The warehouse still smelled like dust and cardboard. The conveyor belts still rattled like loose bones. And Carl still watched from behind the glass office, arms crossed, waiting for someone to slip.
Ethan lifted another box.
Pain shot through his arm—sharp, electric—but he didn’t stop. He adjusted his grip, jaw tightening. Bills didn’t care about bullets. Rent didn’t care about hero stories.
“Cole,” Carl’s voice barked from across the floor. “You planning to work today or just stand there bleeding on my inventory?”
Ethan didn’t even look up. “I’m working.”
Carl snorted. “Looks like it.”
Same tone. Same dismissal.
Like the mall hadn’t happened at all.
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