Chapter 18
OLOG
Istand in the empty suite for exactly forty-seven seconds after Bliss walks out.
I count them.
Old habit. When a tactical situation deteriorates beyond recovery, you assess the damage, catalog your failures, and extract yourself from the field before you compound the error.
The silence presses against my eardrums like a physical weight.
I move to the window, my hands clasped behind my back, and I stare down at the resort's pristine grounds without actually seeing any of it. My reflection stares back at me from the glass, my face locked in the same neutral, professional mask I have worn for years.
It is the correct decision.
I repeat this to myself three times.
Bliss deserves stability. She deserves a partner who exists comfortably in her world, who can attend her social functions without causing security alerts, who does not carry throwing knives in formal settings.
She deserves someone who does not have a terminated gig-work account and a background check that reads like a military dossier.
She deserves better than a scarred Orc whose primary marketable skills involve intimidation and the strategic application of violence.
I am protecting her.
This is what protection looks like.
I exhale slowly through my nose and turn away from the window.
My suitcase is already packed. I am methodical about these things. I check the room one final time, scanning for forgotten items with the same thoroughness I would use to sweep a building for threats.
The bed is unmade.
I stop.
The sheets are still tangled from this morning, from the way Bliss wrapped herself around me in her sleep, her small body fitting against mine with a precision that felt biologically intentional.
I force myself to look away.
I leave the suite, pulling the door shut behind me with a solid, final click.
The drive back to the city takes four hours.
I do not turn on the radio.
I keep both hands on the wheel, my posture perfectly upright, my speed exactly three miles below the posted limit. The highway stretches out in front of me, flat and gray and relentlessly straight.
My phone sits in the cupholder, screen dark.
I do not check it.
Bliss has not called. She has not texted. This is confirmation that I made the correct tactical decision. She is already moving on, returning to her life, forgetting the temporary disruption I represented.
This is the optimal outcome.
I repeat this to myself at regular intervals.
By the time I reach the city limits, I have said it sixteen times, and it still does not feel true.
My apartment is on the fourth floor of a converted industrial building in a neighborhood that politely refers to itself as "emerging" and less politely gets referred to as "the area where you don't walk alone after dark."
I prefer it.
The rent is reasonable. The neighbors do not ask questions. The building's security is functionally nonexistent, which means I installed my own and no one complains about the reinforced door or the cameras.
I park in the underground garage, grab my suitcase, and take the stairs.
The apartment is exactly as I left it.
Spotless. Organized. Empty.
I set the suitcase down in the entryway and stand there, my hands hanging uselessly at my sides, staring at the space I have lived in for three years.
It has never bothered me before.
I have always appreciated the clean lines, the lack of clutter, the way everything has a designated place and purpose. My furniture is functional. My kitchen contains exactly twelve items. My bedroom holds a bed, a dresser, and a single lamp.
I walk into the living room and sit down on the couch.
It is too small.
I have never noticed this before, but now it is glaringly obvious. The cushions compress under my weight in a way that feels insubstantial and temporary, and when I lean back, my shoulders extend past the edges of the frame.
The hotel bed was larger.
The hotel bed was large enough for Bliss to sprawl across my chest, her hair spilling over my shoulder, her breathing slow and even and utterly trusting.
I stand up.
I cannot sit on this couch.
I walk to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. It contains protein supplements, meal-prepped chicken and vegetables in identical containers, and a half-empty carton of milk.
I push the door shut on the refrigerator.
I am not hungry.
I walk to the bedroom, intending to unpack my suitcase and return my belongings to their proper locations, but when I open the closet, I stop.
My suits hang in a neat row, organized by color.
I wore the dark gray three-piece to the wedding.
Bliss said I looked like a high-end bodyguard. She said it while smiling, her eyes tracking the way the fabric pulled across my shoulders, and I felt a specific, visceral satisfaction at being visually assessed and approved by her.
I push the closet door shut.
I leave the suitcase on the floor, still packed, and I walk back to the living room.
I sit on the too-small couch.
I study the wall.
This is my life.
This is the life I was protecting her from.
Day two is worse.
I wake up at 0500 hours, same as always, and I go through my morning routine with mechanical precision. Push-ups. Sit-ups. A protein shake that tastes like chalk and obligation.
I check my phone.
No messages.
I open my laptop and begin searching for new employment opportunities. My gig account is terminated, but I have other options. Security firms. Private contract work. Bodyguard positions for corporate executives who need someone large and intimidating standing near them during hostile negotiations.
I update my resume.
I send out applications.
I receive three responses within an hour, all of them interested in scheduling interviews.
This should feel like progress.
It feels like nothing.
I turn off the laptop and peer at the blank screen.
My phone buzzes.
I grab it immediately, my heart rate spiking in a way that is tactically unsound and biologically inconvenient.
It is not Bliss.
It is a notification from my bank, confirming that the refund for the canceled contract has been processed and returned to her account.
After setting the phone on the table, I relax on the sofa. The large cushions allow me to sink in and grow sleepy.
At 1300 hours, I force myself to go to the grocery store, because my meal-prep containers are empty and I am capable of maintaining my nutritional intake even during periods of emotional dysfunction.
The store is bright and crowded and filled with families purchasing absurd quantities of processed food.
I grab a cart and move through the aisles with tactical efficiency, selecting chicken breasts and vegetables and the same brand of protein powder I have been using for five years.
I turn down the frozen foods aisle and stop.
A small human woman is standing in front of the ice cream freezer, holding a pint in each hand, staring at them with the same level of intensity I typically reserve for threat assessment.
She is not Bliss.
Her hair is the wrong color. Her posture is different. She is three inches taller and wearing sweatpants that say "SUNDAY FUNDAY" across the backside in glittering letters.
She is absolutely not Bliss.
But for one disorienting, painful second, I think she is, and the relief that floods my system is so overwhelming I actually take a step forward before my brain catches up and reminds me that Bliss is gone and I am the one who made sure of it.
The woman picks the chocolate chip flavor, puts the other pint back, and walks away without noticing me.
I stand there, gripping the cart handle, my knuckles going pale gray.
I leave the cart in the aisle and walk out of the store.
Day three is when I realize I am a coward.
I am sitting on the couch again—I have spent a statistically alarming amount of time on this couch over the past seventy-two hours—and I am staring at my phone.
Bliss has not called.
Bliss has not texted.
Bliss has not reached out in any capacity, which means she has accepted my decision and moved on with her life.
This is the outcome I wanted.
This is what I told myself I was doing when I stepped back and delivered that cold, logical explanation about our incompatible worlds.
I was protecting her.
I run the conversation back through my mind, reviewing it the way I would review mission footage, looking for tactical errors.
"We need to discuss the logistical realities of our respective worlds."
I wince.
That is possibly the worst sentence I have ever spoken, and I once had to tell a client that his son's kidnappers were demanding payment in cryptocurrency and livestock.
I keep going.
"Your family, your social circles, your professional network—they exist in a world where my presence would be a liability."
Also terrible.
"I do not want to be the reason you are excluded or judged or treated as a curiosity."
I stop.
I sit up straighter, my jaw tightening.
That sentence is not tactical analysis.
That sentence is fear.
I was not protecting Bliss from societal judgment. I was protecting myself from the inevitable moment when she would realize that being with me came at a cost and decide I was not worth it.
I stop.
My jaw tightens. My hands curl into fists at my sides.
The conversation wasn't tactical analysis.
It was a preemptive strike.
I stand up.
I pace the length of the living room, my hands clenched behind my back, my mind moving through the problem with the same methodical focus I use for tactical planning.
Bliss told me, very clearly, that she did not care about high society or her family's money.
She told me she cared about me.
I did not believe her.
I assumed I knew better. I assumed I understood her needs and her future better than she did. I treated her like a client who required protection from her own decisions.
I dismissed her agency entirely.
I stop pacing.
This is a solvable problem.
For fifteen years I’ve solved problems that involve hostile actors, incomplete intelligence, and significant risk of physical harm.