JUNE 22
CHAPTER 22 — The Things We Don't Say
Part I
The abandoned section of the factory stood like a forgotten skeleton of ambition — steel beams exposed to the night air, concrete floors cracked and dusted with fine debris, unfinished walls whispering of halted expansion. Wind moved through the open window frames in slow, hollow breaths, carrying the distant scent of the river and something metallic… something that lingered.
Crystal leaned back against a cold concrete pillar, his breathing steady despite the dark stain spreading across his shirt. Blood seeped through fabric in thick, deliberate patterns, each pulse a reminder of how close steel had come to ending him.
Brownie knelt in front of him.
The world outside that room still roared — men shouting in the underground corridors, footsteps scattering in retreat, the echo of authority and fear. But here, in this half-built silence, it felt like time had paused to watch them.
"Let me see it," she said, her voice low but firm.
Crystal gave her a faint smile, the kind meant to soften tension.
"You already have."
Her eyes lifted slowly to meet his.
Not amused. Not reassured.
"Take it off," she said, nodding toward his shirt.
For a brief second, something unreadable flickered across his face. Then he obeyed.
He peeled the fabric away carefully, jaw tightening only slightly as the movement tugged at the wound. The knife had entered clean but deep, grazing muscle before withdrawing. It wasn't fatal.
But it wasn't light either.
Brownie inhaled slowly.
Up close, she could see the precision of the cut. Not random. Not wild.
Intentional.
She pressed gauze against it, firm and calculated. Crystal's muscles tensed under her touch — solid, controlled, conditioned.
"You didn't hesitate," she said quietly.
"About what?"
"When you came down there."
He looked past her for a moment, eyes drifting toward the dark doorway that led back to the corridor.
"I heard you."
"That's not what I meant."
Her fingers worked efficiently, but her mind was elsewhere — replaying everything.
The way he had emerged from the shadows. The way he had scanned exits. The way he had carried her as if her weight meant nothing. The way he had moved.
People under threat stumbled.
They panicked.
They chose the wrong turns.
Crystal hadn't.
He had navigated that underground labyrinth like someone who'd memorized it.
She tied the temporary bandage tighter than necessary.
He didn't flinch.
That unsettled her more than the blood.
"You knew that place," she said.
It wasn't a question.
Crystal met her gaze fully now. His eyes were dark, steady, almost gentle.
"I adapt quickly."
A gust of wind rattled the loose metal overhead. The sound echoed like distant thunder.
Brownie sat back on her heels, studying him — not as a woman kneeling before a man she was falling for… but as a detective examining a fracture in a narrative.
"I've been in operations long enough to know the difference between quick thinking and familiarity," she said evenly.
Crystal exhaled through his nose, leaning his head back against the pillar. "You're overthinking it."
"Am I?"
Silence pressed between them.
The kind that wasn't empty.
The kind filled with unsaid things.
Brownie reached for antiseptic. When it touched his skin, he inhaled sharply — the first genuine reaction she'd seen since they escaped.
"Does that hurt?" she asked, watching him closely.
"Yes."
"Good."
His eyebrow lifted slightly.
"You're human then."
A faint smile touched his lips despite himself.
"Last time I checked."
But she didn't smile back.
Instead, she leaned closer — close enough to feel his warmth despite the cool night air.
"Crystal," she said softly, "fear makes people messy. It makes them loud. It makes them reckless."
Her eyes searched for him.
"You weren't any of those things."
He didn't respond immediately.
Instead, his gaze drifted down to her hands — steady, precise, competent.
"You're shaking," he observed.
Her fingers paused.
"I'm not."
"You are."
She still forced them.
For a moment, the professional mask cracked — just slightly.
"I thought I lost you," she admitted quietly.
Something shifted in his expression then — something raw.
"I told you to run."
"And you ran toward danger."
"That's what you do too."
The words landed heavier than expected.
Brownie pulled back slightly, absorbing that.
The wind moved again, carrying distant echoes of movement below.
Crystal's body tensed instinctively at the sound.
She saw it.
There.
That reflex.
That awareness.
"You've been in fights before," she said.
It was calm. Clinical.
He looked at her again — really looked at her.
"And you haven't?"
"That's different." she said
"How?"
"Because I'm trained?."
There it was.
The opening.
The invitation.
He held her gaze, something guarded sliding into place behind his eyes.
"Maybe I am too."
The words were quiet.
Almost careless.
But they weren't.
Brownie's heart slowed.
"Who trained you?" she asked.
No accusation.
No raised voice.
Just truth seeking truth.
Crystal looked away.
For the first time since she'd met him… he looked uncertain.
The silence stretched.
And in that silence, Brownie felt something fragile begin to fracture.
"I learned to survive," he said finally.
"That's not what I asked."
His jaw tightened.
"You're investigating me now?"
"I'm trying to understand you."she said
"You already do." replied Crystal
"Do I?" Brownie responded
Their voices remained low — but intensity simmered beneath every word.
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice.
"You think I'm hiding something."
"I think you're not telling me everything."
"That's not the same thing."
"For someone like me," she said quietly, "it is."
A distant metallic clang echoed from somewhere below.
Both of them went still.
Crystal's head tilted just slightly — listening.
Calculating.
Brownie saw it again.
That instinct.
That readiness.
Her mind catalogued it automatically.
File updated.
Variable unstable.
He rose carefully to his feet, testing his balance. Blood had slowed beneath the compression wrap.
"We can't stay here," he said.
She stood too, brushing dust from her knees.
"You think they're still looking?"
"I know they are."
"You sound sure."
"I am."
"How?"
He met her eyes again.
"Because men like that don't leave loose ends."
Men like that.
Not criminals.
Not attackers.
Men like that.
Specific.
Personal.
Brownie felt the weight of something pressing in on them — something larger than the factory, larger than the underground corridor.
"Crystal…" she began.
But he stepped closer.
Too close.
His hand hovered near her shoulder — not touching, but protective.
"You shouldn't have come down there," he said.
Her chin lifted slightly.
"I don't take orders."
"I wasn't giving one."
"Yes, you were."
Another pause.
Then softer:
"I didn't want you there." He said again.
"Why?"
His answer came too quickly.
"Because it's dangerous."
"That's my job."
"This is different."
"How?"
He hesitated.
And in that hesitation, Brownie felt it.
The line.
The invisible boundary he wouldn't let her cross.
Her chest tightened.
"Crystal," she whispered, "if there's something you're not telling me—"
"There isn't."
Too fast.
Too firm.
The wind surged again, sweeping dust across the floor.
Brownie's eyes drifted downward as she stepped closer to steady him.
And that's when she saw it.
Just below his ribs.
Barely visible beneath the smeared blood and fading ink.
A mark.
Not a fresh tattoo.
An old one.
Faded.
But deliberate.
A symbol.
Her breath caught — but only for a fraction of a second.
She didn't react outwardly.
Didn't freeze.
Didn't gasp.
She simply memorized it.
Because she had seen that symbol before.
Not on skin.
On paper.
In a classified case file.
Linked to an organization that didn't officially exist.
ATL.
Her pulse quickened — but her face remained composed.
Crystal followed her gaze briefly.
And for the first time…
He looked afraid