Chapter 4 The Fixer

• They hit the target just after midnight.
• It’s the kind of job that should taste simple: blackmail data lifted from an office suite twelve floors up, a bribed janitor turning a blind eye, a security team too lazy to check the hidden stairwell every fifteen minutes. Easy payout. Low risk.
• Nothing’s ever that easy.
• The safehouse hums with heat and old tension. Ellerei stands by the gear bag, boots laced tight, hair braided back except for the bright white streak that spills over her collar like a dare. She checks her gun once, twice — she won’t need it if everything goes right. She’ll need it if Knox forgets how to breathe.
• Knox stands across from her, shoulder braced against the doorway, grinning through a hangover that still clings to his eyes. His knuckles flex against the doorframe like he’s itching for a fight that no one’s promised him yet.
• He’s wearing black from neck to boots — the only break is the bruises on his throat. Talia’s signature, ghosted in half-moons. Ellerei pretends not to see them. She’s gotten good at pretending.
• Decker checks his watch. Bishop flicks through digital blueprints on his tablet, mumbling about thermal grids and blind spots.
• “Ten floors up, side stairwell, maintenance corridor,” Bishop says, tapping the plan. “Knox makes a scene on camera. Decker and I lift the files while the suits panic about the big bad scary man near their vault.”
• Knox flashes that grin — sharp enough to make Ellerei’s chest tight for reasons that don’t belong to the job. “So I get to punch someone tonight?”
• Bishop doesn’t look up. “Preferably not. But yes, probably.”
• Decker grunts. Ellerei rolls her eyes and tosses Knox a black beanie. “Try not to get blood on your pretty face until after we’re out.”
• Knox catches it midair. He’s still watching her. He does that sometimes — watches — like he’s about to say something real, something raw, then never does. He just smirks instead.
• “You patch me up if I do?” he murmurs.
• Always. She always does.
• ♟
• The corporate tower at midnight is a dead thing — glass bones and echoing halls. Cameras blink red eyes. Cleaning crews drift like ghosts between cubicles.
• Knox stands by the side stairwell door, tapping a fake ID badge against his thigh. His job is easy: look mean. Be loud if needed. Draw eyes where Ellerei says to.
• He keeps glancing at her — across the corridor where she stands with Bishop, feigning mild frustration with a vending machine she’s never going to use.
• She’s all sharp edges tonight — black blazer, hair pinned up but that streak bright against her throat like a neon threat. Her mouth is soft, her eyes colder than the marble floor.
• Knox should focus on the plan. He tries. He can’t help it — the way his brain flicks back to last night. The scrape of Talia’s nails. The ache in his gut that feels like a bruise he keeps pressing just to see if it still hurts.
• Ellerei catches him staring. She lifts a single brow — Focus, golden boy. He ducks his head. Grins. Idiot.
• Bishop’s voice hums in their comms. “East corridor clear. Vault door access in two.”
• Decker’s muffled curse comes through the line. “Camera feed glitchy — hurry your asses up.”
• Knox shifts his weight. He should be bored — stand here, block the stairwell, keep any wandering night manager from asking why the big man in black’s got knuckles like granite.
• But the elevator pings at the far end of the corridor.
• Two suits step out — not night managers. Security. Real ones. Flashlights, earpieces. One of them spots Knox immediately. He knows how this goes — act dumb, then mean.
• Knox shoves his hands in his pockets. Rolls his shoulders. Lets his grin slip cold.
• “Gentlemen,” he drawls.
• They ask for ID. He gives them the fake badge — lets them scan it, knowing it’ll glitch just enough to keep them here while Bishop and Decker work.
• It would’ve worked — if the taller guard hadn’t recognized his face.
• “Hey — you’re that asshole from the club last month, right?” the taller one says. “The one who punched Mickie G in the parking lot?”
• Knox shrugs. “Could be.”
• The second guard shifts, hand drifting to the stun gun at his belt. “You shouldn’t be here.”
• Knox’s mouth quirks. His knuckles crack — an old promise in his bones.
• “Yeah,” he says softly. “I get that a lot.”
• ♟
• Ellerei hears the punch before she sees it.
• A dull crack that makes her spine stiffen, her skin crawl. Bishop’s curse snaps in her ear. Decker’s growl answers.
• “Knox?” Ellerei hisses. She’s already moving, heels quiet on tile. She rounds the corner just in time to see the second guard crash into the wall — Knox’s fist buried in his collar. Blood on his knuckles. His grin wild.
• “Got it handled, Vale!” he calls. Like he’s proud.
• Idiot.
• She’s there before the second swing lands — palm flat on his chest, pushing him back, eyes on the guard who’s scrabbling for his stun gun.
• “Move!” she snaps.
• Knox hesitates — just long enough for the guard to aim. Ellerei steps between them like a blade. Her heel catches the guard’s shin. Her elbow clips his throat. He gags, crumples. Knox’s breath ghosts hot against her temple.
• “Elle—”
• “Go!” she hisses. “Stairwell. Now!”
• He obeys. He always does — for her, at least. He drags the downed guard’s feet into the shadows, covers the spatter with a nearby supply cart.
• Ellerei’s hand shakes when she pulls back — not much. Just enough for Bishop to see it on the security feed.
• They clear the vault. Bishop cracks the firewalled server. Decker swaps files, wipes prints. Knox stands watch, bruised lip split wider from the guard’s lucky elbow.
• Ellerei doesn’t speak to him until they’re clear — out the staff door, into the back alley where Decker’s van purrs low under the streetlight.
• Knox catches her wrist as she brushes past him. His fingers close around her pulse. “Hey—”
• She turns. Looks at him — really looks. The bruises, the busted lip. The grin that means nothing when it matters.
• “You good?” he asks, clueless. So damn clueless.
• She should say something. Scream at him for swinging when he didn’t have to. For needing her to clean up what he breaks — again and again and again.
• But Ellerei Vale just breathes out slow. She slides her hand free. And smiles that pretty liar’s smile.
• “Yeah,” she says softly. “I’m good.”
• She climbs in the van. Leaves him standing there under the streetlight, knuckles dripping red. Grin fading like smoke.