Chapter Text
By month ten, Parker Selfridge had survived four mandatory Workplace Conduct Refreshers.
The first had nearly devolved into a philosophical debate about whether panic buttons were “recommendations.”
The second had introduced fire.
The third had involved water damage.
The fourth had ended with smoke but no sirens.
Parker considered that progress.
He had policies now.
So many policies.
He had a folder titled POLICIES I CAN’T BELIEVE I HAD TO WRITE, and it was becoming emotionally sentient.
He had a rule.
He did not leave the building for lunch.
And if he did leave?
He didn’t “grab something quick.”
He didn’t “pop out.”
He went home.
Full reset. Bus. Apartment. Door locked. Shoes off. Silence. Horizontal.
Parker did not do halfway breaks.
If he stepped outside, his brain interpreted it as abort mission.
Which was why he brought food from home. Every day.
Containers neatly labelled. Cutlery packed. Napkin included. No variables. No public interaction.
Leaving the building meant buses.
And if Parker got on a bus, there was a statistically significant chance he would simply continue riding it all the way to his stop, unlock his front door, collapse face-first onto his bed, and never return.
He had tested this theory once.
He’d told himself he was just going to grab something.
He’d blinked.
Five hours passed.
He came back to twelve messages, one missed call from Nash that looked like a cry for help, and—somehow—the printer jammed worse out of spite.
Payroll had also, technically, flagged it.
Because apparently “disappearing mid-day” was not a protected HR practice.
Parker had not been paid for that day.
He had considered filing a complaint.
Then he remembered he was HR.
So he’d gone back to his desk, updated the attendance policy, and pretended that was closure.
He had learned an important lesson.
If he left the building for lunch, he didn’t come back.
And if he didn’t come back, Mangkwan didn’t collapse.
It simply adapted.
Which had somehow been worse.
So, he brought food.
Because self-preservation was cheaper than resignation.
Unfortunately, a new Korean fast-food place had opened around the corner.
Bright signage. Grand opening banners. A cartoon chicken smiling with the confidence of something that had never been audited.
And, most dangerously:
FREE SIDE WITH EVERY COMBO.
Parker stared at that sign for three full days.
On the fourth, it broke him.
It wasn’t even dramatic.
There was no internal monologue about risk assessment. No cost–benefit analysis. No spreadsheet.
He just looked up from a draft titled REVISED CLARIFICATION ON “HUMANE” (FINAL v3), saw 3:07 p.m. glowing in the corner of his screen, and realised he had not eaten.
Again.
Across the room, Nash was whispering something deeply personal and threatening to the printer.
The printer responded by making a noise like it was chewing gravel.
Zari was typing with the quiet intensity of someone rerouting three potential disasters before they happened.
Wainfleet was arguing with Lopez about whether “structural integrity” applied to furniture if you “sat on it with conviction.”
Rakx was standing perfectly still near the window, which was somehow worse than if she’d been pacing.
And Socorro—
Socorro had just ended a call.
Not slammed the phone down. Not sighed dramatically.
Just… ended it.
He stood, rolled his shoulders once like they ached, and looked—briefly—like he was deciding whether to keep functioning out of spite or caffeine.
Then he grabbed his jacket.
Parker looked up automatically, because movement in this office usually meant either an emergency or someone trying to commit one.
Socorro paused by Parker’s desk.
“You coming?” he asked.
Parker blinked. “Coming where?”
“Food,” Socorro said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Parker’s first instinct was to say no. His second instinct was also to say no, but with a policy citation.
He glanced at the corner of his desk where his lunch sat in a sad, responsible container: a chicken sandwich he’d made at seven that morning, now cold in the specific way that made it feel like punishment.
Then he remembered the sign.
Free side.
Fried chicken that smelled like it could resurrect a soul.
He hesitated long enough that Socorro lifted a brow.
“You already ate?” Socorro asked.
Parker looked down at his cold sandwich, then back up, deeply offended by his own life choices.
“I… have food,” he said carefully.
Socorro’s gaze flicked to the container like he was assessing a low-risk object.
“That’s not food,” he said.
Parker opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Socorro added, “I’m paying.”
Parker stiffened. “You don’t have to—”
“I’m paying,” Socorro repeated, already turning away, like this was not a negotiation he intended to lose.
Parker stared after him.
He hated leaving the building.
He hated sidewalks.
He hated buses, and wind, and the concept of strangers.
But Socorro was inviting him. Socorro was paying. Socorro—who did not invite people casually—was offering him hot food like it was a tactical choice.
And Parker’s cold sandwich was sitting there, silently judging him.
“Field research,” Parker muttered to nobody, standing up.
Socorro didn’t look back, but Parker could feel the faintest edge of satisfaction in the way his shoulders loosened.
They took the hidden elevator down through the laundromat’s warm detergent haze, past a woman folding towels with controlled rage, and stepped out into daylight that felt slightly too loud for a weekday.
Outside, the daylight hit like static.
They walked half a block before Socorro said, without looking at him,
“You’re not surviving the day on that.”
Parker frowned. “On what?”
“That sad sandwich.”
“It’s efficient.”
“It’s depressing.”
Parker scoffed. “It’s better than coffee.”
Socorro glanced at him. “That’s not a high bar.”
“It works,” Parker insisted. “Protein. Carbs. Stability.”
“It’s dry.”
“That’s personal.”
“It’s accurate.”
Parker adjusted his jacket, offended. “You didn’t eat either.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Calls.” A beat. “People.”
They walked a few more steps in silence.
Then Socorro exhaled slowly.
“You looked like you were about to pass out,” he said.
Parker blinked. “Excuse me?”
“At your desk,” Socorro clarified. “You went still.”
“I was thinking.”
“You stopped blinking.”
“That’s not medically relevant.”
“It is when you’re pale.”
Parker opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“That’s not why we’re out here,” he muttered.
“It is,” Socorro said simply.
That stopped him.
Parker stared ahead at the red signage glowing across the street.
“You dragged me out because I looked faint?”
“I took you out because you needed air,” Socorro corrected. “And food.”
“That’s—” Parker waved a hand vaguely. “I had it handled.”
“You had a sandwich from seven a.m.”
“It was structurally intact.”
Socorro’s mouth twitched faintly. “We’re not surviving on structurally intact.”
They crossed the street.
The smell of frying oil drifted toward them — warm, immediate, alive.
“Next time you decide to vanish mid-day,” Socorro added, tone lighter but not entirely joking, “take me with you.”
Parker looked at him. “You’re mocking me.”
“I’m serious.”
That hit differently.
Because Socorro didn’t joke about disappearing.
Parker swallowed. “You know nothing happened when I left that day.”
Socorro gave him a sideways look.
“Everything happened,” he said.
Parker frowned. “No, it didn’t.”
“You weren’t there,” Socorro replied evenly. “So, it looked fine.”
Parker blinked.
Socorro continued walking.
“Nash almost quit. Wainfleet set off the panic button ‘to test morale.’ Rakx volunteered for something she shouldn’t have. I spent four hours putting out fires.”
Parker stared at him.
“I thought it was calm,” he said quietly.
Same tone, but Parker does something with it—because he’s HR, and HR copes with deflection:
“It wasn’t,” Socorro said.
That sat heavily.
“You think we adapt,” Socorro added. “We don’t. We just get louder.”
Parker didn’t respond.
A beat.
“You being there keeps it quieter,” Socorro said.
Not soft.
Not emotional.
Just factual.
Parker swallowed like that was somehow worse than yelling.
They were ten steps from the door now.
The cartoon chicken smiled down at them like it had no idea what kind of building they worked in.
Parker cleared his throat.
“That’s manipulative.”
“It’s accurate.”
“…Rude.”
Socorro’s mouth twitched again.
“Food first,” he said. “Then you can go home and disappear properly.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
They were eight steps from the door.
Parker could already taste grease and regret.
“This is how it happens,” Parker muttered.
“How what happens?”
“I leave the building for chicken and wake up in my apartment at seven p.m.”
“Then don’t get on a bus.”
“That’s not how my brain works.”
Socorro slowed.
Just slightly.
Parker noticed because Parker noticed everything when he was anxious.
“What?” Parker asked.
Socorro’s eyes shifted past him.
“Run,” he said quietly.
Parker’s stomach dropped.
“Socorro—?”
The van door slid open.
Fast.
Too fast.
Parker’s brain did not process danger first.
It caused inconvenience.
They were eight steps from the door. Eight steps from hot food and a free side. Eight steps from a decision that, in hindsight, would feel cosmically ironic.
Hands grabbed him.
Hard. Efficient. Not sloppy. Not panicked.
Professional.
“Hey— what the—get your fucking hands—?”
He twisted, instinctively looking for Socorro.
Socorro had already moved.
But not fast enough.
Something cracked against the side of his head—controlled, deliberate. Not meant to kill. Meant to drop.
Socorro staggered.
Parker’s stomach flipped violently.
“Oh my God—!”
The world tilted. A hand shoved him forward. His shoulder slammed into metal. His glasses nearly slipped off his face.
“This is illegal!” Parker shouted because, apparently, his brain still believed in paperwork as a defence mechanism. “This is literally—!”
The van swallowed them both.
The door slammed.
The engine roared.
Dark.
The smell of gasoline and something metallic filled his lungs.
He was shoved down onto a bench seat. Zip ties bit into his wrists.
Socorro sat opposite him, restrained but upright, breathing steady.
Blood at his temple.
Not dramatic.
Just enough to matter.
“Stay calm,” Socorro said.
Parker stared at him in disbelief. “Stay calm? We were eight steps from chicken!”
Socorro blinked slowly.
“I know.”
That was worse.
The van drove longer than Parker liked.
Long enough for the city noise to fade.
Long enough for him to stop recognising the turns.
Long enough to understand that this had been organised well in advance.
When the doors finally opened, cold air rushed in like a verdict.
Parker was dragged out into concrete dust and stale wind.
The building loomed above them—three stories of abandoned structure, windows boarded but not convincingly.
Light shifted behind the gaps.
Shadows moved.
Armed men stood at the entrance.
More on the stairwell inside.
More on the second-floor landing.
Layered.
Prepared.
“Oh,” Parker breathed shakily. “Good. It’s… structured. That’s worse.”
They were hauled up the stairs and down a corridor that smelled like rust and old drywall. A door was kicked open.
They weren’t sat down.
They were thrown.
Parker hit the floor shoulder-first, pain flaring up in his arm. His glasses skidded sideways across the concrete.
Socorro hit harder.
Didn’t make a sound.
When Parker rolled onto his side, blinking spots out of his vision, he saw him.
A man.
Sitting in a metal chair like this was his office.
Plate balanced on one knee.
Burger in hand.
Phone tucked to his ear.
Completely relaxed.
Five armed men were positioned around the room like décor.
The man at the centre chewed thoughtfully as he spoke into the phone.
“I’m telling you,” he said mildly, as if discussing the weather, “you should’ve taken me seriously the first time.”
He took another bite.
Juice dripped onto the paper wrapper.
Parker stared.
Socorro pushed himself up onto one elbow, blood running from his temple, gaze steady.
The man finally looked down at them like he’d just noticed the delivery.
“Oh,” he said, pleasantly surprised. “Good. You’re awake.”
He shifted the phone slightly, angling it so whoever was listening could hear the room.
A faint voice crackled through the speaker.
Quaritch.
Even distorted, even distant, Parker felt it in his spine.
The man’s smile sharpened.
“You really don’t respond to emails,” he said conversationally. “So I had to escalate.”
He leaned down, grabbed Parker by the collar, yanked him upright just enough to get both of them in frame—
Snap.
Photo taken.
Parker squinted into the flash.
“Please tell me that’s not for social media,” he croaked.
The man huffed, amused, like Parker had just performed for him.
Then he hauled Socorro upright by the shoulder.
Blood streaked down Socorro’s face.
Snap.
Second photo.
“Now,” he said into the phone, voice cooling into something edged and deliberate, “you take me seriously.”
Silence on the other end.
Click.
He hung up.
Just like that.
No theatrics.
No raised voices.
He tossed the phone onto the chair beside him and finally looked at Socorro properly.
Slow. Assessing.
“Where are my manners?” He wiped his fingers on a napkin with exaggerated care. “Mick Scoresby.”
Parker’s brain tried to file that under Names I Should Recognise and came up blank.
Mick tilted his head at him.
“And you are?”
Parker blinked.
“…Currently kidnapped.”
One of the armed men snorted.
Mick’s mouth twitched faintly, but his eyes stayed on Socorro.
“And that,” Mick said mildly, gesturing at Parker with the burger, “is interesting.”
Socorro didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just watched him.
Parker glanced between them.
“I don’t like how that sounded,” he muttered.
Mick’s smile widened slightly.
“Oh, I think you’re going to matter a great deal.”
Parker blinked.
“I absolutely do not,” he said quickly. “I handle onboarding. I once mediated a dispute about ergonomic chairs. I am not leverage.”
Mick studied him.
Then looked at Socorro.
“You brought him,” Mick said.
“I invited him,” Socorro corrected.
That small distinction hung in the air.
Mick’s eyes sharpened slightly.
“Interesting.”
Parker looked between them.
“I don’t like that word.”
Mick ignored him.
He crouched slightly, eye-level with Socorro.
“You’re harder to isolate than I expected,” Mick said calmly. “You move with people.”
Socorro didn’t respond.
“So I took two,” Mick continued lightly. “Insurance.”
Parker swallowed.
“Insurance implies paperwork,” he muttered weakly.
Mick’s gaze flicked to him.
“You talk a lot.”
“That’s stress.”
Mick stood again.
Slow.
Unhurried.
“You know why you’re here,” Mick said to Socorro.
Socorro held his stare.
“No,” he said flatly.
A lie.
A deliberate one.
Mick smiled faintly.
“Your boss doesn’t like me.”
Parker blinked.
“Join the club,” he muttered.
One of the armed men shifted.
Mick didn’t react.
“I’ve tried professional channels,” Mick went on. “Meetings. Requests. Negotiation.”
“And?” Socorro asked calmly.
“And I was ignored.”
Socorro tilted his head slightly.
“So you kidnapped two employees.”
Mick’s jaw ticked.
“Don’t reduce it.”
“I’m summarising.”
Parker looked at Socorro in horror.
“Please stop summarising,” he hissed.
Mick stepped closer again.
“You think this is a joke?”
“No,” Socorro said evenly. “I think this is inefficient.”
The air tightened.
“You want attention,” Socorro continued. “You want him to respond.”
Mick’s eyes narrowed.
“You think this is about attention?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“You did all this,” Socorro added calmly, “because he didn’t answer you.”
Mick moved fast.
A fist connected with Socorro’s jaw.
Not wild.
Measured.
Socorro’s head snapped to the side.
Blood hit the floor.
Parker gasped.
“Okay— no— see— this is escalation— we were discussing—”
“Shut him up,” one of the armed men muttered.
A hand shoved Parker back down when he tried to move.
Mick flexed his fingers once.
“You don’t get to belittle me,” he said quietly.
Socorro turned his head back slowly.
Smiling.
That made it worse.
“You’re proving my point,” Socorro said.
Parker stared at him.
“What is wrong with you?” he whispered.
Mick crouched again.
Close.
“You’re very calm,” Mick observed.
“Yes.”
“You think he’s coming.”
A beat.
Socorro didn’t answer.
Mick’s smile returned, thinner.
“He will,” Mick said.
There it was.
Parker’s brain snagged on that.
He will.
Not they will.
Not security.
He.
Mick’s gaze flicked between them.
“And when he does,” Mick continued, “we’ll finally have a real conversation.”
Parker’s stomach dropped.
“Okay,” he said faintly. “I feel like I missed several hierarchy memos.”
Mick ignored him again.
“You matter,” Mick said to Socorro. “That’s why this works.”
Socorro’s jaw tightened slightly.
“You grabbed the wrong person,” he said quietly.
Mick looked at Parker.
Then back at Socorro.
“No,” he said softly. “I don’t think I did.”
Parker went still.
Because that tone—
That tone was not random.
Mick stepped back.
“We wait,” he said.
One of the armed men shifted.
“What about them?”
Mick looked at Socorro.
Then at Parker.
A considering pause.
“We keep pressure.”
Parker’s eyes widened.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
Socorro spoke immediately.
“He has nothing to do with this.”
Mick tilted his head.
“Then you won’t mind if we test that.”
Parker’s heart slammed.
“Test— what does test mean—”
Socorro’s voice cut through sharply.
“You don’t want to do that.”
Mick raised a brow.
“Why not?”
Socorro held his gaze.
And this time, his voice dropped just slightly.
Because now he was choosing his words.
“Because you did your research,” he said evenly.
“Yes.”
“You checked security.”
“Yes.”
“You checked patterns.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“You forgot something.”
Mick’s expression shifted.
“Oh?”
Socorro’s smile was faint.
Controlled.
“You’re not the only one who plans ahead.”
A beat.
Then—
Footsteps.
Somewhere below.
Distant.
But coordinated.
One of the armed men stiffened.
Mick’s head turned slightly.
“What was that?”
Another noise.
Closer.
Parker’s breathing quickened.
Socorro didn’t look surprised.
“You’ve had us less than thirty minutes,” Socorro said quietly.
Mick’s jaw tightened.
“That’s not possible.”
Socorro’s smile didn’t fade.
“You should’ve taken him seriously.”
And this time—
There was no clarification who him meant.
Mick’s jaw tightened.
“That’s not possible.”
Socorro didn’t blink.
“You really should’ve done deeper research.”
Mick’s expression sharpened.
“I did.”
“No,” Socorro said calmly. “You didn’t.”
Another sound echoed through the stairwell.
Not footsteps this time.
A thud.
Heavy.
Followed by shouting.
One of the armed men near the door stiffened.
“That wasn’t ours.”
Another crash.
Closer.
Gunfire.
Short. Controlled bursts.
Not chaotic.
Professional.
Parker flinched violently.
“Oh no,” he whispered. “Oh no no no no—”
Mick stood abruptly.
“Positions,” he snapped.
Two of the armed men rushed out.
Another moved to the window.
Gunfire again.
Closer.
A scream cut off mid-breath.
Mick turned back to Socorro.
“What did you do?”
Socorro tilted his head slightly.
“Nothing.”
Another explosion of sound from below.
Glass breaking.
Men shouting.
Then—
Silence
Heavy.
Deliberate.
Footsteps on the stairs.
Slow.
Measured.
Not rushed.
Not panicked.
Coming up.
Mick’s grip tightened on his gun.
“That’s not possible,” he repeated.
Socorro’s voice stayed level.
“You grabbed leverage,” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
“You forgot something.”
Mick’s eyes flicked toward the doorway.
“What?”
Socorro finally looked directly at him.
And smirked.
“You should be less worried about my father.”
Parker’s brain stopped.
Father?
Mick’s brow furrowed.
“Your—”
Another gunshot echoed down the corridor.
Closer now.
Socorro didn’t raise his voice.
“You should be worried about who he’s married to.”
Silence.
Even Mick paused.
“What?”
And then—
The first body hit the doorway.
One of Mick’s men.
He didn’t stumble in.
He was thrown.
Hard.
Across the floor.
Gun skidding from his hand.
Parker inhaled sharply.
Behind him—
A figure stepped into the doorway.
Tall.
Still.
Dark.
Covered in blood that was not her own.
Varang.
Not rushed.
Not frantic.
Just… precise.
Her gaze swept the room once.
Calculated.
Cold.
One of the remaining armed men fired.
She moved before the second shot landed.
Efficient.
Clinical.
He dropped.
The second man barely had time to react.
Another shot.
Another body down.
Silence fell like a curtain.
Mick staggered back.
“What the hell—”
Another presence filled the doorway behind her.
Quaritch.
Weapon raised.
Expression carved from stone.
But he wasn’t the one who stepped forward first.
Varang did.
She looked at Socorro.
Took in the blood at his temple.
The restraints.
Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Then she looked at Mick.
And something shifted.
Not anger.
Worse.
Decision.
Mick recovered fast.
Too fast.
He blinked rapidly.
He moved fast—faster than Parker expected—grabbing Socorro by the collar and dragging him upright, gun pressing hard against his jaw.
At the same time, one of the remaining armed men lunged forward and hauled Parker up by the back of his jacket.
Parker yelped.
“No— no— I wasn’t done processing—!”
Cold metal pressed hard against his temple.
“Don’t,” the man hissed.
Mick tightened his grip on Socorro.
But Parker wasn’t looking at the guns anymore.
He was staring at Quaritch.
Then at Varang.
Then back at Socorro.
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
“Wait,” he said faintly. “Wait wait wait—”
No one acknowledged him.
“Miles,” he tried again, voice pitching higher, “your father—?”
Socorro did not look at him.
“Not now.”
“Not now?!” Parker’s voice cracked. “That’s your father?!”
Mick’s eyes flicked briefly toward Parker.
“What?”
“And— and married—?” Parker’s brain visibly stalled. “You said married—”
“Parker,” Socorro warned.
“No— no, I need clarity— because if that’s your father and she’s—”
Cold metal pressed harder into his temple.
“Shut up,” the armed man hissed.
Parker ignored him.
He was staring at Varang.
At the blood.
At the stillness.
“Oh my God,” Parker breathed. “Oh my God, she’s your—”
The shot came from outside.
Clean.
Precise.
The man holding Parker jerked violently.
A red bloom exploded across his chest,
Warm.
Wet.
It sprayed across Parker’s face.
Parker froze.
The body dropped.
Parker stared.
Very slowly—
Very carefully—
He wiped his cheek.
Looked at his fingers.
Blood.
“Oh,” he said faintly. “Oh no.”
Another shot cracked through the room.
The man by the window dropped instantly.
Sniper.
Socorro didn’t even flinch.
Mick did.
His grip faltered.
And that was enough.
Another sharp crack—
Mick screamed.
The bullet tore through his shoulder, spinning him sideways. The gun flew from his hand.
Socorro dropped to the floor, rolling out of reach.
Mick staggered back, clutching his arm, blood pouring through his fingers.
Before he could recover—
Varang was there.
She crossed the room in three steps.
Grabbed Mick by the collar.
Slammed him against the wall.
Hard enough that the concrete cracked.
He gasped, disoriented, bleeding heavily.
She didn’t shoot him.
She didn’t need to.
“You’re alive,” she said calmly.
It was not reassurance.
It was a promise.
Quaritch entered fully then, weapon still raised, scanning the room.
“Clear.”
Behind him, operatives moved efficiently—disarming, securing, dragging bodies.
Parker was still standing in the middle of it.
Covered.
In.
Blood.
He looked down at his shirt.
Then at his hands.
Then at Socorro.
Socorro was wiping his mouth with visible disgust.
“…It got in my mouth,” Socorro muttered.
Parker’s head snapped up.
“I—”
He stopped.
Socorro spat to the side.
“I think it was his.”
Parker looked down slowly.
Blood soaked into the fabric of his sleeve.
A smear across his knuckles.
Warm.
Sticky.
He lifted one shaking hand and touched his cheek.
Red.
“Oh,” he said quietly.
Not horror.
Not yelling.
Just… processing failure.
“It’s on my face.”
Socorro glanced at him.
“…Yeah.”
Parker didn’t look at him this time.
He just stood there.
Breathing.
Very carefully.
Like if he breathed too fast, something inside him might come apart.
His hands didn’t stop shaking.
Quaritch walked over, scanning the room automatically.
His gaze lingered on Socorro’s temple.
“You good?”
“I’ve had worse,” Socorro replied.
Quaritch nodded once.
Then looked at Parker.
“…Why is HR here?”
Parker pointed weakly at Socorro.
“Chicken.”
A beat.
Socorro exhaled through his nose.
“We went out for lunch.”
Quaritch looked between them.
“…You got kidnapped over chicken.”
“It had a free side,” Parker muttered faintly.
Quaritch stared at him.
Then gave up trying to unpack that.
Across the room, Mick was barely conscious.
Bleeding heavily.
Terrified.
Varang leaned closer.
Her voice dropped low enough that only he could hear it.
“You researched the wrong parent.”
Mick’s breathing hitched.
She didn’t smile.
That would’ve been kinder.
She dragged him forward, shoving him into the waiting operatives.
“Alive,” she instructed.
Again.
Not a kindness.
Quaritch looked at Socorro.
Then at Parker.
Then back at Socorro.
“Next time,” he said evenly, “answer your phone.”
Socorro lifted an eyebrow.
“You shot his shoulder.”
“Could’ve been worse.”
Parker didn’t react.
He was still staring at his hands.
Blood drying in the lines of his skin.
Not his.
He flexed his fingers once.
Slow.
Like he wasn’t entirely sure they were attached to him.
Socorro noticed.
“…Parker.”
No response.
Operatives moved around them, efficient and quiet. Weapons cleared. Bodies secured. Voices low.
The room no longer screamed danger.
It just smelled like iron.
Socorro stood carefully, walked the few steps over, and stopped in front of him.
“Hey.”
Parker blinked.
Once.
Twice.
His voice came out thinner than usual.
“That was… very close.”
“Yes.”
Another blink.
“I saw—” He swallowed. “I saw it.”
Socorro didn’t dismiss it.
“I know.”
That did something worse than reassurance.
Varang approached.
Her gaze assessed Socorro first. Temple. Jaw. Wrists.
Then Parker.
He didn’t even attempt humor this time.
He just stared back.
Small.
Still.
She held his gaze for a measured second.
Then gave a single nod.
Not comfort.
No approval.
Just acknowledgement: you survived.
Parker exhaled shakily.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
Quaritch stepped closer.
“You good?”
Socorro answered first. “He will be.”
Parker looked up at that.
Will be.
Like it was a decision already made.
He swallowed again.
“…We were eight steps from chicken,” he said softly.
“It had a free side.”
Not dramatic.
Just… disbelieving.
Socorro closed his eyes briefly.
“I know.”
And this time, it wasn’t dry humor.
It was regret.
Later.
Outside.
Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, muted and unnecessary.
The building was secure.
Clean-up was already underway.
Parker sat on the back of an SUV wrapped in a thermal blanket he had not requested and did not remember agreeing to. There was dried blood on his sleeve. On his collar. Possibly in his hair.
He was staring very intently at nothing.
Socorro sat beside him; an ice pack pressed to his temple. His jaw was tight. There was still faint red at the corner of his mouth.
Neither of them spoke.
Bootsteps approached.
Parker blinked slowly as a familiar paper bag entered his line of vision.
Grease-stained.
Cartoon chicken logo.
His voice came out thin.
“No.”
Quaritch held the bag out toward Socorro.
“You eaten anything since this morning?”
Socorro looked at the bag.
Then at his father.
Then, at the faint smear of blood still drying on his own knuckles.
Then back at the bag.
“…Seriously?”
“You need to eat.”
Socorro took the burger out of the bag.
Held it.
Stared at it.
Then looked up at Quaritch.
Then shoved it back into Quaritch’s hand.
“You’re unbelievable.”
And knocked it clean out of his grip.
It hit the pavement and burst open.
Sauce everywhere.
Silence.
Quaritch looked down at it.
“You’re wasting food.”
Socorro stood, swaying only slightly.
“I was kidnapped.”
“My head got smashed into concrete.”
“I had someone else’s blood in my mouth.”
He gestured vaguely at Parker.
“And HR is covered in a man.”
Parker, still staring forward, raised a weak hand.
“That’s accurate.”
Socorro looked back at Quaritch.
“And your solution,” he said flatly, “is a burger.”
“It’s a good burger.”
Socorro made a sharp, disbelieving laugh.
Behind them, Varang approached. Clean now. No visible blood. But there was still something cold and decisive in the way she moved.
She stopped beside Quaritch.
Her eyes swept over Socorro first.
Then Parker.
Assessment complete.
Parker swallowed.
“…Hi,” he whispered.
She gave him a single nod.
That somehow felt worse.
Quaritch looked between them again.
“…Wait.”
His gaze narrowed slightly at Parker.
“He didn’t know?”
Parker blinked.
“Know what?” he asked faintly.
Socorro lowered the ice pack.
Slowly.
Quaritch frowned.
“That I’m his father.”
Silence.
Parker’s brain stalled.
But Socorro’s was the one that actually shut down.
He turned his head.
Very slowly.
Looked at Parker.
“…You didn’t know?”
Parker opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“I—”
Socorro straightened despite the concussion.
“My full name,” he said carefully, like he was explaining something to a toddler, “is Miles Socorro Quaritch.”
Parker stared at him.
Varang tilted her head slightly.
Quaritch folded his arms.
Socorro waited.
Nothing.
Parker blinked once.
Twice.
“…No,” he said weakly.
Socorro’s face went blank.
“How,” he asked quietly, “did HR not know that?”
Parker gestured vaguely.
“You don’t— you don’t advertise it—”
“It’s my legal name.”
“Yes, but— I thought—”
“You thought what?”
Parker floundered.
“I thought it was like— I don’t know— coincidence? Shared surname? Like… professional distance?”
Socorro stared at him.
“Professional distance.”
Quaritch muttered, “This is embarrassing.”
Varang’s expression did not change.
Socorro pointed at himself.
“It’s on every internal document.”
“I process hundreds of forms,” Parker snapped weakly. “I don’t cross-reference parental military command structures—”
“You work in Human Resources.”
“I manage disputes!”
“You manage names!”
Parker’s breathing started to speed up.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. “Oh my God.”
Socorro rubbed his temple.
“You thought I just happened to be Miles Quaritch.”
“Yes.”
“And you never—”
“No one told me you were—”
“You never asked?”
“Why would I ask if your father was the head of—”
He stopped.
Everything clicked at once.
His eyes shifted slowly to Quaritch.
Then to Varang.
Then back to Socorro.
“You’re his father,” Parker whispered.
“Yes,” Quaritch said.
Parker pointed weakly at Varang.
“And she’s—”
“Yes,” Socorro muttered.
Parker blinked.
“You’re married.”
“Yes.”
Parker looked back at Socorro.
“Your full name is—”
“Miles Socorro Quaritch,” he repeated, now fully offended. “It has been this entire time.”
Parker’s face emptied.
System overload.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Socorro stared at him, still stunned for a completely different reason.
“You genuinely did not know.”
Parker inhaled.
A small, broken sound escaped him.
“Oh.”
He tipped sideways.
Right off the SUV.
Quaritch caught him by reflex before he hit the pavement.
“…He passes out a lot,” Quaritch observed.
Socorro pressed the ice pack back to his head.
“Apparently, he does.”
Varang looked down at Parker’s unconscious form.
“He will wake.”
Socorro exhaled.
“Unfortunately.”
Quaritch glanced at the ruined burger on the pavement.
“…Still a waste.”
Socorro stared at him.
Then, at the exploded burger.
“…Next time,” he muttered, “bring fries.”
Quaritch’s mouth twitched.
And despite everything —
the blood,
the gunfire,
the kidnapping,
the concussion,
the HR failure —
it almost looked like a smile.