Page 68 of This Life of Mine

“Most people don’t step in to help anymore. That took guts.”

I sense it then. The weight of it. The gratitude. The awe. The way people desire a hero because it makes the world seem less delicate.

They’re not wrong to want a hero. But they are mistaken about why I did it and who I am.

I don’t know what to say, so I stay silent.

Someone near the counter claps once. Then another joins in. It spreads faster than I can intervene. Soft applause, murmurs of thanks, hands briefly touching my shoulder as people pass.

I don’t like this.

Attention is alarming. Visibility is sloppy. And the last thing I need is my face tied too clearly to that night.

I glance toward Lina.

She’s behind the counter, mid-motion, watching the whole thing unfold. Our eyes meet. There’s surprise there. And something quieter. Understanding.

I give her the smallest shake of my head.

She nods, then whispers something to Val.

“Hey folks,” Val cuts in sharply, stepping forward like a shield. “Though we love the praise for our hero, let’s also remember he’s here as a customer and give him some space. Thank you.”

The crowd eases, reluctantly. A few lingering smiles.

I sit back down, pulse steady but alert.

I didn’t step in to be seen. I stepped in because no one gets to put their hands on Lina without punishment.

If this town wants to see me as a hero, fine. Let them. But I don’t need applause. I only need Lina safe.

I wait until the crowd thins, and the noise descends back into the familiar pulse of the shop before I step outside, phone already in my hand. My face online is not good.

I dial Reese.

He answers on the second ring. “You’re trending,” he says flatly. No greeting. No preamble.

“I know,” I reply. “I need a full wipe. Anything that clearly shows my face—videos, screenshots, reposts. All of it.”

There’s a pause. Keys clicking. “You slipped.”

“I know,” I growl.

Another pause. Longer this time. “You okay, man?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “The problem is visibility.”

“Copy,” Reese says. “I’ll get it scrubbed. Might take a few hours for the mirrors and backups.”

“That’s fine,” I tell him. “Just make sure nothing clean remains.”

He exhales. “You know better than this, Alex.”

“I get it, Reese. I fucked up.”

This line of work doesn’t allow for recognition. Faces become weaknesses. Attention becomes a liability. In my world, anonymity isn’t optional.

There’s a reason my face is always covered on a job.