“He’s the one who asked me to wear working utilities to save time,” I said.

“And the second you said yes, he logged it as official proof you couldn’t come up with your Trident or your EOD papers,” Kenneth said.

He tapped his brass wrench on the side of his boot, three sharp knocks against the thick leather sole.

“He’s playing nice over text so you’ll drop your guard before you walk into that gym.”

I reached down and rubbed the brass buckle of my service uniform belt under my outer coat.