Through His Eyes

T. Ruthven

Thomas Ruthven’s apartment was pristine, an exercise in precision and perfection. To an outsider, it would appear immaculate—neat, well-curated, almost too perfect. But Thomas saw the small deviations, the subtle adjustments that told a different story. The coffee mug sitting a fraction of an inch off-center on the kitchen counter. The picture frame just a millimeter out of line. To most, these would seem like minor flaws, but to Thomas, they were essential. They were intentional.

He moved the mug back into place, straightened the frame, and stepped back.

His phone buzzed on the table, pulling him out of his thoughts. A notification flashed across the screen. No signs of deviation.

Thomas didn’t immediately check. Instead, his fingers brushed over the signet ring on his pinky. It was constant, a reminder of a past that he had buried—old Italian wealth, an upbringing drenched in privilege, a life he had left behind. At 18, he had fled that world. Paid a small fortune to sever ties with his family, to erase the legacy that came with it. The name Thomas Ruthven wasn’t just an alias. It was his rebirth. A complete disconnect from a past that had shackled him.

He didn’t miss the opulence of his family’s estate, nor the weight of their expectations. But there were things about that life—about the rigid control it demanded—that he couldn’t shake. Control over his surroundings, his emotions. His world was now clean, measured, and free of those who would seek to disrupt it.

Another buzz from his phone interrupted his thoughts, but this time, he simply silenced it. His mind was elsewhere, mulling over the next steps in his operation. He didn’t get distracted easily, but this particular task, this situation, had him more intrigued than usual.

This was her state.

He stood up, running a hand along the edge of his desk, adjusting the papers just slightly. Every movement had purpose, every decision was deliberate. The world could spin out of control, but for Thomas, the key was to create his own order—no matter the chaos around him.

The soft pitter-patter of paws on the hardwood floor broke through the stillness of the apartment. Thomas didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Mini, his loyal Sharpei, slowly made her way over to his side, the same quiet rhythm she’d always had after years of service.

He’d been stationed in war zones, combat areas where the world had seemed to spin out of control—Ukraine, the Middle East, countless places where survival was a daily game of strategy. Mini had been his companion through it all, a steadfast presence amidst the chaos. Her loyalty unmatched, he could trust her more than anyone else.

Mini, now retired, had slowed down considerably. Her cream-colored fur flecked with gray at the edges, steps no longer as quick as they once were, but she still had the presence of a seasoned warrior, even if her role had changed.

Thomas’s fingers ran over her rough coat, his gaze softening just slightly.

Mini let out a small sigh, settling next to him. Her presence was comforting in its simplicity.

He sighed softly. “If only there were a human that would look at me the way you did,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Walking into the kitchen, Thomas grabbed a couple of protein bars from the counter, tossing them into his fully loaded backpack. Each item in the bag had its purpose—preparedness, precision. His work for the government paid well, as did his cover job as a location scout for Paxis Medical Research. A high paying day job to the naked eye, but to Thomas, it was an essential part of his carefully crafted life—one that allowed him to blend in while he worked his true, more hazardous assignments at night.

Thomas checked his watch one more time before stepping out of the apartment, admiring the warm hues of the vibrant sunset that painted the sky outside his East Nashville apartment complex.

With one final glance at the fading light, he turned toward his trusted 2018 Nissan Rogue parked in the lot. It had served him well through the years—unassuming, reliable, just like everything else in his life. The familiar rumble of the car was comforting as he navigated out of the parking lot, his mind already shifting gears, preparing for the scheduled stake out.

Thomas checked the address in a small manila folder, the paper crinkling slightly as he flipped it open. He was vaguely aware that it was somewhere in South Knoxville, a part of the city he didn’t often visit. He knew the general area—a neighborhood marked by low income homes and narrow streets—but he hadn’t expected it to be exactly where it was.

A quick search confirmed it—his brow furrowed for a moment, then relaxed as a pleasantly surprised expression crossed his face.

With a slight smile, he tucked the phone back into his pocket.

Thomas’s phone rang, the name “Simon” flashing on the dashboard. Without hesitation, he answered it.

“Twenty minutes from the mark,” Thomas said, his voice steady, not waiting for any pleasantries.

There was a brief pause on the other end before Simon’s voice crackled through. “Quat wired that apartment earlier today,” he said, his tone urgent. “A kid who lived there was murdered earlier this morning. You’d better hurry. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re trying to clear out.”

His mind worked quickly, piecing together the implications. That would mean they were racing against the clock, and the stakes were higher than he’d expected.

“On it,” Thomas replied. “Heading there now.”

Without another word, he ended the call and accelerated.

Thomas pulled into the apartment complex, which sat atop a hill, encircling a deep creek with a small bridge that crossed over it. Before the bridge, the entertainment facilities stood prominently. It looked almost too perfect, too inviting for section 8.

Thomas exited his vehicle, the engine’s hum fading into the night as he closed the door behind him. He stood for a moment, taking in his surroundings. His boots crunched softly against the gravel as he walked past the targeted unit, keeping his movements deliberate and steady.

He walked the path that led past the apartment, taking his time to ensure he knew exactly which window to focus on from his car. A good spot for surveillance, nothing too obvious, but enough to catch any movement inside.

Wrapping up his assurance protocols, Thomas glanced at the unit beside it, the pink welcome mat standing in the dusty hallway, a slight smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

Thomas returned to his car and inserted the covert earpiece, a sleek, small device that connected seamlessly to both the wire taps he had placed earlier and his cellphone. He adjusted the earpiece in his ear, checking the connection briefly before pulling the car into a new position.

He glanced at the window, noting the angles and shadows, As he reached into his backpack, he pulled out a small, portable laptop. The device was equipped with a specialized program that could scan and read nearby Wi-Fi signals, working like a type of thermal scan. The laptop would give him a precise readout of the people inside the apartment, their locations, their current and future movements—valuable information that would help him track their every step.

His mind was already in the zone, the quiet intensity of the operation settling over him like a second skin.

The Wi-Fi signal readings were coming in clear, but it wasn’t the data on the screen that caught his attention—it was the thermal image of the unit next door. His eyes flicked to the display, and there, in vivid contrast, he saw the warm signature of a figure in the bathroom.

It was her.

He adjusted the focus, watching as she moved under the shower, her silhouette a sharp outline against the thermal imaging. He could see her scrubbing her hair, the water cascading down her body, the heat of her skin glowing against the colder bathroom tiles.

And then, to his amusement, the faint sounds of music—something light and rhythmic—drifted through his earpiece, faint enough that he almost had to strain to hear it. But it was clear enough for him to recognize the pattern, the slight sway of her movements, the dance she couldn’t help but do.

“Business and pleasure,” Thomas muttered under his breath.

Thomas’s attention snapped back to the parking lot as a dark blue van pulled into the space near the unit he had been watching. Thomas’s eyes narrowed, on high alert.

Two male figures climbed out quickly, their hurried movements setting off an instinctive alarm in Thomas’s mind. The two men began walking briskly toward the unit he had been watching, and he could see the faint outline of a confrontation between them.

He leaned closer to his laptop, focusing on the earpiece that had been feeding him their voices through the wiretap. The muffled sound of an argument grew louder as the two men entered the unit. Their words were sharp, urgent.

“I told you not to get involved with this! We’re in deep now, and it’s too late,” one of the voices snapped, frustration thick in the tone.

“I didn’t know! You never said it was going to be like this!” the second voice replied, panic creeping into his words. “We—We have to get out. They’re gonna kill us, you hear me?”

The sound of items crashing into each other, the rattling of metal and glass, echoed in the background, filling the silence around him. They were clearing out, fast.

As they continued to argue, the tone shifted—sadness replacing anger. “We couldn’t save him,” the first man muttered bitterly. “Not after what happened. It’s over. We’re done for. We need to go far the f**k away and call the FBI immediately, give them everything we can.”

The next words that made his stomach tighten.

“You don’t get it, do you? This is the Zetas. They’re not just gonna walk away from us,” the second man said, voice cracking as the realization hit.

The name hung in the air for a moment, sharp and loaded with meaning. Thomas’s mind clicked into overdrive, the connections rapidly forming. The Venezuelan gang—that gang. They were ruthless, involved in everything from smuggling to hired guns, and their reach stretched far beyond just Nashville.

Thomas watched intently as one of the men paced the unit, moving quickly from one end to the other, picking up random items and tossing them into what could only be a box. The man was panicked, trying to leave in a hurry. But as his eyes darted to the other man, something didn’t sit right. The second man wasn’t helping, wasn’t packing. He stood by, watching with a stillness that unnerved Thomas.

And then the realization hit him.

He could see the movement from the first man’s hands—a flash of metal. A gunshot rang out, sharp and final, breaking the silence of the unit.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The sound blasted through his earpiece, making him recoil. He cursed under his breath, yanking the earpiece from his ear. His heart raced as he refocused on the laptop screen. The image was shaky but clear enough—he saw the second man, coldly walking around the body of the man he had just shot. There was no remorse in his actions, just a clinical search, as though he was looking for something, rifling through pockets as if it were all part of a routine.

Shit.

The word echoed in Thomas’s mind, as his training kicked in. He immediately pulled up his phone, dialing for paramedics and police. This had escalated faster than he anticipated—what started as a simple surveillance mission had just turned into something much more serious.

He drew his gun exiting the car, urgency press down on him. He couldn’t wait for backup; this was an opportunity to intercept the man before they disappeared.

He rushed toward the unit, keeping his gun concealed but ready. The tension in his chest tightened as his steps quickened.

But then, to his surprise—and irritation—he saw her.

Eden.

Her aimless glance settled on him, and for a moment, Thomas froze. The last thing he needed was her caught up in this mess, in the chaos that was unfolding.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.