Section 24
Smoke Test
Gia
Frank doesn’t need to be inside the building to own parts of it. He’s been here too long. His habits live in the corners. His people know which doors don’t squeak, which cameras lag half a second, which bartenders don’t ask questions.
Staying would be pride.
Pride gets you buried.
I shut my office door and turn to Lucky.
“We’re leaving,” I say.
He doesn’t argue.
He doesn’t even ask where.
He just nods once and says, “Okay.”
I cross to the hidden panel behind the liquor cabinet and punch in the code. The wall opens smoothly, revealing the duffel.
Black. Nondescript. Heavy in the way preparedness always is.
Lucky whistles softly. “You keep snacks in there?”
“Cash,” I say, slinging it over my shoulder. “Phones. Clothes. Weapons.”
“…Any snacks?”
I give him a look.
“Copy,” he says with the look of a puppy.
I move fast now, adrenaline sharpening everything into clean lines.
“We can’t leave together,” I add. “Not visibly.”
I grab his helmet off the counter.
“I’m you,” I say. “You’re nobody.”
His eyebrows shoot up.
“That feels backward.”
“Welcome to my life.”
We head for the lower level—the part of the club no one glamorizes. Concrete hallways. Exposed wiring.
The lost and found sits at the end of the corridor.
Lucky opens the door.
He stares at the chaos, then quietly says, “Oh no.”
A rolling rack of forgotten jackets. A plastic bin labeled SHOES???. Another labeled PERSONAL???. Several items that should not legally be singular.
Lucky lifts a sequined bra with two fingers.
“…This has seen war.”
“Put it down,” I say. “You’re not allowed to touch anything with emotional residue.”
He drops it like it might bite.
I rifle through the rack, pulling out anything wide enough through the shoulders to disguise his build.
He changes behind a pillar, emerging slowly.
I stare.
“You look,” I say carefully, “like a man who lost a bet.”
He looks down at himself.
“Do I at least look threatening?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “You look like a Craigslist warning.”
He sighs. “I miss my clothes.”
I strip off my heels and shove them into the duffel, replacing them with his boots. They’re too big, but that’s fine—I don’t need to look elegant.
I shrug into his jacket.
It smells like leather and soap, maybe. Him. Even with the bulletproof vest to bulk me up the jacket hangs loose. With my heels on I’m only a couple inches shorter than him but now I feel small. I hate it.
I put the helmet on.
The world narrows instantly—sound dampened, vision framed, breath loud in my ears.
“Okay,” Lucky says slowly, looking at me. “That’s… unsettling.”
“Good,” I reply through the muffling. “If anyone looks at me twice, they’ll assume I’m you.”
“And if they look at me?”
“They won’t,” I say. “No one looks at furniture.”
“Ouch.” He grins faintly.
We split up at the service stairs.
“I’ll leave in three minutes,” he says. “Different direction.”
I nod.
“Lucky.”
He looks up.
“Don’t do anything heroic,” I tell him.
He considers that.
“…Define heroic.”
“Anything that makes headlines.”
He smiles, soft and brief. “I’m very anti-headline.”
Good.
I go first, Diablo confusedly padding along.
The helmet does its job. People glance at me and look away. No recognition. No curiosity. Just another biker drifting out the back entrance into morning traffic.
I walk two blocks before I breathe properly.
Then three more.
The city resumes its usual indifference around me—buses sighing, pedestrians scrolling, a man yelling at a pigeon like this is a reasonable use of his morning.
I’m just starting to calculate my next move when Diablo stops dead.
The leash goes taut.
“Don’t,” I murmur, already bracing.
He barks and lunges toward the curb.
My hand goes to my jacket automatically.
Then I see him.
Lucky stands across the street, dressed like a background character in someone else’s fever dream.
Diablo loses his mind.
He drags me forward, tail whipping, barking like mad.
“Oh thank God,” Lucky says, and crouches just in time for the pitbull to slam into his chest. Lucky laughs, breathless, arms around the dog. “I missed you too, buddy.”
I cross the street quickly, scanning reflexively. No one’s paying attention. No one cares.
Good.
“Where are you parked?” I ask.
He blinks. “Uh. I’m not.”
I sigh. “Of course you’re not.”
He shrugs. “I walk.”
“You live nearby.”
“Yes.”
That wasn’t a question.
“I don’t know where,” I say.
“You weren’t supposed to,” he replies easily.
Diablo sits between us, pleased with himself.
I make a decision.
“Take me there,” I say.
“Okay,” he says without hesitation. “This way.”
We walk.
Not side by side at first—staggered, cautious, pretending to be unrelated strangers united only by a dog with opinions. After two blocks, the tension eases enough that our steps fall into sync.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I lie.
He doesn’t press.
His neighborhood is quiet. Residential. Brick buildings with old bones and newer locks. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screams here lives a problem.
We stop in front of a narrow three-story walk-up.
“This is me,” he says.
Inside, the stairwell smells like garlic and detergent. Someone’s radio plays faintly behind a door. Ordinary life. Disarming.
His apartment is on the second floor. He unlocks the door and steps aside, letting me enter first.
The place is… not what I expected.
It’s clean. Not sterile—lived-in. A large kitchen dominates the space, open and well-used. Fresh herbs line the windowsill in mismatched pots. Basil. Thyme. Rosemary. A knife block sits where it’s actually reachable. Cast iron hangs on the wall like it belongs there.
Domestic.
There’s a scarred wooden table. A couch that looks comfortable but not decorative. Shelves of books—real ones, dog-eared, annotated. Colorful curtains and throw pillows.
A corner near the bedroom holds a neatly arranged rack: helmet, tactical gear, boots lined up with military precision. Everything cleaned. Everything ready.
I stop a step inside the doorway.
Lucky watches me carefully now.
“This is temporary,” he says. “You don’t have to stay long.”
“I know.”
Diablo trots in, does a quick perimeter check, then flops down with a satisfied grunt.
“Of course,” I say. “He’s comfortable.”
Lucky smiles faintly. “He has good taste.”
I turn slowly, taking it all in again.
The herbs. The order. The quiet.
“You cook,” I say.
He nods. “Someone has to.”
I unshoulder the duffel and set it by the table.
“Okay,” I say. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”
His posture straightens immediately.
I glance at him.
“I’m going to clean up Frank’s mess,” I continue. “Quietly. From here.”
He nods once. “What do you need?”
“For now?” I say.
I look at the kitchen. The door. The windows.
“Wi-Fi. And coffee that doesn’t taste like war crimes,” I add.
He exhales a laugh. “I can do that.”
Good.
Because the city is on fire.
And for the first time in days, the world feels small enough to survive.