Page 138 of Blades Out
The service corridor. Away from crowds. Away from cameras. Away from witnesses.
Everything inside me went cold and sharp.
My jaw locked tight enough to ache. Shoulders squared. Every muscle in my body coiled with restrained violence.
I lowered my voice instead of raising it. Quieter. More deliberate. The kind of tone that made smart men step back. "Watch your mouth."
Ben laughed—short, nervous, the sound of someone who knew they'd crossed a line but couldn't stop themselves. His eyes darted to Jenna, then back to me, looking for backup he wasn't going to find.
"What? You gonna threaten me too?" His bravado cracked at the edges. "She's nineteen, man. You're her boss. That's messed up on like ten different levels."
That word.
Boss.
Like I owned her position. Her paycheck. Her choices. Like she hadn't grabbed my hoodie and kissed me first. Like she hadn't whispered don't let go against my mouth. Like she hadn't crawled into my lap last night and made sounds that would haunt me forever.
My vision sharpened. Narrowed. Everything except Ben's face blurred into background noise.
"You think she's safe with you?" He kept talking. Stupid. Reckless. Operating on wounded pride instead of survival instinct.
I didn't remember deciding.
One second I stood three feet away. The next my fist connected with his jaw—clean, precise, the kind of punch that came from muscle memory and years of knowing exactly how much force to use.
Ben dropped. Hit the tile floor in a graceless heap, hand flying to his face, eyes wide with shock.
I didn't hit him again. Just stood there, knuckles throbbing faintly, breathing controlled, watching him with the same detached calm I used to watch plays develop on ice.
The café went silent.
Jenna pressed both hands to her mouth. A few customers backed toward the exit. Someone's phone clattered to the floor. The espresso machine hissed into the void.
Ben stared up at me from the ground, hand still covering his jaw, blood trickling from his split lip. Fear replaced anger in his expression—finally smart enough to recognize what he was dealing with.
I didn't look at him again. Turned my back on him completely. Dismissed him like he'd stopped mattering the second he hit the floor.
"Jenna." My voice came out flat. "Back hallway. Which direction?"
She pointed with a shaking hand. "East service corridor. Past the locker rooms."
I was already moving.
Behind me, Ben coughed. Someone helped him sit up. Murmured conversations started filtering back into the space, shocked and scandalized and none of my concern.
My shoes hit the tile in steady rhythm. Not running—running drew attention, caused panic, wasted energy. But fast. Purposeful. Every step eating up distance between me and wherever she'd gone.
The crowd thinned as I left the main concourse. Hallways grew quieter. Dimmer. The kind of spaces maintenance staff used, not fans.
My hand flexed once at my side. Knuckles aching. I ignored it.
Twenty minutes, Ben had said.
Too long for a break. Too long to be out of sight. Too long for the crawling wrongness under my skin to be paranoia.
The service corridor stretched ahead—concrete walls, exposed pipes, emergency lighting casting everything in sickly yellow.
Empty.
