He’s at my door in forty seconds.
I know because I count. Forty seconds from the phone call to the sound of his footsteps in the hall — not running, but fast, that controlled Alpha stride that covers ground without looking like urgency. He knocks once. Doesn’t wait. Uses the key.
I should be angry about that. I’m not. I’m standing in my kitchen holding my phone like it’s something that bit me and I’m not angry about the key.
“Show me,” he says.
No greeting. No what happened. Just *show me*, because he walked in and read my face and skipped every unnecessary step between the door and the problem. That is Nicholas Blackwood in a crisis — economy of motion, economy of words, zero wasted breath.
I hand him the phone.
He reads the first message. His face doesn’t change. He reads t
