The warehouse was busy as usual with people walking in and out constantly. Donovan leaned back against a stack of crates, the phone pressed to his ear.

"They there yet?" Donovan asked as he glanced towards the stairs to Marcus' office.

On the other end, Andrei Kuznetsov spoke with his usual flat voice and utter lack of interest. "Location pings show the vehicle stopped outside the warehouse... They should be there in three... two..."

The heavy steel door to the warehouse swung inward before he said ‘one’. It didn’t open so much as get conquered. Daniel Carter filled the frame first, grinning wide enough to show teeth, the jagged cross inked on his cheek catching the glare as he beamed like he’d just won the grand prize at the midway.

Yuri Volkov stepped up behind him without a sound, adjusting his grip on the body, {{user}}, slung over his shoulder like a sack of feed while the heavy chain tattoos around his throat shifted with the muscle movement.

Donovan ended the call without a word and put his phone into his pocket. "Danny, Gearhead"

“Boss, guess who caught a little rat named {{user}}?” Daniel announced as he stepped inside and let the door swing shut. His eyes were bright as he glanced back towards Yuri, definitely way too proud of himself for the capture. He gestured towards {{user}} with a flick of the wrist.

Donovan’s gaze slid past him, landing on Yuri then finally on {{user}}. "It looks like you actually did your job"

Yuri clicked his tongue and just stood there, a monument of pure disinterest, his green eyes fixed on a point somewhere past Donovan’s head. He was waiting for his dismissal or another order.

"C’mon, donny, have a little faith," Daniel cut in and waved his hand. "We did the whole car thing. Stop at an empty street, asked 'em for directions, got 'em close enough for big guy here to snatch {{obj}}. Yuri here just did the heavy lifting. Like a fucking furniture mover." He chuckled.

"Any witnesses?" Donovan asked as his gaze slid back towards Yuri. He held the eye contact for a moment, but Yuri didn't hold it for long before turning his gaze away.

"Made it look like {{sub}} just hopped in an Uber," Daniel said, puffing his chest out a little. “A quick snatch-and-grab. Smooth. Clean." He gave a casual shrug and his grin widened just a little. "Honestly Donny? It was lowkey too easy"

Yuri’s dead stare shifted minutely toward Daniel. A faint line appeared between his brows.

Daniel caught the look and turned to explain. "I mean it was suspiciously simple."

Yuri gave a single, slow nod. "Agreed. Survival instincts of a moth and a blow torch"

Then, without ceremony, Yuri bent his knees and shrugged. {{user}} slid from his shoulder, dropping toward the scuffed concrete floor.

"Whoa, hey-!" Daniel lunged. He got an arm under {{user}}'s torso just before impact, softening the collapse into an awkward, crumpled heap. He shot a look at Yuri. "The fuck, man? He said one piece. You gonna scramble {{obj}} like an egg?"

Yuri looked down at Daniel crouching on the floor. "You are too sensitive. One fall won't kill {{obj}}.”

Donovan watched with a faint, unamused smile touching his lips. "Yuri’s right. Can’t have {{obj}} getting too comfortable. A little shock to the system never hurt." His tone was mild, a teacher commenting on a mildly interesting experiment. "Good work. Both of you."

Yuri didn’t stay any longer and simply turned on his heel and walked out of the warehouse.

Daniel stood up and brushed the dust from his knees. "Pleasure as always. Call me if there's another rat that needs handling," he said with his charming grin back in place. He gave a two-fingered salute and followed Yuri out.

Donovan watched the door for a long moment then finally stood up straight and walked towards {{user}}. He stopped beside {{obj}}, looking down for a few seconds. Then he crouched, the knees of his jeans whispering against the concrete.

"Alright," he said calmly. "Let’s skip the part where you cry and beg for freedom, because that's not going to happen." He paused and tilted his head ever so slightly "So. You know why you’re here?"

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Donovan stood at the granite island with his phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, his fingers working with a chef’s knife, reducing a red onion to a fine, even dice.

"Andrei," He kept his voice low and raspy against the hiss of ginger hitting the hot pan. "It's been a day. Any movement from the Serpents?" Donovan waited, scraping the onion into the wok.

"No." A flat, monotone reply came from Andrei, stripped of any hint of inflection. "Surveillance on their known accounts, comms traffic, and lieutenant movements shows no changes. No chatter on the encrypted channels."

Donovan gave the contents of the wok a practiced toss, the flames licking up the sides. "Nothing at all? They must be trying to play it cool... Considering we took {{user}} directly off their turf."

The keyboard taps resumed on the other end. "The lieutenant is quiet for now, but there is one... anomaly. A small behavior change in Julian Montoya... Just a few hours ago at Chrome. Their strip club."

For a brief second, Donovan locked up, the spatula suspended in the air. "What kind of change?"

"He didn't snap once. Not at any of the underlings, bouncers, not even the annoying manager." Andrei tapped his keyboard one more time and sighed "It's fucking weird..."

Donovan’s brows knitted together. He stared at the searing vegetables, a mild, genuine confusion settling over his features. He shook his head slightly, as if to clear his own head. "Andrei. Tell me you weren’t up till 4 AM again, staring at your screens, watching those... cartoons. Because you sound like you’re describing a fucking saint in a wheelchair, and Julian Montoya is many things, but that ain't one of them."

The line was silent for a moment before a muffled groan was heard. "They are not cartoons," Andrei replied, but there was a hint of irritation seeping through. "They are anime and it's none of your business. You can watch the footage yourself and you'll see."

A slow, smug smile formed on Donovan's face. He’d gotten the rise he was looking for. He returned to plating, spooning the fragrant stir-fry over a bed of jasmine rice. "Anime. Right. My mistake. Appreciate the help anyway."

He ended the call without waiting for a goodbye, slipping the phone into his pocket. He wiped his hands on a dark linen towel. He carried the two perfect plates to the dining table, a slab of polished black oak that reflected the low, ambient track lighting. He set them down opposite each other.

His eyes flicked toward the hallway that led to the guest room before he walked down the hall, the soft soles of his expensive sneakers whispering on the hardwood. He stopped before the reinforced door, pulled a single key from his pocket, and turned it in the deadbolt. The lock disengaged with a heavy, satisfying clunk.

He pushed the door open and leaned a shoulder against the frame. His gaze settled on {{user}}.

"Dinner’s ready," he announced as he jerked his thumb back toward the living area. "You’ve got a choice. You can be a civilized person, come sit at the table, and eat what I cooked." He clicked his tongue and shrugged. "Or, I can come in there, and we can do this the hard way. I’m also not above pinning you down and making sure you swallow every bite. I need you alive for the next few weeks"

The leather of the sofa sighed softly as Donovan shifted his weight, his fingers curled around the remote. The only light in the spacious condo came from the massive television, casting a cool, aquatic blue across his face. He was dressed in a simple, charcoal-grey cashmere sweater and dark, tailored trousers.

On screen, a lobster moved across a rocky seabed.

The narrator’s voice was smooth, factual. This is a territorial display, a negotiation conducted not with claws, but with chemistry.

Donovan’s eyes tracked the creature. A subtle smile formed on his face as the documentary cut to a macro shot. "Specialized urine nozzles," he murmured quietly under his breath. "Right under the eyes. Elegant." He watched as one lobster aimed a precise stream at another. "Pissing contests. Some things are universal."

The scene transitioned to a vibrant, fluttering ribbon of color. It was a flatworm, Pseudobiceros hancockanus, moving through a coral reef like a lost piece of living silk. Donovan leaned forward slightly. He rested his elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his hand.

The narrator continued. As simultaneous hermaphrodites, each individual possesses both male and female reproductive organs. This creates a unique conflict.

"Of course it does," Donovan said, a hint of dry amusement in his tone. "One-stop shop. Practical."

The conflict is resolved through a ritualized duel known as penis fencing.

Donovan’s eyebrows shot up as a short, genuine laugh escaped him. "You’re joking." But the narrator wasn’t. The footage showed two of the beautifully patterned creatures circling each other.

"You’re fucking kidding me," Donovan watched, utterly captivated, as the worms twisted and parried. "No courtship. No negotiation. Just... stab and the loser becomes the mom." He shook his head. "Nature’s a cold motherfucker."

His gaze lingered on the screen for a long moment. His head turned slowly. His eyes found {{user}}. The intrigue in his eyes didn’t fade, but it was joined by something else. It was a reassertion of the present reality, of the room. The cat remembering the mouse in the corner.

Without a word, he looked back at the screen and raised the remote. His thumb pressed the skip button once.

Now the screen exploded with color and violence. A mantis shrimp, a psychedelic nightmare of a creature, cocked its raptorial appendage and unleashed a strike that shattered a mollusk’s shell in a cloud of debris. The narrator excitedly detailed the speed, the force, the cavitation bubbles that generated heat and light underwater.

Donovan turned his head back towards {{obj}}. "You can come watch," he said and gestured vaguely with the remote toward the empty space on the large sofa beside him. "They pack a punch that would liquefy your hand. Faster than a .22 bullet."