Chapter 12
Rico
People like patterns more than they admit.
They pretend they don’t—that they’re unpredictable, that they move on instinct, that they make decisions based on emotion or circumstance—but underneath all of that, there’s always structure. Always repetition. Always something that can be tracked, measured, understood.
That’s where control lives.
And right now—
She’s built one.
I watch it without looking like I’m watching it, cataloging every detail the same way I always do.
The timing of her movements. The order she does things in.
The way she checks my vitals twice—once quickly, once again slower, more deliberate—like she’s confirming something she already knows but refuses to leave to chance.
She doesn’t waste motion.
She doesn’t waste time.
And she doesn’t repeat anything without a reason.
That tells me everything I need to know about how her mind works.
“You’re staring again.”
Her voice cuts through the quiet without sharpness, but there’s awareness behind it. She doesn’t look up from what she’s doing—adjusting something near my side—but she knows exactly where my attention is.
“I’m observing,” I reply, my tone even.
“That’s a generous way to describe it.”
“Accurate, though.”
Now she does look at me.
Not long.
Just enough to acknowledge the exchange before her attention shifts back to the task at hand.
“Observation implies objectivity,” she says. “You don’t seem objective.”
Interesting.
“And what do I seem?” I ask.
“Intentional,” she replies.
I almost smile.
She’s not wrong.
“Everything is intentional,” I say. “Most people just don’t realize it.”
Her hand stills for a fraction of a second before continuing, like she’s processing that in real time.
“You make everything sound like a system,” she says.
“It is.”
“No,” she counters, this time stepping back slightly, crossing her arms as she looks at me fully. “You make it one. That’s not the same thing.”
There it is.
Pushback.
I tilt my head slightly, considering her words.
“Difference being?” I ask.
“The world isn’t structured the way you think it is,” she says. “It’s unpredictable. Messy. People don’t follow patterns the way you want them to.”
“They do,” I reply calmly. “You just have to know where to look.”
Her gaze sharpens slightly, like she’s deciding whether to challenge that or let it go.
She doesn’t let it go.
“That’s a dangerous way to think,” she says. “Assuming you can predict people.”
“It’s more dangerous not to,” I counter.
Silence settles between us for a moment, but it’s not empty. It’s active—both of us working through the same concept from different angles.
“You were already doing it,” she says after a moment. “Earlier. When you were barely conscious.”
“Doing what?”
“Breaking down the attack,” she replies. “Analyzing it.”
I don’t answer immediately.
Because she’s right.
And because I’m deciding how much to show.
“It wasn’t random,” I say finally.
She watches me closely now, her full attention on me in a way that’s different from before. Less clinical. More… engaged.
“You’ve said that,” she replies. “You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Because nothing about it fit the chaos she is imagining. Chaos does not move with that kind of precision, and I have seen enough of both to know the difference.
“Timing,” I say. “Positioning. The way it unfolded. It was controlled.”
Her brow furrows slightly, her mind already working through the implications.
“That suggests planning,” she says.
“It suggests access,” I correct.
Her expression shifts.
Small.
But noticeable.
“You’re talking about someone inside,” she says.
“Or someone with help from the inside,” I reply.
The distinction matters. She exhales slowly, her arms tightening slightly across her chest as she considers what I have said, and for a moment I can almost see the argument taking shape behind her eyes. “That changes everything,” she says.
“No,” I correct, keeping my voice calm. “It clarifies everything.” The difference is more important than she realizes.
Before, we were working with possibilities, trying to determine whether the attack had been random or deliberate, whether someone inside had helped or whether the entire thing had been planned from somewhere outside our circle.
Now we have something concrete to work with.
There is direction. There is focus. There is finally a problem I can solve instead of a dozen questions competing for attention in my head.
“You’re not angry,” she says suddenly.
I look at her, caught slightly off guard by the observation. “Should I be?”
“You were almost killed,” she replies. “Most people would be.”
“Most people react,” I say. “I don’t.”
The statement isn't entirely true, and she knows it.
Anger is there, buried beneath everything else, sharp enough that I can feel it whenever I allow myself to think too long about the person who put that bullet inside me.
But anger has never been particularly useful to me.
It makes people careless, and carelessness is exactly how men die.
I learned a long time ago that control is more valuable than rage, especially when someone else is waiting for you to lose your temper.
Her gaze narrows slightly as she studies me. “That’s not normal.”
“No,” I agree, settling back against the pillows as the pain pulls faintly at my side. “It’s effective.”
She steps closer again, returning her attention to my injury as she checks the dressing with the same precise movements she uses for everything else, but the conversation doesn't end. If anything, it becomes more personal.
“You hide it,” she says.
“Hide what?”
“Whatever you’re actually thinking,” she replies. “You hide it behind the humor and the deflection.”
For a second, I simply watch her. Then I realize what she's doing. She isn't guessing. She's observing, and she's been paying far more attention to me than I realized.
“Do I?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And that bothers you?”
“It complicates things,” she says.
“Everything about this is complicated,” I reply, because there is no argument to make against that.
She doesn't answer immediately, and I can tell from the slight shift in her expression that she knows I'm right. “But you don't let people see what’s underneath,” she continues after a moment.
I hold her gaze. “Why would I?”
“Because it’s honest.”
A faint smile almost touches my mouth. Honesty has never seemed particularly valuable to me when the truth can become a weapon in someone else's hands. “Honesty is leverage,” I say instead. “And I don't give that away for free.”
Her hand stills against my side, lingering there for a fraction longer than necessary before she straightens and meets my eyes again.
Something in her expression has changed.
There is no longer just clinical assessment there.
She is trying to understand me, and I am beginning to realize that I want to understand her just as badly.
“You think everything is a transaction,” she says.
“It usually is.”
“No,” she counters firmly. “That’s how you choose to see it.”
“Same difference.”
“It’s not.”
There is conviction in her voice now, enough that I find myself listening rather than dismissing it.
She looks at me as though she can see every wall I've built and has already decided that some of them are unnecessary. “You’re building walls that don't need to be there,” she continues. “You treat everything like it’s something to control instead of something to experience.”
The word sits wrong in my mind. Experience sounds like something you allow to happen to you, something that leaves you vulnerable to circumstances and other people. I've spent too much of my life learning what happens when you surrender that kind of control.
“Experience doesn’t keep you alive,” I say.
“It does,” she replies. “Just in a different way.”
For several seconds, neither of us looks away.
Something unspoken moves through the space between us, and I don't know whether it is disagreement or recognition.
Our perspectives are different, our priorities almost opposite, yet beneath both of them is the same instinct I have recognized in myself for years: survival.
The difference is that she seems to believe survival can mean more than simply staying alive.
“You’re not as detached as you pretend to be,” she says finally.
I don't answer immediately because the accusation is uncomfortably close to the truth. There are things I care about. People I would kill to protect. Things I would never admit to feeling because admitting them would give someone else access to the parts of me I have spent years keeping guarded.
“And you’re not as unaffected as you act,” I reply instead.
The reaction is immediate, though subtle. I see the slight tightening around her eyes before she smooths her expression back into something controlled. There it is. The part she doesn't want me to see.
“Focus on your recovery,” she says, stepping back and deliberately putting distance between us again. “Leave the analysis to when you’re actually capable of doing something about it.”
Fair enough.
For now, I let my head settle back against the pillows, ignoring the pull at my side as I shift until I find a position that doesn't make every breath feel like work. “Soon,” I say.
She studies me for a moment, but she doesn't respond, and she doesn't dismiss the answer either. That tells me enough. She knows exactly what I mean, and perhaps she knows better than I do that the moment I am strong enough to stand, the balance of this situation will change.
For now, though, I have to recover before I can act.
The attacker is still out there, whoever pulled the trigger is still waiting somewhere beyond these walls, and I intend to find the person responsible.
But this time I won't rely on anger or instinct alone.
I will follow the evidence, trace every connection, and let the truth lead me exactly where I need to go.
Because when I finally come face-to-face with the person who thought they could put a bullet in me and walk away, I want more than revenge.
I want answers.
And then I want them to understand exactly what it cost them to become my enemy.