint’s scent rises from the paper and the leather blotter beneath it, smoke and clean soap and the darker undertone that belongs to him rather than the room. It steadies me before it distracts me, which is another thing I don’t intend to think about. I force my attention onto the first page and find purchase in the numbers.
Tally notices immediately. “That bad already?”
“No,” I murmur, scanning the first sheet. “It’s just his handwriting.”
She leans her hip against the desk. “Careful, sweetheart. That sounded dangerously close to fond.”
“It’s just an observation.” I force myself lower on the page. “Secondary distribution chain. Not synthesis.”
“That supposed to mean something to me?”
“It means this isn’t the heart of XR3. It’s support movement. Glass vials, droppers, packaging, stabilizing agents under supplier codes, fuel charges, vehicle rotations.” I turn the page and follow the columns with my finger. “Important, but not the formula. Nothing to do with the lab.”
Tally’s face settles into something more serious. “So why would Moth tell you to make yourself useful with that?”
“Because Moth doesn’t waste tests.” I glance at the clipped invoice beneath the manifest. “And because if someone wants to touch the pipeline without getting close enough to lose a hand, this is where they’d start. Supply, not product. Packaging, not chemistry. Little numbers nobody important wants to read.”
“Except you.”
I huff a quiet breath. “Except me.”
Tally steps closer but doesn’t crowd me. “Looks clean?”
“Cleaner than Rogue records.” I tap the corner of the page. “Obsidian actually tracks custody properly. Supplier to storage, storage to staging, staging to route. The Rogues would have three men swearing they remembered and one receipt with beer spilled on it.”
“That sounds about right.”
“Most of this is fine,” I say, though my voice slows as my eyes catch on the route note in Saint’s handwriting. “Glass count matches one batch movement. Droppers match projected vials. Fuel charges are normal for the distance. Vehicle rotation makes sense if they’re trying to avoid pattern recognition.”
Tally watches my finger stop. “But?”
I don’t answer right away as I flip back one page, then forward again, the faint smell of smoke and leather rising from the file as the papers shift under my hands. “But this route adjustment doesn’t belong with this supply number,” I say quietly.
Tally’s brows pull together. “Explain it like I don’t spend my days making sure grown men eat vegetables.”
“The packaging order is too high for the listed movement, but the stabilizer quantity doesn’t rise with it. That means either someone over-ordered vials for no reason, under-logged product, or moved the route note to make a small mismatch look administrative.” I look up at her. “Canon used to do that.”
Her expression sharpens. “Your father?”
“His people.” I look back down, my stomach tightening. “It’s a small distortion. Nothing worth starting a war over if it’s caught, but enough to see who notices. Enough to test whether a lane is soft.”
