Page 21 of Kill Feed

“A bit of both,” I say finally. “You can plan all you want, but instinct matters most. You either see it, or you don’t. Hesitation ruins the shot.”

He hums quietly. “That explains the way you work.”

I should let that sit. Instead, I hear myself ask, “What about you?”

He arches a brow. “What about me?”

“You don’t strike me as someone who jogs for fun,” I claim, gesturing towards his attire as my gaze lingers for half a second too long on his chest.

Dante laughs, shifting his weight from one leg to another. “I own a boxing gym, The Nine Rounds,” he says. “On Brookvale Street, just off the city center.”

That tracks. I take him in again without pretending not to this time. I scale the breadth of his shoulders, the density of muscle under fitted gym wear.

“Figures,” I scoff, peeling my eyes away, landing purposefully onto his dog, and that subtle gesture invites her closer. Ender noses my leg, tail thudding energetically as ever. I absently scratch behind her ears, grounding myself in the motion. When I look back up, Dante is watching my hand, not my face.

“You ever shoot interiors?” he asks.

“Sometimes.”

“I renovated the gym a while back,” he continues, tone casual, like this is an afterthought. “Redid the lighting, layout, and equipment flow. Never updated the site, so it was time to modernize the place a bit. I was thinking… someone with your eye might do it justice. With its recent upgrades, I need to upload new reference photos to the website. You up for that?”

I nod once. “Yeah.” The answer comes fast but not carelessly.

Dante studies me for a beat longer than necessary. “You didn’t even ask how much.”

“You wouldn’t offer if it wasn’t worth it.” A slow, pleased smile spreads across my face as the words simmer in the air.

He responds with a smile, a flicker of excitement barely visible in his eyes, but I catch it anyway.

Without wasting any time, he reaches into the back pocket of his joggers and pulls out his phone. “I’ll send you the address with the date and time as well.” Ender leans into his leg like she approves of the decision.

He hands me the phone, and I type in my number, saving myself as a contact while casually scanning the screen. Nothing useful—just an 85% battery and the time displayed in the corner.

“I’ll message you sometime today,” he claims. “Maybe I can teach you a thing or two while you’re there.”

The thought catches me off guard, but before I can formulate a response, Dante clips the leash back on Ender.

“Well, I should let you get back to work,” he states, stepping back at last, forcing motion into limbs. “Those flowers aren’t going to shoot themselves.” Dante peers down at the trampled subject matter before moving past me. This time he doesn’t brush his shoulder against mine, nor does he make one last quip. Yet, once again, I’m left stranded by this wildly enigmatic encounter.

The climbing gym is already alive when I get there.

Not loud exactly, but active as always. Chalk dust hangs in the air as rubber soles squeak against textured walls with the low thud of bodies dropping onto padded mats. Music hums through the speakers, something electronic and repetitive enough to fade into the background.

Lucas is impossible to miss. He’s standing under one of the overhang routes, hands on his hips, staring up, personally digesting the wall.

“I’m telling you,” he rambles as I walk up, “this route is cheating. No human has arms that long.”

Amani’s seated on the bench nearby, methodically tightening the straps on her climbing shoes. She looks relaxed with loose posture and calm breathing, but her eyes seem distant.

I step into the space and feel it immediately.

Familiar ground.

Lucas spots me and points. “There he is. The man who disappears for hours and comes back smelling like forest and unresolved thoughts. You missed out on a fucking great night, Summers.”

“I was working,” I claim, joining his side.

“That’s what people who enjoy suffering say,” he shoots back.