Samantha was asleep on the couch.
Corbin stood in the kitchen, staring at the dark window above the sink. The apartment was quiet — really quiet, the kind he had known well for years and had somehow stopped noticing.
12:41 a.m.
She had fallen asleep with the TV on. The throw blanket had slid to the floor; her phone rested loose in her hand. He moved it to the table and glanced at the window again.
He checked the front door. Locked. The windows. Latched. The fire escape. Empty.
He had done it twice already. He did it a third time.
The sedan hadn't come back. That meant nothing. Whoever was watching had learned to park somewhere he couldn't see.
He stood at the window a while longer. Then he opened the laptop, connected to a secure network, and opened a channel he hadn't used in months.
Blank interface. No names, no profile. Just a conversation window and a cursor.
He typed.
CORBIN: You're still having me followed.
Twenty seconds. Nothing. Then:
BROKER: I don't know what you're talking about.
Corbin almost smiled.
CORBIN: Yes, you do.
Three dots appeared, vanished, appeared again.
BROKER: You've been busy lately.
CORBIN: That's not an answer.
BROKER: Neither is an accusation.
He leaned back and thought about the man at the restaurant — the untouched drink, the phone flat on the bar. Watching him. Watching Samantha.
CORBIN: Restaurant. Dark jacket. Mid-thirties. Sat at the bar for three minutes and never touched his drink. Left when I moved toward the back corridor.
He counted. Twenty seconds. Thirty. Forty.
BROKER: You're assuming those things are connected.
CORBIN: I don't assume. I'm telling you what I saw.
BROKER: You notice a great deal.
CORBIN: It's my job to notice.
BROKER: And what did you notice about me?
CORBIN: That you took forty seconds to answer a simple question.
In the living room, Samantha shifted under the blanket. Corbin waited until she settled.
CORBIN: You hired me to eliminate problems.
BROKER: Correct.
CORBIN: Then stop creating them.
Immediate:
BROKER: You seem unusually concerned about this one. What changed?
The broker was probing. Testing whether Samantha was a weakness.
CORBIN: Nothing changed. I don't like being watched.
BROKER: And if I am having you watched?
CORBIN: Then you're making a mistake.
BROKER: You've never objected before.
CORBIN: You've never been sloppy before.
BROKER: That's a strong statement.
CORBIN: It's a simple fact. You lost the Observer. You know I found him, and you know I don't tolerate amateurs.
BROKER: Perhaps you should consider why someone is watching you.
CORBIN: Perhaps you should consider who you're warning.
BROKER: Everyone warns. Few deliver.
CORBIN: I've delivered every time. That's why you keep calling.
BROKER: Is that a threat, Corbin?
He glanced toward the living room. She was still asleep.
CORBIN: No. It's advice. If this continues, you'll be the one with something to worry about.
Delivered. No response. Corbin waited a full minute, then closed the channel and shut the laptop.
He walked to the window and looked down at the street. The sedan was gone. That didn't mean the watch was.
As he turned off the kitchen light, his phone vibrated once.
BROKER: Sleep well, Corbin.
A second later the message deleted itself, remotely. Corbin slipped the phone into his pocket.
Sleep well, the broker had said.
Corbin had no intention of doing that.
Across the room, Samantha murmured in her sleep. She had kicked the blanket off again.
Corbin crossed the room and pulled it back over her shoulders.
He sat in the chair across from the couch and watched the door.
He didn't sleep. He had promised himself he wouldn't.
He kept his word.
Whatever game the broker was playing, he wasn't playing it alone anymore.