Lets go get that free massage.

You’d been joking about the massages when you said it, but by the end of the day your shoulders still feel like they’ve been run through a vice. Which is weird. You don’t normally stay sore.

Healing fast doesn’t mean invincible, though. Not after trying to throw Irene’s VR moves in the real world. You roll your arm, listening to the joint grind faintly in its socket. A reminder: if you keep screwing around like that, you’re going to tear something you can’t explain away.

And you can’t exactly see a doctor. Not without them noticing you’re built different in ways that don’t show up in anatomy textbooks. The kind of differences that lead to questions you don’t want anyone asking.

So maybe an actual massage isn’t a bad idea.

The gym’s on your way home. A quick look through the office notes confirms Rachel’s schedule — three days a week, and today isn’t one of them. Safe.

You stop at the spa desk, book a massage. The clerk offers a slot. Ninety minutes from now.

Fine.

You wander back toward the yoga studio. Advanced class starts in fifteen.

You think about Irene — the way she moved in VR, her body snapping and coiling like she’d turned herself into a human weapon. If you’re really planning to learn those moves in the real world, yoga wouldn’t be the worst place to start.

You sign up.

Inside the mirrored studio, mats are lined in perfect rows. The instructor radiates serene authority, her voice a low hum of “breathe into the pose” and “find your center.” You settle into the back row, blend in.

The class starts.

You stretch. Twist. Sink into unfamiliar poses with names that sound like bad cocktails. Moving carefully at first, then deeper, testing your range, searching for the mechanics behind the flexibility Irene had. You can feel the edges of your range like tripwires — push too far, and you’ll tear something.

It’s deliberate. Controlled. The kind of practice you can sell as mindfulness, while quietly using it to train for things that don’t involve inner peace.

By the end, you’re damp with sweat and mildly impressed you didn’t collapse. You roll up your mat, wiping your face with the edge of your shirt.

That’s when she approaches — the instructor, all calm smiles and post‑class glow.

“You’re good,” she says, voice light but warm. "You're trained in something. Gymnastics?”

"Boxing," you admit. "But honestly I have no idea what I'm doing. Just doing my best and hoping I don't look too silly."

Her smile lingers a little too long, toeing the line between friendly and interested. Then it shifts. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. We don’t usually get guys in this class… other than, well.” Her glance cuts toward the empty corner where Mr. Dead‑Eyes usually parks himself.

You arch a brow. “The bald guy?”

She nods, subtle. “Management’s aware. But technically, he hasn’t done anything wrong. Just… gives off bad vibes.”

“Yeah,” you say, remembering the way his stare clung to Rachel. “Picked up on that.”

“He only comes for Rachel’s classes. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t follow her out — we’ve made sure of that — but he’s always watching her. Everyone can see it.”

You hum, thoughtful.

Wants to be seen, you think. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s a warning.

But Rachel hadn’t seemed scared. Which doesn’t line up if she’s really being tailed by someone like him.

There’s more to this.

You make a mental note: bring it up with Yvette.

Your watch beeps, telling you you have fifteen minutes before the start of your massage. Perfect timing.

---

The spa clerk greets you with the same plastic‑perfect smile when you check back in with your hair still wet from the shower. You’re led into a low‑lit room, the air thick with eucalyptus and the faint sound of trickling water. You settle onto the table, letting the tension bleed out from your body.

You let yourself relax.

The room hums with quiet: soft water sounds from hidden speakers, a low thrum of instrumental music that doesn’t quite register as a song. The kind of place designed to make you forget the world outside.

You’re face‑down on the table, the paper crinkling under you, head in the cradle. Your massage therapist introduces her as Simone. Pretty name. spa‑voice. Small frame.

Her hands are steady, deliberate, pressing into the knots buried deep in your shoulders.

You’d expected good. This is better.

“You hold a lot of tension here,” she says, soft, like she’s commenting on the weather.

“Story of my life,” you mutter.

She laughs lightly. Not too much. Just enough to make it feel natural.

And then silence again, letting the rhythm of her hands do the talking. Long, dragging strokes following the lines of muscle. Pressure in just the right places. Not just easing pain. Coaxing.

You feel yourself sinking deeper into the table.

The music, the warmth, her voice — all in perfect sync with the drag of her hands. Every small shift in pressure matches your breathing, your heartbeat.

You’ve felt this before.

She moves lower, palms gliding over the bruises along your ribs. “You train a lot,” she says idly.

“Try to,” you answer.

She hums. Approving? Disapproving? You can’t tell.

Her fingers skim a scar at your side. Too soft to be accidental. “Old injury?”

“Something like that.”

She doesn’t press.

Simone’s hands trace the edge of your scapula, working into the muscle with deliberate, circular pressure. “You’ve got good structure,” she says. “Strong frame.”

"Thank you."

“Mhm. Very strong.”

She drags her thumbs down along your spine. The tempo changes — slower. Steadier. Guiding your breathing into rhythm.

“How long you been training?”

A normal question. Just conversation.

“Since I was a kid,” you say. Truth. Harmless.

Her fingers curl just enough to dig in at the base of your ribcage. A subtle reward. Positive reinforcement.

“Combat?”

You laugh lightly. “Yoga.”

She chuckles, practiced. “Funny.”

The room feels warmer. Not the air. Her.

She shifts to your arm, lifting it carefully, rolling the joint like she’s cataloging its range of motion. “This one feels stiff.”

“Shot,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Her hands pause — barely. Then resume. “Recently?”

“Couple weeks.”

You catch the slip as it leaves your mouth. She didn’t pry. You volunteered.

Idiot.

You go still.

Not relaxed. Not loose. Still.

She feels it instantly. The rhythm of her hands falters for a beat before smoothing out, like nothing happened.

But it did.

She knows you know.

The air thickens. Spa‑warmth gone. Predatory quiet.

You catalog what you know:

Mastermind. Her hands, her voice, her control of the room — no doubt. And she knows who you are.

And you’re naked.

On a table.

Your pulse climbs. You **** your breathing steady.

She breaks the silence first — not with words. With the faintest shift in pressure, resuming her rhythm.

Like nothing changed.

Like she’s not calculating how hard she’d need to press to break your neck before you got off the table.

You can’t let her think she has the upper hand.

“Simone,” you say finally. Calm enough to sound casual, sharp enough to cut.

Her hands pause. “Yes?”

“Who do you work for?”

She laughs lightly, brittle at the edges. “The gym. Like my badge says.”

You hum. “Cute.”

She doesn’t ask what you mean. She knows you know.

You tilt your head in the cradle, just enough to catch her shadow in the low light. “I’m gonna need the real answer.”

The silence stretches thin.

When she speaks, it’s soft. “You’re sharper than they said.”

Your pulse spikes.

They.

You keep your breathing level. “Who’s they?”

She doesn’t answer.

Her fingers flex against your shoulder — not massaging now. Testing distance. Testing you.

You don’t move.

She’s tense. Not scared. That’s worse.

You **** your voice even. “If you’re here for me, we can talk about it. But I need to know who you belong to.”

A pause.

“Belong to,” she repeats, tasting the words.

You can’t see her face, but you can hear the smirk. “That’s one way to put it.”

She doesn’t give you more.

The air between you tightens like a wire.

She keeps working your shoulder, but it’s mechanical now. No finesse. Just keeping her hands busy while her mind runs.

“You’re not what I expected,” she says finally.

Her tone is casual. Too casual.

“Good or bad?” you ask.

She hums, as if weighing it. “Different.”

You can hear the subtext: unpredictable.

You let the silence linger, baiting her to keep talking.

She doesn’t.

Instead, her hand flattens against your back — more surface contact, more points of control. That’s when you feel it: the weight of something small pressing against her wrist. Implant? No — trigger.

She brought a failsafe.

Great.

“You’re nervous,” you say.

Her laugh is a breath of air through her nose. “You’re projecting.”

You tilt your head in the cradle just enough to catch her outline in the corner of your eye. “If I was nervous, I’d already be out that door.”

“Would you?” Her tone has an edge now. “I don’t think you’re as fast as you used to be.”

That lands heavier than it should. Used to be.

You don’t bite. “Bold thing to say to someone bigger, stronger, and angry.”

She shifts closer, enough that you feel her breath at your neck. “Bold thing to say when you don’t know what I can do.”

Fair.

You settle for conversation.

“You know me.”

“I know a lot about you.”

“Then you know this is a bad idea.”

“Depends on what you are now.”

You catch the phrasing. What, not who.

“Meaning?”

She finally stops working. Palms press flat against your shoulders like she’s pinning you down, weighing her options.

“Meaning I need to know if you’re one of us…” Her tone dips, almost curious. “Or one of them.”

Them.

Government.

This isn’t some random probing session. This is a litmus test.

“And if I say the wrong thing?”

Her silence is answer enough.

You exhale slow, calculating. “If you were here to kill me, I’d already be dead.”

She leans closer. “Not necessarily.”

You let that sit. A warning, or a bluff?

Every word she speaks now is data. Every pause is another thread for you to pull.

“So which is it?” you ask. “Are you here to vet me… or bury me?”

Her hands slip from your shoulders. You hear the faintest rustle of fabric — a hand reaching for something.

“Depends,” she says, soft, measured.

“On what?”

Her breath is at your ear when she answers.

“Whether you’re still Carlos the Spider…”

A pause.

“…or just another one of their pets.”

The name hits like a hammer.

Spider.

No one’s called you that in six years.

You don’t flinch. Don’t give her the satisfaction.

“That’s a hell of a thing to say out loud,” you murmur.

Her breath stays warm at your ear. “Did I get it wrong?”

You let the silence stretch. Long enough for her to feel like she might have. Long enough to collect yourself.

Then: “You don’t get to use that name.”

Her fingers flex against your shoulder again. “Oh, I think I do.”

You finally move — shift your head in the cradle, enough to see her face in the low light. Small. Composed. The kind of calm that means she’s either confident or suicidal.

“Bold,” you say. “You have a name, Simone?”

“Plenty,” she replies, voice like smoke. “Which one do you want?”

You let a slow smile creep across your face, though it doesn’t touch your eyes. “The one that tells me why you’re really here.”

She tilts her head like she’s considering you — like she’s measuring whether to keep playing or push the button.

“I gave you too much credit,” she says finally. “If you think I’m here to tell you anything.”

You file it away.

“Then you’re wasting my time,” you say, starting to rise.

Her hand presses down hard on your shoulder — deceptively strong. Not trying to hurt you. Just reminding you she could.

“Or,” she says softly, “you could answer my question instead.”

Your pulse spikes, and the shadows comes up to the surface. The part of you that used to live for moments like this. The predator staring back at the predator.

“Here’s the problem,” you murmur, voice low enough for her to lean in to catch it. “You don’t get to ask me questions until I know which side you’re on.”

Her eyes glint. “You always talk this much when you’re naked?”

“Only when someone’s pointing a metaphorical gun at me,” you shoot back.

She smirks. A real one this time. “Then maybe stop stalling.”

The air between you is a tripwire now. One twitch, one wrong word, and someone isn’t walking out of this room.

You lean just enough to make her shift her weight — a test. She doesn’t flinch.

“You’re not government,” you say finally.

She blinks. “No?”

“If you were, we’d be having this conversation with my face in the dirt. Which means…” You let the thought hang.

She tilts her head. “Which means?”

You relax, forcing the tension out of your shoulders. “You want answers? Then we start with yours. Who sent you?”

Her smile turns small, sharp, and deeply unhelpful.

“Welcome back, Spider.”