Then something shifted.
Not gradually, not in a way that gave you time to process it, but abruptly, like a thread pulled too tight suddenly snapping. One second, we were just another couple in line, waiting our turn, blending into the rhythm of the crowd. The next, everything fractured.
A man stepped in from the side—large, broad-shouldered, wearing a weathered leather vest that looked like it had seen more years than most of the people around us. I didn’t register his face at first, didn’t notice anything distinct about him beyond the fact that he moved with purpose, the kind of movement that doesn’t hesitate or second-guess itself. Before I could even ask what he wanted, his hand closed around Claire’s wrist.
Not gently.
Not in a way you could mistake for an accident.
He pulled her sideways, out of the line, hard enough that she stumbled.
For a fraction of a second, my brain refused to catch up. It was too sudden, too out of place in the middle of what had been an ordinary afternoon. Then Claire’s voice cut through everything.
