Damon - that was his name.
This isn't the Damon I made up for Rafe Volkov's file. It wasn't about a lost brother, a panicked voice on the line, or some smuggling ring. Eight weeks of hunting - gone - all of that was someone else's story.
The real Damon.
He'd leave the TV running at night since quiet felt unsettling. Meals always had leftovers tucked away, just in case, despite plenty being there. Laughter came fast, trust even faster, holding tight to the idea - plain and unshaken - that most folks were doing what they thought mattered.
Much later, thoughts of him drift in. Nighttime pulls them close.
Grief does not come near me. It has no permission to stay. That feeling works like a doorway, one I discovered years back should be crossed just once - then shut for good. My way of handling things leans more toward balance sheets. Out comes memory, laid bare under steady eyes, examined without tilt or tremor, treated no differently than any other fact, before being stored where it belongs.
Finding numbers tonight feels heavier than normal. Yet each figure takes longer to place right. Even small totals resist settling into their rows. Still, the work moves forward by slow degrees.
Right now I sit on the floor, spine pressed to the bed frame, since mattresses suggest permanence and I avoid comfort before figuring out where I am. Outside, the city hums through glass, faint but present. That late-night pitch only big places have - thin horns, air moving between buildings, random noises without clear origin.
His voice comes into my mind. Sometimes it shows up when I least expect.
That wasn't the copy I handed to Rafe. Just the truth of it. How it actually landed in my ears the final moment I caught it. Calm, not shaky. Nothing held back in that hollowed-out tone people wear after breaking. Gentle, like speech does when someone leans across space - miles, quiet, old wounds - hoping to brush against what once came easy between them.
A voice spoke my name.
Just my name.
Midnight numbers keep pulling me back. What follows never matters much. The act itself, the moment of doing - cold realisation settling long before thought caught up.
Just the softness.
One more moment - hearing my name spoken by him. That soft sound, fading now.
I remain only as long as my own timing permits. After that, it gets set aside. The moment passes when I shut it out, rise slowly, move toward the glass. Outside stretches the quiet sprawl of streets beneath. My feet carry me back to where the lines on paper wait.
Seventy two hours.
A name tagged to a corpse tends to leak out fast - within two days, at most. Rafe's crew moves quick; just one day observing them showed tasks done in hours that others stretch into weeks. So the moment someone asks where I really came from? That clock is ticking under three days.
Closer to thirty six.
A backup plan comes first when the main query shows up. Not shutting anything down, just shifting direction quietly. Pick a name that points to an actual place - nothing fake, but not too close either. Close enough so it looks solid at first check. Slow enough that days pass while they follow the trail. Days I can use to settle deeper into this system before another question lands.
Picking among three, I drop a pair without looking back. One stays.
Third option works. Not easy - means losing touch with someone I stayed away from for nearly two years - still possible. Toss it into the strategy, then shift focus elsewhere.
Still, the remaining part stays put.
From the fourth floor shared spaces, visibility reaches the elevators, the stairs, one path clear out of every three heading upward. Tomorrow's talk with Gregor will bring up needing outdoor air - understandable given how things feel now - which opens view to outside walls, plus any watchfulness stationed down below.
Finding pieces that fit my purpose starts around the third day, once the structure takes shape. The frame builds slowly, yet by then its function begins to show.
Five days in, the initial lead would be sitting there waiting for Rafe.
It's something I handle well.
Long ago, I already did this well - without knowing it counted. Back when I had no clue about the price.
Facing away from the glass, I shift my stance. The room feels different now.
A hush hangs in the air. Locked tight, just like before. Up near the ceiling, by the bathroom entrance, that vent cover hasn't shifted a bit.
All pieces fit into place.
Something halts my steps just as I start walking to the bed.
Nothing stirs. Silence holds every corner. Inside it grows a feeling without name. This unease sits where understanding stops - when pieces refuse to fit, no matter how hard you try.
Rafe Volkov.
What mattered wasn't the move-by-move breakdown. Forget the odds of danger, the weak spots on entry, even those seventeen patterns I caught in how he worked since yesterday. None of that held weight now.
Just him.
The silence he held inside that room weighed more than words. Questions came out sideways, simple on the surface but pulling in a different direction underneath, never once tipping into arrogance. At the doorway, his phrase about safety carried extra weight - something tucked behind the syllables I still cannot name.
Midnight finds me rooted in place, staring at the floor. The unease sits heavy, so I turn it over like an old photograph. Each detail gets studied - no different than anything else that crosses my path.
Ground level. Exact. No sources given.
Nothing at all, that is my choice now.
A shape-shifter, really. Not the first of its kind I've seen. Each time, adjustments happen. Paths shift slightly. Still, every task finishes as planned.
This stays unchanged.
Down I go onto the mattress. Sheets pull up around me.
Darkness wraps around me when I shut my eyelids.
Beneath these floors, maybe Rafe Volkov lies still under sleep - or maybe he stares at the ceiling. Either shape his night takes doesn't touch me, just like that quiet hush when someone almost whispers my name but stops short in shadow.
Nothing at all.
Something near sleep shows up, so I keep repeating it to me.
Time stretches beyond what feels right.