Page 92 of Unmanageable

Calvin turns his unblinking gaze to me. “The analytical mind seeks walls where the river seeks flow. You are welcome to observe, counselor. But do not pollute the frequency.”

“I am going to pollute your entire perimeter if you don’t show me his training protocol right now,” I snap.

Cash lets out a soft, choked laugh behind me, his hand tightening slightly on my hip to keep me from lunging at the guy. “We’re good, Scottie. Let’s just see the setup.”

The main training room is even worse than the lobby.

There are no weights, no hockey nets, and no ice. Instead, the entire room is dark, illuminated only by fifty different colored strobe lights flashing in irregular, dizzying intervals against the walls.

In the center hangs a massive, suspended web of black elastic cords, and the floor is covered in thousands of tiny, glowing blue balls rolling around at random.

“The problem with modern goal tending,” Calvin says, gesturing to the flashing, chaotic room, “is that you are trained to look at the puck. The puck is a lie. The puck is a symptom of the shooter’s intent. We do not track the rubber. We track the neural ripple before the blade makes contact.”

“Right,” Cash says. He looks fascinated, his large frame leaning forward. “The kinetic release.”

“Exactly!” Calvin says, his voice rising with excitement. “Strap into the harness. Let the lights correct the fracture in your peripheral awareness.”

Within five minutes, Cash is fully strapped into the black elastic web, suspended about six inches off the floor, while Calvin stands at a control panel, increasing the speed of the flashing strobes until the entire room feels like a high-stakes rave.

Tiny green lasers begin to shoot from the ceiling, and Cash is dropping into the butterfly, his long arms flashing out to swat at the beams with a speed that doesn’t even look human.

I stand in the corner, my back pressed against the white wall, watching him.

He’s sweating, his breath coming in short gasps, his broad shoulders twisting through the harness with a fluid, terrifying precision.

The craziest part isn’t the lights or the weird tunic—it’s the fact that he isn’t missing. Every single laser beam that shoots from the darkness is met by his blocker or his glove before the light can hit the wall behind him.

Calvin glides over to me, his expression serene.

“He is transitioning,” he whispers over the pounding music. “By tomorrow, he will no longer require the conscious mind to defend the cage.”

“Calvin,” I say, leaning close. “If you try to make him drink any ‘special’ tea after this, I am calling the state police.”

“The tea is entirely optional,” Calvin says smoothly, drifting back toward his control panel.

***

Three hours later, we walk back out through the frosted glass doors and step out into the gray afternoon. The second the door clicks shut behind us, I turn on him.

“He called you a vessel, Finn. You just participated in an off-season sports cult.”

“It worked, Scottie,” he says, throwing his arm over my shoulder as we walk toward the van. “I’m telling you, the way the lights move forces your eyes to adjust to the speed before your brain can process it. It’s pure reaction.”

“You’re brainwashed,” I say. “If you start wearing gray tunics to our next training stop in Memphis, I will kill you. I have a reputation to maintain, and ‘cult-led goalie’ isn’t a great look for the agency.”

“Deal,” he grins, starting the air-cooled engine.

Before he pulls out of the gravel lot, he reaches into the dashboard compartment and pulls out a postcard he must have swiped from the truck stop at the border. It’s a terrible, grainy photo of a generic highway under a blanket of aggressive fog.

He clicks a pen with his teeth and flips it over, his shoulder blocking my view as his hand moves across the cardboard in a fast, heavy scrawl.

He lets the ink dry for a second, slides it into the thick white envelope nestled between our seats, and licks the seal with a smug look.

“Nashville is officially in the vault,” he says, tapping the console. “Now let’s find a place that serves real, greasy, non-spiritual food.”

***

We find a bar about three miles down the road. It’s a proper local spot—the kind of place where the air smells like deep-fryer oil, stale draft beer, and damp wool, and the walls are entirely covered in yellowed, autographed pictures of minor-league rosters.