Chapter 4
chapter four
Christine had every intention of sleeping in. Really, she did.
She spent the rest of the morning stubbornly chasing sleep, flipping her pillow to the cool side, shifting positions like a rotisserie chicken, trying to trick her brain into shutting down. No luck. Her mind was already running a full-speed slideshow on completely useless topics.
Would Gruit use thumbs for good or for minor crimes?
Did she shower yesterday?
Was Tate a robot?
By 10:30, she gave up with a dramatic groan, flinging off her blankets and trudging to the kitchen. The city grid controlled her apartment’s heating system. As a result, it was dialed back overnight to conserve energy. Now, the floor was ice under her feet. Coffee. That was the only solution.
Gruit exploded into motion, apparently lying in wait for this exact moment.
His paws skidded wildly against the reclaimed hardwood as he launched himself off the couch, scrambling for traction like a cartoon character caught mid-sprint.
He flung himself at the door, slammed into it, then let out a long, suffering whine, as if he’d been trapped inside for weeks instead of, at most, four hours.
To really drive the point home, he flung his favorite toy at her feet like an ultimatum.
An hour later, caffeinated and wrapped in every layer of winter gear she owned, Christine clipped on Gruit’s leash and stepped outside.
Washington Street was a tapestry of city smells. The crisp, burning scent of city heap lamps struggled against the reality of fresh bread, lingering dog pee, and just the faintest whisper of last night’s bad decisions. Gruit took in a deep, appreciative inhale, savoring the high notes of decay.
“Oh yeah,” Christine muttered. “I know what you’re really into, you dirty little trash goblin.”
Gruit never forgot his roots. No amount of gourmet kibble or treats could erase his former life of scrounging in alleyways.
That was how they met.
Back when the Warehouse District still felt like home, back when she could stumble through it drunk at night, eating a cheesesteak without a second thought.
It was one of those nights, just one drink, then a few more, then a blur of bad decisions. Halfway home, she nearly tripped over him, a scrappy thing hunched over a torn trash bag outside a gas station, snout deep in what appeared to be a discarded hamburger bun.
He barely looked up, too busy conducting business.
Christine, still buzzed but not stupid, took a slow step back, hands raised like she’d accidentally interrupted a high-stakes negotiation.
“My bad,” she murmured.
The dog, grimy, wiry, and way too skinny, finally lifted his head. His eyes locked onto hers, sharp and assessing.
A calculation was being made.
Christine didn’t speak dog, but she spoke survival. And this big guy? He wasn’t some lost, helpless pup. He was a kingpin. A lone operator. The goddamn Don of the dumpster scene.
And she, a mere civilian, just inserted herself into his territory.
Carefully, respectfully, Christine plopped down on the curb, unwrapped the remains of her cheesesteak, and held it out like an offering.
“Here, dude. You need this more than I do.”
He didn’t move at first. Just squinted at her as if he were trying to determine if this was a setup. Like he’d seen too much.
Christine stayed still, feeling like she was awaiting some unspoken verdict.
Finally, after an eternity of silent negotiations, he accepted the cheesesteak with the solemnity of a man collecting an owed debt.
Christine watched as he devoured it with brutal efficiency. And when the last bite disappeared, he looked back up at her, chewing slowly, like he was reevaluating their arrangement.
And that was when she felt the shift.
She earned his respect.
Not love. Not trust. But an understanding. A contract of sorts.
A lesser dog would have taken the food and disappeared into the night.
But not this one.
Christine stumbled back to her building, expecting nothing else from the exchange. But when she turned around, there he was.
Sitting patiently. Watching her. Like she was the only thing in the world that mattered now.
“Shit,” she muttered.
She had been recruited.
No grand deliberation. No internal debate. Just a tequila-and-cheesesteak-fueled oath at 2 a.m.
When she woke up the following day, hungover, confused, and inexplicably covered in stray fur, he was still there.
Sitting. Watching. Like a guy who knew exactly what he was doing.
And that was that.
Gruit chose her.
And honestly? She respected the hustle.
As they continued their walk, Christine lost herself in deeply unhelpful thoughts about last night’s steamy dream. She barely noticed Gruit shifting into turbo mode.
They rounded the corner onto 3rd Street.
And there it was.
The Valhalla of the canine world: the dog park.
His tail went into overdrive, and a low whimper vibrated in his throat, a sound usually reserved for forbidden cheeseburgers.
“Alright, fine,” Christine sighed, unhooking his leash. “Go be free, you majestic beast.”
Gruit launched forward like a trebuchet, careening toward the fence where his best frenemies awaited. Christine pulled her coat tighter against the soul-crushing cold.
A familiar voice rang out from across the street.
“Christine!”
A tall, burly figure jogged over, looking exactly like a man who just chugged an entire French press of anxiety.
Dax.
A walking contradiction of nerdy brilliance and absolute chaos. Messy red hair, a scruffy ginger beard that hoarded crumbs like a greedy dragon, and wire-rimmed glasses that never stayed put.
Gruit immediately launched himself at Dax, shoving his nose into the man’s beard with the desperation of a long-lost lover.
Dax sighed, gently prying him off. “Dude. We talked about boundaries. You’re a mess.”
Christine smirked. “Bit rich for someone who once farted himself awake and yelled, ‘Who’s there?!’”
“That was a long time ago.”
Christine raised an eyebrow. “It was last week.”
“I told you that in confidence.”
She clapped him on the shoulder. “I witnessed it firsthand.”
Dax was barely paying attention now. He checked his phone, a slim, flexible thing. The screen adjusted instantly to his movements, and a seamless overlay of information lit up in response.
“Alright, I’m heading to Birkenbrew. I’ll see you this afternoon?”
Christine squinted. “You’re going in early? Who are you?”
“Some of us have responsibilities, Christine.”
She narrowed her eyes. “This is about Dungeons and Dragons, isn’t it?”
Dax hesitated just long enough to confirm it. “…Maybe.”
“You’re hosting, aren’t you?”
“I have to!” he groaned. “Eden tried to homebrew a spell to seduce a gelatinous cube last time, and I refuse to let our campaign become a chaotic thirst trap.”
Christine playfully punched his shoulder. “Well, Godspeed, Dungeon Master.”
Dax saluted. “May my players fear my dice rolls and respect my narrative choices.”
With that, he turned and strode off, still muttering about balance issues and ungrateful players.
Christine watched him go, shaking her head as she shoved her hands into her coat pockets. The distant hum of drones overhead felt a little closer than usual.
Which was probably nothing. Probably.
Then, a sharp crack.
This happened occasionally. Most people hated drones but accepted that stepping outside meant gambling with the possibility of getting pelted in the head at any given moment.
Christine barely had time to process it before one of the small, sleek, government-issued nuisances gave up on life and plummeted straight out of the sky.
It hit the ground with a sad little thunk, skidding across the dirt.
For one glorious moment, there was absolute silence.
What followed was pure, unhinged canine chaos.
A pack of dogs descended like vultures. Gruit, clearly the ringleader, got there first, ripping off a rotor blade like he’d been training for this moment his whole life.
An Irish setter immediately took off with a tangled mess of wires, possibly committing espionage.
A pug started rolling around in debris, doing absolutely nothing but having the time of his life.
Christine stood there, blinking.
“That,” she muttered, “seems like a problem.”
She glanced around, expecting someone. A government handler, a very concerned IT guy, literally anybody—but the street remained suspiciously quiet.
After thoroughly dismantling state property, Gruit galloped back, proudly carrying what was clearly an important-looking circuit board.
Christine sighed, scratching behind his ear. “One down, buddy. About twelve million to go.”
Gruit wagged his tail like he was up for the challenge.
Christine shook her head. He was definitely going to end up on a watchlist.
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