Page 19 of Tricked By Jack
The courier remains silent, arm extended toward me with the envelope. The lenses of his mask reflect distorted versions of me back at myself—two miniature Eves, wide-eyed and disheveled. One looks afraid. The other looks hungry. I don’t know which one I hate more.
“What is it?” I demand, making no move to accept it.
His breathing changes slightly—a barely perceptible shift in rhythm that suggests something like amusement. But his arm remains extended, unwavering, as if he could stand there all night waiting for me to accept his offering.
Caleb appears behind me, placing a possessive hand on my shoulder, drawing me slightly back from the doorway while simultaneously taking a step forward.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demands, positioning himself partly in front of me.
The courier doesn’t acknowledge him, focus remaining fixed on me, arm still extended with that damn envelope.
“He’s the one who delivered the rose,” I explain, watching the courier for any reaction.
“What do you want with her?” Caleb’s voice tightens with suspicion as he steps fully in front of me, addressing the courier directly. “Are you a fucked up fan or something?”
I arch my eyebrow at the question. A fan? A former psychiatrist turned rebellious party girl isn’t something that naturally gathers fans of any kind.
The courier remains motionless, breathing steady through the filter of his mask. The continued silence seems to infuriate Caleb, whose hands curl into fists at his sides.
“Look, asshole, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you need to back off.” Caleb moves closer, invading the courier’s space. “She’s not interested. So why don’t you take your shit and get the hell out of here?”
Still nothing. No acknowledgment, no retreat, no change in posture. Just that deep breathing and the steadily extended arm. It’s as if Caleb doesn’t exist at all—as if the courier can see only me, and is programmed to complete only one task.
“Caleb,” I say, a note of warning in my voice. Something about the courier’s stillness triggers my professional instincts—the calm before a storm, the potential energy waiting to be converted.
Either Caleb doesn’t hear me or chooses to ignore my caution. This isn’t a street fight. It’s a duel. Something older, crueler, the kind of violence people used to offer gods.
He steps even closer, chest nearly touching the courier’s outstretched arm. “Are you fucking deaf? I said, get out of here.”
Acknowledging Caleb’s presence for the first time, the courier tilts his head slightly. But his arm remains extended, the envelope still offered to me.
“That’s it,” he snaps, patience exhausted. His hand shoots out, shoving hard against the courier’s chest. “Get fucking lost—”
The courier’s free hand catches his wrist mid-shove, twisting it at an angle that makes the latter gasp in surprise. In the same fluid motion, the man steps to the side, using Caleb’s own momentum to unbalance him.
Caleb recovers quickly, yanking his arm free and lunging forward with a growl. His fist connects with the courier’s shoulder, but he barely flinches. Instead, he tucks the envelope inside his jacket with one hand while the other deflects the next punch with practiced ease.
“Stop!” I shout, but neither of them acknowledges me.
Bodies slam against the hallway walls. Caleb grapples for purchase, trying to use his weight against the slightly taller man, but the courier slips from his grasp like water through fingers.
They move down the hallway in a tangle of limbs, Caleb pushing forward, the courier redirecting rather than opposing. I follow them, heart hammering in my chest, torn between the need to intervene and the paralyzing knowledge that I don’t know how.
“Stop it!” I try again as they approach the stairwell door. “He’s not worth it!”
But Caleb is beyond hearing. His face is flushed with effort and anger, a vein pulsing at his temple as he drives the courier back another step. For a moment, it seems like he might gain the upper hand—his fingers close around the other man’s throat, seeking purchase against the high collar of the leather jacket.
The courier’s gloved hands come up between Caleb’s arms with calculated precision, breaking the hold in a single outward motion. Before he can recover, the courier’s boot hooks behind his ankle, destabilizing him.
A sharp pivot, a controlled push against Caleb’s sternum, and suddenly the balance of power shifts completely. Caleb stumbles backward, arms windmilling as his body meets the stairwell door.
It swings open under his weight, and for one suspended moment, he hangsin the doorway, teetering on the edge of the top step. As the courier gives one final push, Caleb’s eyes widen in shocked realization as gravity claims him.
My scream tears through the hallway as he disappears from view. There’s a series of sickening thuds, punctuated by a grunt of pain, then a final, heavier impact as his body hits… something. The impact reverberates through the stairwell, bouncing off the walls as I stand frozen in horror.
“Caleb!” I lunge toward the stairs, but the courier’s arm extends across my path, not touching me but clearly blocking my way. I stare at him, incredulous. “Get the hell out of my way,” I demand.
Rather than letting me pass, he just stands there—breathing slow, mechanical, steady—until the silence between us curdles into something intimate, possessive, like the quiet belongs only to us.
