Page 39 of Veil of Dust
I wipe it on my jeans. They’re already stained. Doesn’t matter.
Then I stop.
Something changes.
The kind of quiet that means someone’s there. Someone I didn’t hear come in.
I don’t call out.
I grab the rag off the shelf, grip it tight like I might need it for more than wiping bottles.
Then, I hear it.
A step. Light. Measured. One boot hitting the concrete.
I turn.
Tomas stands in the doorway.
He’s not supposed to be here. Said something about a supply run earlier, heading out of town. But he’s here now. Leaning on the frame like he owns it.
His face isn’t the same as usual. No grin. No half-lidded flirt. His mouth is tight, and his eyes are alert.
“Morning,” he says.
I don’t answer.
He steps forward, hand out. Calm. Not fast.
He’s holding something.
It catches the light.
A knife.
Short. Four inches, maybe. Fixed blade. Handle wrapped in black cord. No chips, no marks. Clean, but clearly used.
He flips it once, then offers it to me—handle first.
“You’re gonna need this,” he says.
I don’t move at first. Then, I take it.
The weight settles in my hand. Balanced. Familiar.
“Bit early for presents,” I say, steady.
He shakes his head. “Not a gift. Call it a suggestion.”
I look it over. The edge is sharp. I wouldn’t need much effort to make it count.
“You hand these out to everyone on the payroll?”
“No,” he says. “Just the ones being followed.”
I look up. His voice lands with weight.
“You want to run that by me again?”
