Page 5 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

Inside that envelope was my life. Phantom employee history. Fake tax returns. A meticulously crafted paper trail proving the existence of a man named Tom.

I didn’t get attached to the car. I don’t get attached to anything. Albuquerque. Reno. A stint as a long-haul trucker. Eight months in this miserable town as a drifter. I sleep in my clothes. I keep my go-bag packed. My files are sorted into separate folders. Every identity is a layer of dirt shovelled over my own grave. I wear the skin of men who don’t exist, and when I peel it off, there’s nothing underneath. I’ve run so many covers I don’t know who I am without a role. I haven’t wanted a single thing for myself in four years. The faint scent of oak rises from the floorboards—worn smooth, cupped at the edges, old enough to be prewar. Not a hot meal. Not a real bed. Not a name.

Then she touched my arm.

The Ignition fired, and the dead man woke up. I’m Tyler again. And I’m violently attached to the woman standing behind the register.

I turn back around. She’s sorting records. Her movements are a ritual. Sliding the cardboard sleeve out of the plastic cover. Checking the black vinyl for scratches. The soft scrape of the material. The quiet thud of the record dropping into the crate.

She operates with the ice-cold precision of a soldier, but she’s a civilian. She survived in this town by being sharp. The shop is what she has left of her mother. She defends it like a fortress.

I walk toward the counter. I step around the edge, invading her space. She stiffens, her spine going rigid, but she holds her ground. She doesn’t retreat. The bravery of it makes something in my chest sharpen.

I push through the beaded curtain located behind the register. The plastic beads clack loudly against each other, snapping over my shoulders as I enter the back room.

The smell of warm vinyl dust is stronger back here. The faint scent of oak rises from the original 1920s flooring. The room is a small storage space functioning as a bunker. Cardboard boxes of unsorted vinyl litter the floor. A record player sits on a plastic milk crate in the corner. A thrifted lamp with a yellowed shade casts a dim, bruised light over the walls.

In the center of the space is a single mattress resting on a low wooden frame.

This is her sanctuary. This is her private space. The blankets are rumpled. The imprint of her body is still visible on the sheets. The territorial rage spikes so hard my vision actually blurs at the edges. She sleeps here. In the back of a shop in a town crawling with Syndicate soldiers. She has no security. No iron gates. No reinforced steel. Just a glass front door and a beaded curtain.

I stare at the mattress. The decision locks into place with the metallic finality of a bank vault slamming shut.

I sleep here now. I’m claiming this space. I’m never letting her out of my sight.

I step past the mattress to the steel door leading to the back alley. The deadbolt is engaged. I test the handle. Solid. No give. I pull my encrypted burner phone from the inner pocket of my worn flannel jacket. I hit the speed dial for the relay.

The line connects on the second ring. Dispatch is always awake.

"Go ahead," Petra says. Her voice is crisp, professional, distorted by the encrypted frequency.

"Cover is intact," I say. My voice sounds dark in the back room. It sounds like a threat. "Compromised by association. The target location asset list is active. Two enforcers entered the sector and scanned faces. The cover identity was claimed by a civilian."

A beat of silence on the line. The Pine Valley relay network is processing the intelligence.

"Understood," Petra replies. "Extraction protocol is ready at the county line. Fall back, operative."

"Negative." The word leaves my mouth before she even finishes the sentence. "I’m embedded at the target location. The Vinyl Vault. I’m holding position."

The silence stretches longer this time. "Confirming embed status. That’s a hostile environment. You need backup from the clubhouse?"

"No." The roar in my head is deafening. Nobody comes near her. Not even my brothers. They’re violent. They’ll look at her, and I’ll have to kill them. I’m keeping her for myself. "I have the perimeter."

I cut the line. I pop the back casing off the burner, rip the battery out, and shove the two pieces into separate pockets. The extraction is canceled. The bridge is burned. The trap is shut, and I’m standing guard on the inside.

I turn around and push back through the beaded curtain.

She’s still standing at the register. The B-side record has finished playing. The needle is scratching rhythmically in the empty groove at the center of the vinyl. Hiss. Pop. Hiss. Pop.

She reaches out and lifts the needle. The silence that follows is thick. Saturated with the unspoken knowledge that everything has changed.

"Portland is a long drive," she says. Her tone is dry. Mocking. She’s picking apart the cover story. Testing the boundaries.

"I drive fast." I step closer to the counter.

She slides a record into a plastic sleeve. "You owe me more than fifty bucks for that performance."

"I'll pay you in labor. The front door hinges squeak. The back deadbolt needs graphite."