Instead of heading straight out, I turned down a side corridor on the executive floor — a space reserved for owners and foreign investors who needed a discreet place to change, shower, or disappear.
"Let's clean up," I told Cam, jerking my chin toward one of the private washrooms.
The wipes had done their job, but I could still see it—dark in the creases of my knuckles, ghosting the lines in my palms.
Inside, I stripped the gloves and shirt I'd worn over my clothes, tossing them into the black disposal bag. Cameron did the same, though slower, like the fabric might bite him if he moved too fast.
"You missed a spot," I said, nodding at the thin streak along his cuff.
He glanced down, swore under his breath, and scrubbed at it with the heel of his hand.
We washed up in silence. The water ran pink, then clear. I dried my hands, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the exit.
We hit the garage. The air smelled like cold steel and rubber—clean. Easier to breathe.
"So… I'll, uh—"
