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I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Everything feels fine as it is. And it’s all because of her.

I pull up to Tyler’s apartment, the engine of the car purring like a contented beast. Chop Suey is snoring in her arms, his little pug face scrunched up like he’s dreaming of chasing squirrels. Tyler’s smiling down at him, her fingers absently scratching behind his ears. It’s a good look on her—relaxed, happy, unburdened. I like it.

“You sure you don’t want me to come up?” I ask, leaning across the console. My hand brushes her knee, and she shivers, her cheeks flushing.

“I’m sure,” she says, but there’s a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. “You’ve got work to do, right? Alien stuff?”

“Alien stuff,” I confirm, smirking. “But it can wait.”

She shakes her head, her smile softening. “No, it can’t. You’re protecting me, remember? Go do your thing. I’ll be fine.”

I glance around the street, my eyes catching on the subtle signs of Veritas agents—a man reading a newspaper on a bench, a woman walking a dog that’s too well-trained to be just a pet. They’re good. Almost too good. But I spot them, and it eases the tightness in my chest.

“Alright,” I say, leaning in to kiss her. She meets me halfway, her lips warm and sweet. Chop Suey lets out a snort of protest, squished between us, and we both laugh.

“Be careful,” she whispers against my mouth, her breath hitching. “Promise me.”

I pull her closer, the puppy and all, and press my forehead to hers. “I promise. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Not while I’m around.”

She nods, her eyes searching mine for a moment before she pulls away. “I’ll see you later?”

“Count on it,” I say, watching as she gets out of the car and heads up the steps to her apartment. She turns at the door, waving, and I wait until she’s inside before driving off.

The office is quiet when I get there, the hum of the city muted by the thick glass walls. I head straight for the holocom room, the door hissing shut behind me. The air shimmers as the connection establishes, and Pyke’s face materializes in front of me, his red scales catching the light.

“Lanz,” he says, his voice gravelly. “Status?”

“Tyler’s safe,” I say, leaning against the console. “Veritas agents are in place. But we’ve got a problem.”

“The Cannery,” Pyke says, nodding. “I’ve moved all the agents I can spare into the area, but it’s less than twenty. A direct assault isn’t an option.”

“No kidding,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “We’re outnumbered ten to one. We need a different approach.”

“Agreed,” Pyke says, his golden eyes narrowing. “Bob’s been active. He’s left a trail, even if he doesn’t know it. Find it. Figure out what he’s planning.”

“Legwork,” I say, sighing. “My favorite.”

Pyke’s lips twitch, the closest he gets to a smile. “You’re good at it. And Lanz—don’t get cocky. This isn’t just about you anymore.”

I nod, the weight of his words settling on my shoulders. “I know. I’ll keep her safe.”

“See that you do,” Pyke says, and the connection cuts out, leaving me alone in the dimly lit room. I stare at the empty space where his hologram had been, my mind already racing. Bob’s out there, and he’s not going to stop until he gets what he wants. But neither am I.

"Computer, activate city-wide surveillance protocol alpha-seven."

The wall of screens flickers to life, flooding my office with a blue glow. Data streams across multiple displays - traffic cameras, cell tower pings, social media posts, credit card transactions.

"Track subject designation: Bob. Last known appearance at Doggone Elegance pet grooming."

The AI compiles the data, building a movement pattern. Red dots appear on the city map, tracking Bob's path through Sunny Cove over the past 48 hours.

"Interesting." I lean forward, studying the cluster of points. "He's visited both the St. Mary's and Good Shepherd homeless shelters."

The Grolgath have always had a weird relationship with charity. Their religious texts preach about uplifting the downtrodden, which leads to some surprisingly humanitarian behavior from a race hell-bent on temporal manipulation.

But this doesn't feel right. Bob's not the type for random acts of kindness.

I pull up my compad and dial Gordo's frequency. His furry face appears, bloodshot eyes suggesting he's nursing another hangover.