4338.206 · July 25, 2018 AD
Ink and Fibre
Some men collect stamps. Some collect coins. Luke collects the feeling that comes from pressing fifteen thousand dollars to his face and breathing deep. There's a safe beneath the carpet, a key behind the winter jumpers, a ritual older than the lies he tells himself about why he needs it. The money goes in. The carpet goes flat. And for one dangerous moment, chaos feels like something he can buy his way out of.
The house is silent. Jamie is in Clivilius. The dogs are gone. Luke moves through empty rooms with a backpack full of cash and a ritual he knows too well.
The key from behind the winter jumpers. The carpet peeled back to reveal metal. The lock that never sticks because he oils it regularly—because a sticking key at the wrong moment could mean everything. The safe opens its dark mouth, waiting.
Fifteen thousand from the teller. A few more from the ATM. Jamie's savings, withdrawn without his knowledge, converted from digital abstraction into paper fact. Luke stacks the bills with ceremonial precision, aligning corners, pressing each bundle flat. Then he does something strange: he presses the notes to his face. Inhales. The sharp tang of ink and fibre fills his lungs, and for one wild moment he feels powerful. In control. As if the chaos of this day—murder, betrayal, conspiracy—could be managed with adequate resources and sufficient will.
The feeling doesn't last. Paranoia seeps back. Cody's words echo: We've been waiting for you.
But the safe is closed now. The carpet shows no seam. And Luke, for all his secrets, looks almost like an ordinary man.
