55 The worst spy

**Date = 25 June**
*My sister got her new stem cells. Now to wait and see.*
**Place = San Francisco (UCSF Medical Center)**

**POV - Aria**

The hospital smells like lemon disinfectant and fear. Mostly fear. At least for me.

“So, how was work?” My sister asks as soon as I enter the room, not even bothering to look up from her tablet, on which I’ve downloaded every animated movie known to man. She’s curled up under three blankets and looks like a burrito.

A very brave, tiny burrito with a port in her chest and a future made entirely of stem cells and stubbornness.

The transplant is over. Now comes the wait — the blood counts, the watching, the nail-biting kind of terror that doesn’t look dramatic but feels like it’s eating your ribs from the inside. This could be her last chance.

Her bed is moved against the glass partition separating our room from hers, so the nosy little twit doesn’t miss anything.

She’s housed in a positive-pressure environment in which only highly purified air is allowed to enter. It is additionally separated from the hallway by an outer area, called an anteroom. Both rooms are cleaned daily, and anyone who enters her room must follow specific protocols. This isolation policy is intended to minimize complications and reduce the risk of developing an infection during the transplant process.

Three huge bodyguards sit in a row in front of the glass. The office-type chairs are far too small for their bulk to be primarily comfortable. But they never complain.

They look like they’d been forged by the same gods who built Thor, with names like things you stub your toe on — Brick, Rock, and Tank.

The one with thick fishy lips clefts a wide smile and struggles to get up. I’m sure he once blinked, but it might have been my imagination.

“Ah, Miss Aria, let me help you with this.” He takes the bags from my hands. The polished demeanor of these men is juxtaposed with their scruffy, tattoo-covered, gang member-like appearance.

“Thanks, Brick.” Initially, I was reluctant to leave Leyla alone with them ― unfairly judgmental of me, I know. But in my defense, they do look like the type that can kill a little girl before breakfast, eat her, then digest her without getting heartburn.

However, they are Garcia’s most trusted guys — or so I’m told. And they come very highly recommended by Damion. I don’t know the whole story — but I know they met in a van during the Harry debacle and were vital to the operation. Brick also assured me that Damion is their brother and they would do anything for him. So that’s good to know.

He puts the bags of food on the table in the corner.

“Hey, Rock,” this time my sister sits up, “Are we gonna watch movies or play poker again?” The big man cracks a grin from ear to ear, stretching his thin Hitler-style mustache to its limits, warming up his whole demeanor. I swear, Leyla is the only one who can make him smile. He nods slowly. I’m not sure which one he’s agreeing to.

“Food?” The biggest huge man wrestles himself out of the chair and peeks into the bags like a little kid. He smells like cheap soap and danger, and he doesn’t talk much.

“Tank, you eat like a horse,” Leyla chuckles from the bed, now eyeing the three dudes who hungrily scavenge through the containers of grilled chicken. The three settle down in the chairs again, each one grinding down a piece like vultures picking a bone. They look like extras from a crime movie who got promoted to main characters through sheer intimidation.

They rarely smile. They do occasionally grunt.

Once, Tank threatened a vending machine that ate my coins. It gave them back.

I’m thankful to have them here. At least I know my sister is safe when I’m not around.

“Aria, how was work?” Ava materializes beside Leyla’s bed, all effortless grace in pink scrubs and a high ponytail that looks like it belongs in a glossy magazine. If I didn’t like her so damn much, I’d probably hate her on principle — for being able to look that polished next to a bedpan.

Tank drops his food on his lap and sprouts an awkward blush. I think he’s got a little crush on the nurse. He hurriedly picks it up and tries to wipe the mess on his pants with clumsy movements.

“I asked, but didn’t get an answer,” Leyla pipes up, craning her thin neck to catch the comedy act on Tank’s chair. Her voice is scratchy, light, but still threaded with that stubborn spark. Ava hands her some mouthwash, which she gargles and then spits out into a container. Mouth sores are a side effect of chemotherapy and radiation.

“Work was terrific,” I say, forcing a brightness I almost believe. “I love it there.” And I really do. The flexible hours, the creativity, the way I can slip into a world of lipstick and mascara instead of hospital rooms and beeping monitors.

“I did a bullet wound so realistic today the janitor almost called 911.” I dig my phone out, plastering it against the glass so they can see. The fake wound gleams in high-resolution glory, all gore and art blended together.

“Look.” I grin like a kid showing off a school project. The truth is, I really frickin love this job. It’s everything I dreamed about — messy, dramatic, fun. And the paycheck isn’t half bad either. Enough to cover rent, enough to make me feel like we’ll be okay.

Because I don’t want to live in Enrique’s house for free. Honestly, I don’t want to live there at all. Too many ghosts. Too many walls that remember what I’d rather forget. But it’s the safest place for Leyla once she’s out of here, so I’ll grit my teeth and endure. And the second she’s clean, we’re finding our own space. A place with no haunted corners.

“Wow, great job. It does look pretty real,” Ava says warmly, leaning closer to study the photo. Her hands never stop moving, though — efficient, careful — as she checks Leyla’s central venous catheter, fingers gentle against fragile skin, before changing the dressing.

Ava is appointed as Leyla’s sole caregiver. Uncle John organized everything. He explained that allowing only one trusted nurse to enter her room makes it easier for her guards to keep her safe. This way, the bad guys can’t harm her by posing as hospital staff. It’s a tad unrealistic, maybe, but in our new world, paranoia is just another kind of safety net.

The hospital bent the rules for us. Cleared the room next door so Leyla’s guards can sit and watch through the glass, and rigged a tiny space down the hall with beds so we can sleep in shifts. It’s generous. But I know generosity has a price tag.

This? This is the weight of a Blackburn-sized donation, stitched into the seams of the hospital. Money buys miracles — and sometimes, just sometimes, a little peace.

“Do I smell Popeyes?” Lee struts casually into the room, with a dark hoodie, low-slung jeans, and that smug, knife-sharp smirk cutting across his face. The kind of smirk that makes people instinctively take a step back, like their body knows trouble before their brain catches up. He drops a battered gym bag on the ground, plucks a drumstick straight from the greasy bucket on Brick’s lap, and bites into it with lazy defiance.

My gaze flicks instinctively to the hall, half-expecting a shadow trailing him. Jackson usually keeps Lee tethered these days, like a guard dog with too much bite.

“Where’s Jackson?” Leyla pipes up before I can. Even she knows the two of them move like a pair of loaded dice.

“I ditched him,” Lee says around a mouthful, licking grease from his thumb with deliberate slowness. “He’s working on my nerves.”

“I can understand that,” Leyla says as if it’s common knowledge.

He receives a message on his phone. His eyes skim the message, sharp yellow irises narrowing in a flash of annoyance before he shoves the device deep into his pocket like it burned him. He tries to cover it with another lazy bite, but tension sits on his shoulders now, like an extra weight.

“How’s Leyla today?” he asks softly, looking at me.

“Yesterday she developed a slight fever, threw up a lot, and even had a bad tummy ache, but her doctor reassured me it’s quite normal following a transplant.”

“Don’t worry, she’s strong.” He bites down, tears the meat from the bone with his teeth, like reassurance can be chewed into existence.

“So was Hercules. He still got poisoned and set himself on fire.” I snap without thinking, the words tumbling out bitter and sharp.

Lee pierces me with his yellow eyes. He chews slowly, then swallows, before calmly saying — “Optimism really is not your strong suit.” Yeah, I know — I dramatize. Too much, too often. Still, my mouth won’t stay shut.

“Everyone has their faults,” I mutter, tugging my blouse sleeves over my hands like flimsy armor. “You can be a little … snippy.”

His eyes narrow just a fraction, a smile ghosting at the edge of his mouth. “Feral. Bitchy. Tough,” he sighs, almost tired of repeating it. “I know.”

I exhale too, a heavy drag of air, shoulders sagging under the fluorescent lights that hum above us.

Then his voice shifts again, casual on the surface but cutting underneath — “Were there any strange visitors today?”

It’s the way he asks it — too quick, too out of nowhere — that makes my skin prickle.

He’s acting strange. Does that count?

“No.” I clumsily pull my sleeves some more as if gathering courage to ask offhandedly — “Eh, Lee, how are all the guys doing?” I hope it sounds matter-of-factually. Lee drops his chicken bones in the dustbin and eyes me closely from under his long, long lashes. I look down.

“Enrique is fine. A little sore and tired, but he’s back at work again.” How did he know that I was worried about Enrique? I know he was Leyla’s donor since I saw his name in her file. I’m not sure why he didn’t tell me. I guess I’m just not that important to him. But I still care about him. I think I always will.

“I have to go,” he grabs another piece of chicken and the bag on his way out, but it’s the glimmer of fear in his voice that hits me. I may not be as attentive as they are, but I know something is up. Lee is not easily rattled. And this behavior is odd, even for him. And that’s when my brain starts chewing itself alive with panic.

Lee turns back at the door.

“Eh, Rock, can I please borrow your phone for a bit? My battery is flat and I need to make an urgent phone call. I’ll bring it back in thirty … promise.”

“Sure.” Rock hands over the device.

“Thanks, pall.” Lee rushes out and speeds down the corridor. Where is he going for half an hour?

So, of course, I follow him.

Brick tries to follow me, but I give him the patented ‘I’m just going to the vending machine’ excuse, holding up a crumpled five-dollar bill.

He grunts — either approval or gas. But he goes back.

I sneak after Lee.

Okay, sneak is generous. I clomp down the hallway like a giraffe in heels because my boots have tiny zippers that jingle every three steps. They also squeak on the linoleum, which is unfortunate for stealth but great for dramatic effect.

Luckily, he seems preoccupied, so he doesn’t notice me. I think.

I take off my boots and clench them in my left hand.

I follow him all the way to the elevator, much quieter walking on my socks, staying one corner behind like the worst spy in history.

He stops to look at his phone. He stuffs it back in his pocket, takes it out again, pulls his lips tight, fiddles with it, puts it back, out again, and then back in his pocket.

Suspicious much?

Rock’s phone is clutched in his other hand. Did he just lie about his phone being flat?

He sighs deeply, as if breathing in courage. Then he moves to the right with newfound determination.

A broad frown resides between his pretty eyes as he opens the door to the stairs, moving down.

I trot awkwardly to keep up — trying to be as silent as humanly possible — now leaving one floor between us.

He heads out into the bottom parking lot — ground minus 3. Is he planning on doing something illegal? Something immoral? Something bad? Something dangerous?

By the time I make it to the dimly-lit concrete level of the hospital’s underground parking, I am sweating and my mascara is dangerously close to a mental breakdown. I duck behind a pillar and peek.

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat sticking like it’s carved from stone. My palms are slick, my breathing shallow. These spur-of-the-moment action stunts are not me. Not my lane. I’m the plan-ahead, think-it-through, rehearse-it-twice type. But here I am, pushing at the edges of my own impulsive limits, wobbling on a tightrope strung above a very stupid drop.

And why is it always parking garages?

Evil has a favorite haunt, and it’s apparently these dark, echoing tombs of concrete. I used to just hate small spaces and cramped hallways. Now? Add parking structures — underground, above ground, it doesn’t matter. My claustrophobia has evolved, leveled up, spread like a virus.

Turns out I’m not the only one. It even has a name — Tingchechekuphobia. A word so long and jagged it looks like it crawled straight out of a horror dictionary. Hell, even the pronunciation is scary.

Call it what you want, but right now it feels like my throat is physically collapsing in on itself, strangling me from the inside. My larynx squeezes tighter with every shallow inhale. I’m not brave — it’s not who I am. But I need to know why Lee is acting so strangely.

Is my sister in danger? Am I? Or Enrique?

The thought spikes through me, sharp and electric. My knees tremble, but I crouch lower anyway, hugging the shadows. My socks slide silently across the cold floor, the concrete damp in spots where water leaks from overhead pipes.

The air smells musky … oil, rubber, and rust — a cocktail of metallic gloom that coats my tongue.

I press my back against the nearest pillar, the surface gritty under my palms. Lee’s shape moves ahead — not in a hurry, but with a precision to his stride — deliberate, steady, the way predators walk when they already know the prey can’t escape.

Following Lee feels like a huge mistake. But it’s too late now.

He stops. And there she is.

My lungs burn from holding still, from holding back. The garage hums with silence, and in that silence she waits, coiled and patient, like a snake in the dark.