Page 87 of Hide From Me

“Fitting,” I say, sarcasm laced through my voice as I eye the door in front of us. The nameplate readsCaptain Jonathan—crooked as hell.

My stomach twists as King reaches for the handle. There’s no way he’s my father, right? That’d be a pretty shitty foundation to build a relationship on. But in my warped, illogical brain, it would make sense. I haven’t seen his face, but the rough skin around his knuckles says he’s at least twenty years older than me—or he’s just been through hell.

Still, we’ve got one thing in common already—we both wear masks. That’s got to count for something.

As the door swings open, another man stands motionless, his hand extended as if he was preparing to leave. He quickly tucks it into his pocket and raises his other hand to pull a dark cigar from his crooked grin.

“I was getting worried they were interrogating you instead of following orders,” the man says with an accent similar to Caspian's British lilt. “Glad to see they brought you back in one piece.”

“We always follow orders,” King says flatly.

The girl brushes past both men and into the office like she owns it. I lean, trying to see what she’s doing, but Jonathan blocks my view, and King’s hand clamps around the back of my neck like I’m a kid who wandered too far from their parents.

“In case they didn’t introduce themselves, that’s King,” The man says, cigar now pointed directly at him, “and that’s Delilah. I’m Jonathan.”

I glance between them, expecting King to flinch at having a lit cigar aimed at his chest, but he doesn’t move. Jon clears his throat, and I snap to attention, extending my hand.

“Moe, sir.”

He lets out a short laugh, tucks the cigar between his teeth, and clasps my hand tight enough to make every tendon in my arm light up. “No need for the ‘sir.’ Just call me Jon.”

He finally releases me—barely—and throws an arm around my shoulder, steering me down the hall like we’re old pals.

“Moe, huh? That your real name?”

“Uh, well..." I glance around, trying to orient myself using the base layout I memorized, but nothing here helps. There are no numbers or names, just a stretch of cracked concrete and identical gray steel doors. It’s like I’m in a goddamn maze.

“Yeah,” I answer, still half-scanning the hall.

“That’s different. Not something you hear every day. Kind of like your hair.” He runs a hand through it before I can stop him, ruffling it like I’m twelve. I step away and force a laugh, because seriously—what is it with these people and no sense of personal space?

“If you want, you can change it while you’re here,” Jon offers. “Think of it like a callsign. Temporary. Useful.”

Almost everyone back home has one. I never really needed one because it always felt natural to use my real name. Callsigns are for anonymity—for people who need to protect something but the only person I ever needed to protect was Caspian, and even then, he’s always felt untouchable. Like nothing could really get to him.

“Isn’t that technically what a callsign is?” I ask, eyeing the doors again. Behind a few, I catch muffled voices, the tapping of keyboards. Surely they're office spaces but it’s all too sterile. Like we’re not meant to remember any of it.

“Exactly. But you don’t have to take it with you when you leave.”

He slows and nudges his shoulder into mine, casual but deliberate.

“How about ‘Nuisance’?” King growls from behind.

“They say insults are a form of flirting,” I purr, glancing back over my shoulder at him, but the moment’s broken when he smacks the back of my head—not playfully like Sam. This one’s solid, reprimanding, like a father disciplining a son.

Oh god.

“My girlfriend calls me ‘Monster.’ I guess it can work here,” I say, trying to distract myself.

“Why didn’t they send Reaper? I like him.” King completely dismisses my statement, making me roll my eyes.

He means Sam but Reaper is his callsign.

“You tried to kill him,” Jon says flatly, lifting his arm to stub his cigar against a long black streak on the wall as we walk. Judging by the layers of ash crustedinto the concrete, it’s not the first time he’s done it. Thank god the walls are fireproof, or this whole place would’ve gone up in smoke by now.

“It was one time,” King groans like we’re supposed to feel bad for him, and my teeth clench at the dramatics.

Jesus.