Page 3 of Thor

Pastel blue walls greeted me, adorned with twinkling fairy lights that cast a gentle glow across the space. A twin bed pressed against one wall, covered in a patchwork quilt bursting with primary colors. Stuffed animals of all shapes and sizes perched along the headboard—bears, rabbits, unicorns, and dragons, each with a name and personality I knew by heart.

The bookshelf opposite held picture books with well-worn spines, coloring books, and plastic bins of crayons, markers, and glitter pens organized by color. A small television sat atop a white dresser painted with rainbow handprints. Beside it, a tiny refrigerator hummed softly.

I felt the tension in my shoulders dissolve as I sank onto the plush rainbow rug in the center of the room. My breathing slowed. Here, spreadsheets didn't matter. Partnership tracks didn't exist. I didn't have to be strong or smart or perfect.

I reached for Mr. Hoppy, a floppy-eared rabbit with fur worn thin from years of hugs. His left ear was slightly crooked where I'd had to stitch it back on after a particularly bad day three years ago. I clutched him to my chest, burying my face in his soft belly.

"Oh, Mr. Hoppy," I whispered. "I missed you today."

I imagined him answering in the gentle voice I'd created for him: "I missed you too, little one. Was it a hard day?"

"So hard," I murmured. "The numbers wouldn't stop."

I crawled to the mini-fridge and pulled out a carton of chocolate milk. My special sippy cup—purple with glitter trapped between plastic layers—waited on top. I filled it carefully, screwed on the lid with stars cut into it, and took a long drink. The chocolate was sweet and comforting, nothing like the black coffee I drank all day at work.

The remote control felt bulky in my hand as I turned on the television and found my favorite magical girl anime. Bright colors flashed across the screen, the simple story of friendship and courage making me smile. I settled back on the rug, reaching for my unicorn coloring book and the box of crayons.

I selected a pink crayon, its paper wrapper already half-peeled from use, and began carefully filling in the unicorn's mane. The simple motion of staying within the lines soothed me. Each stroke was deliberate, the waxy color building in layers until it was perfect.

"Mr. Hoppy," I said, propping him up against my leg, "Amy's treatments are working. But they cost so much." I switched to a purple crayon for the unicorn's tail. "I'm going to help the Kings with their money tomorrow. The scary motorcycle men."

I colored in silence for a moment, imagining Mr. Hoppy's concerned expression.

"I know they're dangerous," I continued, my voice small. "But they pay real good, and Amy needs me." I put down the crayon and picked him up again, squeezing him tight. "What if they find out about this? About . . . little me?"

The thought sent a chill through me. My Little side was my deepest secret—the part of me that found comfort in childish things when the adult world became too much. The only person in the whole world who knew about this side of me was my sister, Amy. If the Kings ever discovered this vulnerability, or, god forbid, my colleagues at Prestige Partners . . .

I shook my head and turned back to my coloring, focusing on the simple joy of creating something pretty. The cartoon played in the background, its cheerful theme song at odds with the worry that lingered even in this sanctuary.

"It'll be okay," I told Mr. Hoppy, though my voice wavered. "I'll be very professional. Very grown-up. They'll never know."

I checked my watch. It was time to go.

IparkedmyAudibetweena beat-up pickup truck and a gleaming Harley in the back lot of Marked Kings Tattoo. The contrast was obvious. My luxury sedan stuck out badly among the motorcycles. I'd changed back into professional clothing before leaving home, trading my soft pink clothes for dark jeans and a forest green blouse that made my eyes pop while still looking professional. Professional was my armor. I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, tucked a strand of hair behind an ear, and grabbed my laptop bag. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

The neon sign above the shop entrance hummed and flickered, casting a purple glow across the cracked pavement. "Marked Kings Tattoo" in angular black letters, with a crown design that matched the patches I'd seen on the Heavy Kings' leather cuts. A subtle reminder of who really owned this place.

I took a deep breath and walked in, the bell above the door announcing my arrival. The shop hit all my senses at once—the sharp smell of antiseptic and ink, the low rumble of rock music from hidden speakers, the buzz of tattoo machines that sounded like angry metal bees. Artwork covered every inch of wall space—flash designs, photographs of finished pieces, and what I recognized as Heavy Kings imagery—crowns, motorcycles, stylized weapons.

This world couldn't be further from the hushed corridors of Prestige Partners if it tried.

"There she is! The numbers witch!"

Lena emerged from behind a black curtain separating the front from the back rooms. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, bright blue streaks framing her face. Today she wore ripped black jeans and a tank top that showcased the intricate sleeve tattoos running down both arms—flowers and skulls intertwined in a dance that somehow worked.

She gave me a quick side-hug, the scent of her jasmine perfume mixing with the shop's industrial smells. "Thanks for coming. You know, this place would crash and burn without your brain."

I smiled, relaxing slightly. Lena had that effect—making everyone feel instantly comfortable despite her edgy appearance. "So, your new receptionist did a number on these accounts?"

"That's putting it mildly. He's good with the customers but absolute shit with numbers." She led me through the curtain to a cluttered back office. "I've set you up here. Coffee's fresh."

The desk was buried under receipts, invoices, and tax forms. A laptop that had seen better days sat open, the spreadsheet on screen making me wince. Columns didn't align, formulas were broken, and several categories were completely missing.

"Jesus," I muttered, setting down my bag. "This is worse than you said."

Lena laughed. "Yeah, well, I didn't want to scare you off. That's why you get the big bucks." She pointed to a large coffee cup. "Black, one sugar, right?"

I nodded, touched she remembered. I settled into the chair and cracked my knuckles, already seeing the patterns in the chaos. I could do this, even if was so tired that my eyes felt like they needed to be propped open with toothpicks to keep them from shutting.

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