Ican't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything except stand here in this dimly lit alley, staring at the massive, heartbroken Orc who's been living twenty feet away from me for three days and hasn't crossed the invisible line I drew between us even once.
He looks terrible.
The realization crashes over me with startling force. Lanek looks absolutely wrecked. His usual confident posture is subdued, his shoulders slightly hunched, and there are dark circles under his eyes that I've never seen before. He's wearing the same black t-shirt he had on yesterday when I glimpsed him through his shop window.
He's been suffering just as much as I have. Maybe more. The stubborn, impossible man has been torturing himself trying to respect a boundary I set in anger, a line I drew when I was too hurt and confused to think clearly about what I actually wanted.
All this time, I've been so wrapped up in my own misery, so focused on protecting myself from the overwhelming intensity of whatever this thing is between us, that I never stopped to consider what my silence might be doing to him.
"Lanek, I?—"
A sharp, metallic clang cuts me off, echoing through the narrow alley with jarring abruptness.
We both freeze, heads snapping toward the far end of the alley where it dead-ends into the small service area behind the buildings. Another clang, followed by the distinct sound of liquid sloshing.
That's not a normal trash night sound.
Lanek's entire body goes rigid, his nostrils flaring as he scents the air. His expression shifts from devastated to dangerously alert in the span of a single heartbeat.
"Stay here," he rumbles, already moving toward the noise.
Every instinct I have rebels against that command. This is my building. My business. My problem.
I dart back into my shop, grab the heaviest marble rolling pin from the prep counter, and follow him into the shadows.
The service area is poorly lit, illuminated only by a single flickering bulb mounted above the utility access panel. Two men in dark coveralls are crouched near the ground-level ventilation grate that feeds directly into my bakery's HVAC system. One of them is holding a large plastic container marked with a bright orange hazard symbol. The other is using a crowbar to pry open the grate.
My blood runs cold.
They're trying to dump something toxic directly into my air circulation system.
A health inspection failure would shut me down immediately. The developer would have exactly the leverage he needs to break my lease and seize the property.
Rage floods through me, white-hot and blinding. I open my mouth to scream at them, to threaten them with every legal consequence I can think of, to beat them senseless with my rolling pin if necessary.
But Lanek steps forward first.
I brace myself for the explosion. For the roar. For him to physically tear these men apart and throw them into the dumpster like the trash they are.
It doesn't come.
Instead, Lanek stands perfectly, utterly still in the center of the service area, backlit by the flickering bulb. He doesn't advance. Doesn't growl. Doesn't so much as crack his knuckles.
He pulls out his phone.
"Gentlemen," he says calmly, his deep voice carrying easily across the small space. "I need you to stay exactly where you are."
The two men startle violently, spinning around. The one with the crowbar drops it with a loud clatter. The one holding the hazardous container fumbles it, barely managing to keep it from spilling.
"What the hell, who are you?" the first one sputters.
Lanek doesn't answer. He lifts his phone, angling it carefully to capture both men and the open container in the frame. A small red recording indicator blinks in the corner of the screen.
"For the record," Lanek states clearly, his tone absolutely neutral, "it is currently eleven forty-seven PM on October sixteenth. I am standing behind the commercial property located at four-seventeen Maple Street. Please state your names and your purpose here."
The men exchange panicked glances.
"We don't have to tell you anything," the second one snaps. "This isn't your property."
