Page 7 of The Guarded Monster’s Truth

Knox turns back to his laptop. Sarah picks up her pen. I pull a chair to the long table, open my notebook to a fresh page, and set the recorder beside it. The common room connects to the kitchen, the kitchen connects to the hallway, and the hallway feeds every corner of this place. Everyone who lives here passes through this room at some point. I set up and wait.

By the third morning, I have a rhythm. Set up in the common room, recorder ready, notebook open. The brothers come to me.

"Finn Stone. VP. What do you want to know?"

He talks for twenty minutes about the Emergence, the early years, the garage, his wife at the clinic, what some of the brothers do. He covers more ground than anyone I've interviewed in months and never once says anything I haven't already read in the town council archives.

I write: Finn Stone—VP. Gives you everything you need and nothing you want. Born spokesman. Protects the story as well as Knox does.

The next afternoon, a second orc leans against the kitchen doorframe with his arms crossed. I direct my opening question at him before he can leave.

"How did you end up with the Feral Sons?"

He stares at me. The stare sits flat and hard and doesn't blink.

"Knox found me. Gave me a cut. I stayed."

"That's three sentences. I didn't get your name."

"Rex." He pushes off the wall. "And the fourth sentence is: I don't do interviews."

He walks out. I write: Rex—road captain (per Finn). Doesn't waste words. Came from somewhere that taught him not to.

Every interview, Bruiser stands ten feet behind me. Every time a conversation drifts toward compound operations, he redirects. A brother starts describing the radio setup and Bruiser clears his throat and the brother switches topics mid-sentence. I ask about the club's relationship with local law enforcement and the prospect who started to answer catches Bruiser's eye and discovers he has somewhere else to be.

Knox gave me unfiltered access but Bruiser is the filter.

By Thursday I've had enough.

After a morning interview that Bruiser shut down with a look when the brother mentioned the compound's security cameras, I turn around in the hallway.

"You're editing my interviews."

He stops walking. "I'm keeping you safe."

"You cleared your throat four times this morning. That's not protection. That's a signal."

He looks at me. Brown eyes, flat and dark. "Some questions put people in positions they shouldn't be in."

"That's not your call."

"Knox asked me to keep you safe. Part of that is keeping the brothers safe too. You don't need to know about our operations or security here. You could print something that puts my brothers or this club in danger."

I hold the recorder up between us. The red light pulses.

"How about you, then? On the record. You can control exactly what gets said."

"No."

I hold the recorder there. The quiet stretches between us and I let it sit because I'm good at quiet.

He turns and walks down the corridor.

I write: Bruiser—minotaur, tail gunner. Said no to an on-the-record without blinking. Didn't explain. Didn't apologize. Just no.

The same afternoon, a minotaur fills the doorway of the common room. Not Bruiser. Taller, wider, with a stillness that makes the air around him feel heavier. Seven feet. Hands folded in front of him, his body blocking the light from the hallway behind him.

"I'd love to hear about your woodworking, if you're open to it," I try. Finn mentioned it.