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I blink a few times, and the brown lens settles back into place, a match for my right eye.

Realizing Trent’s been silent too long, I huff out a breath. “Come on. I’ve handled worse than a glasscrawler before.”

“Yeah, but what I’m saying is you don’t have to handle it alone,” he growls. “Part of being a team is that we look out for each other.”

“Not part of your team yet, old man,” I remind him. “And I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Backup isn’t babysitting, Amalia.”

As I return to the main room, boots scuffing threadbare carpet, a flicker catches in my peripheral vision, a streak of moss, vivid as neon, crawling up the wall. The last time I saw moss like that, it had been surrounding the door to Underhill.

I freeze, air stuttering in my lungs.

But when I jerk around, it’s only a hotel landscape painting, the trees smeared onto the canvas with sad, cheap green paint, peeling at the edges and the pigment half-gone.

My heart pounds, and I flatten my hand to my chest. Idiot. Underhill is finished with me.

“Amalia?” Trent’s prods, pulling me back to reality.

On wobbly legs, I stride across the room and sink onto the bed. The mattress sags beneath me, springs protesting with a metallic groan. “Fine. If things go sideways, I’ll call Jack.”

“Before or after you’re bleeding out?”

I rub my temple where a headache threatens to bloom. “Your concern is touching, but unnecessary. I’m not dead yet.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

I huff. “Thought we already established, my corpse will walk out on its own and still demand payment.”

That wins a brief laugh from Trent. “I’ll tell Jack to keep his comms on, and to be on standby in case you need him.”

The words hit harder than they should. I’ve never had anyone worry about me before. Not my mom, the back-stabbing bitch, and not the people who raised me after I escaped the hellhole she sold me into.

I clear my throat. “Stop being such a worrywart.”

“Just tell me you’ll be careful.” The words grind out of him.

“Yeah, Trent. I’ll close it out and see you lot in a few hours.”

He laughs, scratchy at the edges, but relief threads through. “Good. Don’t keep us waiting.”

The line clicks off, and the phone screen goes dark. I toss it onto the stained comforter, a fleet of dust motes swirling up in the lamplight.

Exhaustion slithers through me, joints popping as I stretch out. Three days awake, and the ache in my chest only sinks deeper.

I force down the protein bar I found before leaning over to grab the bottle of caffeine pills from the nightstand. I shake two loose, toss them into my mouth, and crunch down.

The chemical bitterness coats my teeth and burns the roof of my mouth. My hands shake as I screw the lid back on. Fucking sleep deprivation.

I brace my palms on my knees, sucking in air rank with bleach and motel carpet.

Can’t afford to get sloppy tonight. This job is worth thirty thousand in clean, untraceable cash. Enough to buy into Trent’s operation. Not that I’m sure I want it.

But I want the option to want it, and the thought sits like a stone in my shoe I can’t shake loose.

For over a decade now, I’ve worked alone. Solo contracts, solo risks, solo rewards, the rhythm familiar as my heartbeat. A team means complications, people to worry about, and people who worry about you. People who expect you to show up.

People who might notice when you disappear.