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“You are one now. Might as well embrace the aesthetic.”

“Ridiculous,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. “They’re going to stare."

“They’d stare anyway.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are.”

I sigh dramatically, because of course he’s not budging. “Fine. But I swear, if one of them breathes down my neck while I’m comparing processors, I’ll stab them with a stylus.”

He smiles like I just complimented him. "Now you’re starting to sound like one of us."

I fake a gagging motion, but a smile sneaks onto my lips anyway.

By the time I’m in the SUV with Aaron and Cain—Lazaro’s favorite muscleheads—I’m half regretting my decision. Aaron sits beside me in the back, practically vibrating with military alertness, while Cain is at the wheel, eyes flicking to every passing pedestrian like they’re armed to the teeth.

I slump into the seat and groan. “This is humiliating.”

“Not our fault you picked a laptop over basic freedom,” Aaron mutters, checking his watch like I’m a ticking bomb.

I glare at him. "You know what’s worse than Windows? You."

He doesn’t respond, but I swear I catch the corner of his mouth twitching.

The ride through Manhattan isn’t long, but it feels eternal. The moment we pull up to the electronics store, I’m already bracing myself for the awkward stares. Because nothing says ‘casual shopping trip’ like a woman flanked by two men who look like they moonlight as mercenaries.

“Stay close,” Aaron orders as we step out.

“I wasn’t planning on sprinting off into the sunset with a MacBook,” I grumble.

The store is bright, crowded, full of everyday chaos—crying toddlers, clueless tech buyers, and the comforting murmur of people chatting amongst themselves. Everything feels normal. Almost comforting.

Aaron sticks to my side like static cling, eyes scanning everything, while Cain waits outside near the SUV, arms crossed, head on a swivel.

I stroll over to the tech counter, letting my fingers skim over the rows of shiny, overpriced Apple products. Comparing specs and tapping on cooperative keyboards has a strange kind of calm—nothing like battling a war-torn typewriter.

“This one,” I murmur, testing the weight of a MacBook with an M2 chip and matte finish. “Perfect balance. Sleek design. Not a single soul-draining bloatware icon in sight.”

Aaron raises a brow. “You sound like you’re flirting with it.”

“Let me live.”

Just as I’m scrolling through display settings, a familiar voice cuts in behind me.

“This is why he doesn’t let you work unsupervised.”

I turn to see Ian—another one of Lazaro’s men, and apparently, the unofficial president of the Grumpy Henchmen Club.

“Nice to see you too,” I quip, tapping through trackpad sensitivity settings. “I’m being productive. That counts, right?”

“You’re ten seconds from hacking the store’s mainframe just to adjust a color profile.”

“I like precision.”

He mutters something under his breath, but I’m too busy grinning at the screen.

“Calista.” Aaron’s voice sharpens suddenly, and it pulls me from my tech-induced trance.