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The Blue Note is a fifteen-minute walk from my apartment. I keep my pace steady, hands shoved in my pockets, and eyes forward.

What am I planning to do once I reach the lounge?

I still haven’t decided by the time I arrive, half frozen and shivering.

As I push through the crowd, the blues-heavy music slides under my skin, the bass line vibrating through the floorboards. The dim lights cast everything in amber and shadow, faces half-hidden in the crush of bodies.

I scan the room reflexively, noting who’s here and who’s not, which tables are occupied and which sit empty, the rhythm of the place unchanged despite what’s coming.

Halfway to the bar, I spot Devon Aris, a well-known courier for the underworld, valued for his neutral stance and discretion. He stands at the far end of the bar, a whiskey in one hand, his back to the wall.

He speaks to Ghost, sliding a slim envelope across the polished wood. It disappears beneath the counter with a practiced motion.

I don’t slow my steps or acknowledge the transaction happening a few feet away. The Courier is moving information, not weapons or product.

The crowd thins near the corner where Orien stands with his back to the wall as he scans the room.

I stop beside him without a word, one hand settling at the small of his back. Orien’s hand finds my hip in return, his thumb tracing a slow arc over the fabric of my sweater. He doesn’t otherwise acknowledge me, but I catch the shift all the same. The room remains under his scrutiny, and now, so do I.

The band launches into a new song, the singer’s voice carrying over the crowd without effort. A couple moves toward the small dance floor, the woman’s hand linked with her partner’s, their bodies leaning toward each other as they walk.

“Busy tonight,” I say loud enough for his ears alone.

His attention remains on the room. “Always is on Fridays.”

I lick my lips. “I heard an interesting conversation while picking up a coffee this morning.”

Orien’s thumb pauses on my hip. “Oh?”

“They were talking about increased regulatory presence at the west dock district.” I keep my tone level, almost bored, the kind of casual gossip that passes between regulars. “Said they’re going to be checking delivery corridors in the next few days.”

Orien’s thumb resumes its slow arc across my hip. “Is that so?”

“Forty-eight hours, he said.” I take the drink cradled in Orien’s free hand and take a small sip of the bourbon. “Something about paperwork at the north junction.”

A beat passes. Two. The music swells, the bass player hitting a note that vibrates through the floorboards and up my legs.

Orien remains quiet for another heartbeat before speaking. “I understand.”

Does he, though? Can he understand the line I’m crossing to give him this information when I’ve lied to him about who I am? My heart hammers, the sound of it louder than the music. I’ve interfered with my own family’s plan, and Orien hasn’t asked me a single question about it.

Orien’s thumb continues its unhurried arc, but the way he turns his head to study me, I realize he knows.

The band shifts to a slower number, the tempo dropping as the guitarist takes a solo. Around us, the crowd shifts, some moving toward the dance floor, others settling into conversation with their companions. No one pays any attention to where we stand on the outskirts.

“I should go,” I say, the words barely audible over the music.

Orien catches my wrist, his fingers wrapping around it with gentle pressure. “Stay.”

The single word shivers through me, and I stay where I am.

He turns to me, his body blocking the view of us from the rest of the room. “Want a whiskey sour?”

“No, I only came to...”

The sentence dies on my lips. Came to what? Warn you? Protect you? Save you?

My reasons don’t matter. Only the outcome does.