Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 57

Shift Changes.

He’s the only one of them who answers unknown numbers without imagining romance or threat. He imagines triage instead.

4

**Years ago–““Odessa docks, winter slicing through bone, Yakov was hired by a private security firm to keep a shell company’s shipment quiet. I was there to ensure it wasn’t quiet. The job turned wrong fast; someone else lit the fuse earlier than planned, and the whole pier turned into a splintered cathedral of fire. I took shrapnel up under the ribs. I stayed moving, because that’s rule one, but my hands went stupid on the ladder and 1 fell. He was there because his team was there. He caught me at the bottom in that way medics have of catching you without touching much. He didn’t ask who I was. He didn’t ask if I deserved help. He packed the wound, and told me three things softly like he’d said them a hundred times: “Don’t cough. Breathe shallow. Live.”

He was just doing his job. I did mine, vanished. But I kept him on a shelf in my head with the other useful things: routes, access codes, the sound of keys in Yakov’s pocket when he’s in a mood. Matteo knew how to move in fire without kicking the structure down. He knew how to hold pressure and keep his voice level. He would hear a warning and not waste time pretending it was a threat. So when Nico tripped the grain and I saw the O’Neill house light up with the kind of activity that means men are about to run headfirst into a place where children learn to fight while blindfolded, I called the medic.

“Tell your boys,” I said, “if they like their heads attached to their bodies, they stop searching.”

I didn’t introduce myself. Not because I’m afraid. Because names are tools too, and you only take them out when you need to hammer something. He asked who I was; I said the only thing that matters: someone keeping you breathing. He put me on speaker, of course he did; he’s a team animal. I heard the Irish one grind his molars. I heard the hacker grin. I told them forty–eight hours. That wasn’t theater. It’s the window Yakov gives a retraining to take, or fail. After that, failure becomes “policy.” The truth is simple and impolite: I am Yakov’s loyal ghost because my loyalty buys me access to the levers that keep the girls I grew up beside from being fed into the gears. I taught Sage the difference between listening and waiting. I watched her be turned into a blade and then watched her decide who she wanted to cut for. She’s the only ghost I’ve seen who dared to love on purpose. I’m not that brave. Not yet. But I can be brave sideways. I can trim reports. I can misfile a route. I can cut a wire that looks like it frayed on its own. I can call a medic and buy forty–eight hours for a man with a jaw like a locked door to decide whether he’ll be smart or loud and I can watch. I’m very good at watching. It’s what children of cells learn before we learn anything else. Right now I’m watching two things at once: Sage on a yard cam, moving hurt and still moving, and a map of the Carpathians with three plausible power draws that don’t match any declared structures. If O’Neill breaks my warning and comes anyway, I’ll see him. If he waits, I’ll see the moment Yakov decides whether retraining becomes removal. When this ends, one way or the other, I’ll owe another call. To the medic, perhaps. Or to the Irish one, if he earns it. People think loyalty and love live on opposite sides of the ledger. They don’t. They sit on the same line, and the trick is learning how to write the numbers so the man upstairs reads what he expects while the girls downstairs live long enough to change the math. Forty–eight hours. That’s what I bought them. It may be the bravest thing I’ve done. Or the most foolish. Either way, the line holds. For now.

They dragged Sage off the yard by her wrists. Her boots left two uneven lines in the dirt where her heels tried and failed to find purchase. Naomi was still upright, bloody lip, swelling along one cheekbone, stance loose and balanced because she knew they watched for limp and flinch. She didn’t look at Sage. Good girl. She’d learned.

“Cells,” Yakov said, already turning away. “Change the watch at sixteen.”

Sixteen meant I had five. I walked along the inside of the wall as the line moved, clipboard under my arm, head down like any other day I counted bodies and chalked tallies. The children filed back into cages that were too clean to be anything but cruel. Sage disappeared into the row we call Winter, no light, no heat, no complaints. I waited. The shift is a hinge: one team wants off, one wants on, and in the gap there is always a breath where no one wants to be responsible. That’s when doors are most likely to stick and monitors most likely to lag. It’s also when I do my best work. The control room stank of coffee and cheap cigarettes. Two guards signed the same log twice and argued about a score from the night fight. I stepped behind them, laid my clipboard on the counter, and flipped a maintenance toggle on the DVR like I had a hundred times, firmware heartbeat test, five minutes, all cameras into local record with a dummy overlay, no live view. I initialed the form I’d forged months ago authorizing myself to run it “randomly” to prevent blind–spot predictability. They didn’t read it. No one reads forms unless they think they’re in trouble. The monitors fuzzed to color bars, then to a loop. I checked my watch. Five minutes. I moved. Down the hall, past the showers, the floor still damp, turn right, key in the lower slot first so the tumbler doesn’t sing, then left, then push. Winter breathed cold around me. I kept my steps quiet; old concrete remembers noise. Sage’s door was third from the end. I checked the sight plate, dark inside, then slid the outer bolt. The hinge complained, a soft metal whine. I slipped through and pulled the door to. She’d slumped sideways on the narrow slab, hood back now, hair pasted to her temple where water had dried to salt. Her shirt was stuck to her shoulder in a bloom of rust. She was conscious in that half–present way you learn here, listening more than seeing, saving the small things for when they matter.

Ja

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