Chapter 17: The Informant
The smell of stale pretzels and nervous sweat hit Milo the moment Abbie Zhao cracked her dorm room door. It was a narrow slice of chaos—a bed buried under a mountain of black leather and tech, a whiteboard covered in frantic scrawl, and a mini-fridge humming a lonely tune in the corner. He saw the cat-shaped stress ball peeking from a jar labeled “emergency snacks” and fought the urge to smirk.
“You’re late,” Abbie said, her voice tighter than it had been through the modifier.
She stood blocking the doorway, her frame swimming in an oversized university hoodie. The Mantis’s precise posture was gone, replaced by the nervous energy of a student caught with contraband. Milo noted the way her knuckles were white where she gripped the door’s edge.
“Traffic was a visionary hellscape,” he said, smoothly stepping past her into the room. His eyes cataloged everything—the suit, the whiteboard maps, the crumpled notes about waterfront zoning. The air was thick with the scent of solder, cheap coffee, and her shampoo. “Cozy. You do a lot of… extracurricular work here.”
“It’s not a social call, Davidson.” She closed the door, the lock clicking with finality. She moved to the desk, her body a tense line, and picked up a thin manila folder. “The raw data on the shell companies. It’s all cross-referenced with port authority logs.”
He didn’t take it. Instead, he leaned against her cluttered dresser, his gaze traveling from the file in her hand to the line of her jaw. She was avoiding his eyes, focusing intently on a sticky note on her monitor. He could see the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat.
“You decoded all this between classes?” he asked, his voice dropping into a more intimate register. “Impressive. Most people your age are just figuring out how to do their own laundry.”
“Don’t do that.” She finally looked at him, her dark eyes fierce. “Don’t use that condescending, world-weary tone. I’m not a child. I was on that roof, too. I saw what they had waiting for her.”
“I know you were.” He pushed off the dresser and took two slow steps closer. The room was so small his shadow fell over her. “And I saw what you did. That wasn’t textbook. That was instinct. It was brave.”
A faint flush crept up her neck. She held the folder out like a shield. “The files.”
He ignored it, his focus entirely on her face. He could see the student now, beneath the hero—the exhaustion, the determination, the untamed curiosity. “Why’d you really do it? Jump into a perfect trap for someone you don’t know?”
“She needed help.” Abbie’s answer was immediate, simple, and utterly disarming. She lowered the folder slightly. “And Fisk’s men were using sonar-pulse rounds. New tech. I wanted a sample.”
Milo couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him—a short, surprised breath. “You’re a piece of work, Zhao.” He reached out, not for the folder, but to gently take her wrist. Her skin was warm. “The files can wait a second. Talk to me. Why this? Why the suit, the danger, the… all of it?”
Her breath hitched. She didn’t pull away. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.” His thumb moved in a slow, unconscious circle on the inside of her wrist. He felt her shiver. “I’ve been seeing things for twenty years. It’s my job.”
For a long moment, she just stared at their connected hands. The hum of the mini-fridge was the loudest sound in the room. “My parents own one of those dried seafood wholesalers down by the docks,” she said quietly. “Fisk’s ‘redevelopment’ consortium offered them a buyout. When they refused, their refrigeration unit mysteriously failed. Twice. The health inspector showed up three times in a month.”
She looked up, and the vulnerability was gone, replaced by a steel that mirrored her alter-ego’s blades. “They don’t get to do that. To just squash people. So I built a better set of claws.”
Milo was silent. The cynical retort died on his tongue. This wasn’t a fantasy; it was a direct, personal ledger. He saw the same stubborn, sacrificial flame that burned in Sarah, but it was younger, less tempered by grief. It was dangerously pure.
“That’s a better reason than most,” he finally said, his voice rough. He released her wrist, but his presence still crowded her. “The files. Let’s see the damage.”
She handed them over, her fingers brushing his. He opened the folder, scanning the dense columns of data she’d compiled. It was brilliant, obsessive work—financial trails leading from Fisk’s charitable trusts to shell companies in the Caymans, then back to local contracting firms that just happened to be renovating the very buildings his snipers had used.
“This connects the judge who dismissed his case,” Milo murmured, tapping a line. “Through a ‘consulting fee’ paid to his brother-in-law’s firm. This is it. This is the thread.”
“It’s more than a thread.” Abbie leaned in, pointing at a highlighted entry. Her shoulder pressed against his arm. “See this? It’s a recurring payment to a private security firm not licensed in this state. The same firm that billed for ‘site survey’ on those rooftops the day before the ambush.”
The scent of her shampoo was clearer now—something like green tea and ginger. Milo forced his eyes back to the paper. “You’re saying he orchestrated his own security breach to justify a more aggressive, privatized force? To make the city beg him for ‘order’?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Her words were a hurried whisper, her finger still pressed to the incriminating line. “He’s not just covering his tracks. He’s manufacturing a crisis to sell the solution. It’s a fucking protection racket on a city-wide scale.”
The raw anger in her voice, so different from her modulated hero-tone, snapped something in the air. Milo looked from the paper to her. The desk lamp cast a warm halo through the loose strands of her dark hair. He saw the fierce intelligence in her eyes, the way her lips were slightly parted as she breathed, the elegant line of her neck where her pulse still beat a frantic rhythm.
All his calculated charm, the worn script of seduction he’d planned to use, felt cheap and dusty. The attraction was still there, a low, undeniable current, but it was tangled now with a grinding respect. She was nineteen and running a one-woman intelligence agency out of a dorm room that smelled of adrenaline and solder.
He should take the files and leave. He knew he should.
He leaned in.
His movement was slow, giving her every chance to pull back. She didn’t. Her eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat as his focus shifted entirely from the evidence to her. The analytical fire in her gaze flickered, replaced by a startled, vulnerable awareness.
“You’re too smart for this city, Abbie Zhao,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the hum of electronics.
His lips brushed the sensitive skin just below her jawline, where her pulse hammered against the surface. It was not a gentle kiss. It was a statement, firm and deliberate, an anchor point in the swirling chaos of the room. He felt her whole body stiffen for a fraction of a second, a sharp intake of breath that tasted of green tea and nervous energy.
Then she melted. A tiny, surrendering shudder went through her, and her head tilted almost imperceptibly, granting him better access. The manila folder slipped from her fingers, scattering pages across the floor in a soft whisper.
The scattered pages formed a chaotic white island around their feet. Milo didn’t move to pick them up. His mouth traveled from her jaw to the corner of her lips, a question she answered by turning her head and meeting him fully.
The kiss was nothing like he’d planned. It wasn’t a slick conquest. It was hungry and startlingly clumsy, all nervous energy and clacking teeth. She tasted like the cheap coffee from the cup on her desk and something achingly young. Her hands came up, not to push him away, but to fist in the worn fabric of his jacket, holding on like he was a lifeline in a storm she’d created herself.
He pushed her against the wall as he nuzzled her neck, the rough plaster biting into her shoulder blades as his mouth found the fluttering pulse beneath her ear. He mused to himself *this was too easy*, the thought only sharpening the hunger coiling in his gut.
She arched into him with a quiet gasp that tasted like rebellion and green tea, her hoodie slipping off one shoulder as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of her collarbone. The scattered case files were forgotten beneath them, ink bleeding across the worn carpet like spilled secrets. One of her knees hooked around the back of his thigh, pulling him flush against her in a way that made his breath hitch and the Mantis’s voice modulator hum uselessly against his chest.
The groan that tore from him was raw, half-lost against the warm skin of her neck where his lips had found the perfect spot beneath her jaw. The sound vibrated through both of them, a dark confession of how badly he wanted this—how badly he wanted *her*—and for a moment, the weight of everything else (the files, the case, the city’s rot) dissolved into the heat between them.
Then Milo’s hands found the hem of her hoodie, his fingers hooking beneath the fabric with deliberate slowness. He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his dark eyes glinting with something between challenge and amusement. "Too many layers, Zhao."
Before she could react, he stripped the hoodie over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. The air hit her exposed skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. His gaze dropped to her chest, and his eyebrow arched—just for a second—before his mouth crashed back onto hers. The kiss was deeper now, hungrier, his hands sliding up to grip the hem of her T-shirt. He broke away only long enough to pull it off, leaving her in nothing but the lace black bra she’d worn under her street clothes, the kind that felt like armor when she put it on but now made her feel dangerously exposed.
His fingers traced the strap of it, the calloused pads of his thumbs brushing against her skin with a precision that made her breath catch.
**"Milo—"** she gasped as he moved the strap, kissing her shoulder with a slow, deliberate pressure that sent a shiver down her spine. The room felt suddenly too small, the air too thick, as his lips trailed along the curve of her collarbone. She should have stopped him. She *knew* she should have. But the way his hands gripped her waist, the way his mouth moved against her skin—it was like he was rewriting every rule she’d ever followed, and she couldn’t bring herself to care.
His teeth grazed the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, and she arched into him with a quiet, desperate sound. The files were forgotten beneath them, the case notes scattered like confetti.
His fingers found the belt loops of his leather jacket, slippery with the sweat of their collision. In one fluid motion, he tugged the belt free, the metallic clink of the buckle loud in the quiet room. Before she could process what was happening, he grabbed her wrists and lifted them above her head, securing them to the iron bedpost with a firm tug. The leather bit into her skin, not cruelly, but enough to anchor her.
Her breath came in sharp bursts, a wild bird trapped in his hands. He watched her for a heartbeat, capturing the light in her dark eyes, before his mouth crashed down on hers again, hungry and insistent. The kiss erased every thought except the heat of his body against hers. His hands moved with deliberate slowness, peeling the straps of her bra down her shoulders, the lace fabric protesting as it slid past her elbows.
The cool air tightened her nipples before his mouth replaced it, his tongue circling one with a slow, wet heat that made her back arch off the wall. He buried his face in her chest, the weight and warmth of her filling his senses completely—exactly as he had imagined for weeks. Her breath hitched, her ribs expanding against his palms as her nipple hardened against his tongue, and she moaned—long, low, and needy—the sound vibrating through both of them before she could stifle it.
His free hand slid down her spine, gripping her waist to pull her flush against him, the rough fabric of his jeans grinding against her exposed skin. The contrast between his calloused fingers and her smooth torso sent a shiver through her, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as her nails dug into his shoulders.
The contrast between his calloused fingers and her smooth torso sent a shiver through her, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as her nails dug into his shoulders. He guided her backwards until her knees hit the edge of the narrow bed, and she fell onto the tangled sheets and discarded gear with a soft thump. He stood over her for a moment, just looking, his eyes dark and absorbing every detail—the frantic rise and fall of her chest, the way her dark hair fanned across a crumpled leather sleeve.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice rough.
She nodded, wordless, her gaze locked on his as he undid his jeans. The casual efficiency of the motion, the sheer normalcy of it amidst the scattered case files, made her stomach flip. Then he was on the bed, knees bracketing her hips, and his mouth was on hers again, swallowing the tiny, involuntary sound she made.
He kissed a burning trail down her sternum, over the flat plane of her stomach. His hands hooked in the waistband of her leggings and her underwear, peeling them down her legs in one practiced motion. The cool air of the dorm touched her skin, followed immediately by the heat of his palms smoothing up her inner thighs. He pushed them apart, his grip firm and undeniable.
He didn’t hesitate. He put his head between her legs and ate her out with a focused intensity that stole the air from her lungs. His tongue was relentless, exploring, circling, pressing. A high, thin whine escaped her throat. Her hips jerked off the bed, but his hands held her firm, pinning her in place.
The moan that followed was fractured, overwhelmed. It wasn’t just the shocking, exquisite friction. It was the crashing realization that Milo Davidson was here, in her bed, his mouth on her. That the grumpy, brilliant journalist she’d read for years, the man who worked with Black Cat, was now mapping her body with a kind of jaded expertise that made her head spin. The thought of her personal hero, just a few miles away, completely unaware of this betrayal tangled with the pleasure, coiling it tighter, making it feel illicit and huge.
Her back arched, her fingers fisting in his hair as a first, sharp crest hit her. He didn’t let up, working her through it until she was shuddering, sensitive and raw. Only then did he move, lifting himself over her. He reached for his wallet on the floor, discarded with his jeans. The rustle of foil was loud in the quiet.
He entered her in one deep, slow thrust. She cried out, her legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. He set a punishing rhythm almost immediately, each drive of his hips pushing the headboard into the wall with a solid, rhythmic thump. The sound mixed with their ragged breathing, the squeak of the cheap mattress springs.
He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his breaths hot puffs against her skin. “God, you’re tight,” he gritted out, the words slurred. “Perfect.”
She couldn’t form a coherent thought, only sensation—the scrape of his stubble, the smell of his sweat and her coffee, the delicious, heavy weight of him. Her second climax built faster, a tidal wave from her toes up, breaking over her with a force that made her vision whiten. She choked on his name.
He followed a moment later, a raw, guttural sound tearing from his chest as he drove into her one last, final time and finished inside her. He collapsed, his full weight pressing her into the mattress, his heart hammering against her ribs.
For a long while, there was only the sound of their breathing slowing. The sweat cooling on their skin. The faint, distant wail of a siren several blocks over, a reminder of the city outside this humid, secret little room.
Eventually, he rolled off her, but stayed close. He propped himself up on an elbow and began kissing down the elegant line of her spine. His lips were soft now, languid. “So the shell company,” he murmured against a vertebra, his voice a sleepy rumble. “The one linked to the port commissioner. You think it’s a straight bribe or a funnel?”
She blinked, dazed, the analytical shift so abrupt it took her a second to process. She turned her head to look at him. “Funnel. It’s too obvious for a bribe. It’s a payment for a ‘risk assessment’ that then gets subcontracted. The money launders itself through the work.”
“Smart.” He nuzzled the nape of her neck, inhaling the scent of her hair. “I really do have a thing for superheroes, it seems. The brains, the absolute nerve.” He kept kissing down her back, each press of his lips a gentle brand. “It’s a problematic type.”
A small, breathless laugh escaped her. She felt loose-limbed and hazy, but her mind was already clicking back into gear, piecing fragments together. “There’s a social worker at the community center near the docks. My friend, Camilla. She sees the fallout—the displaced families, the ‘accidents’ on sites Fisk’s companies secure. She’s been compiling notes. Unofficially.”
His kisses paused at the small of her back. “Would she talk?”
“She’s scared. But she’s also furious. She might talk to you. If I ask her.”
“Set it up.” He resumed his trail of kisses. “Tomorrow. I’ll buy her coffee. See if her notes have anything your data doesn’t.”
“Okay.” She shifted, a delicious ache settling in her muscles. “I’ll text her.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating against her skin as he kissed the rise of her backside. “Black Cat’s probably wondering where her favorite journalist is right now. Picking over the forensics from that roof, no doubt. Fuming.”
He didn’t sound concerned. He sounded amused, and the faint note of possession in his voice sent another, different kind of shiver through Abbie. He kissed the back of her thigh once, softly, then finally stilled, his warmth solid along her side.
He kissed the back of her thigh once, softly, then finally stilled, his warmth solid along her side. The dorm room air felt charged and close, thick with the smell of sex and spent adrenaline. Abbie’s breathing had almost evened out when the jarring electronic snarl of Milo’s phone cut through the silence.
He grunted, fumbling for his discarded jeans on the floor. The screen glowed with Sarah’s name. He didn’t look at Abbie as he answered.
“Hey.” His voice was a level gravel, betraying nothing.
“Hey yourself.” Sarah’s tone was all business, underscored by the faint clatter of gear in the background. She was probably at the safehouse, patching her suit. “You get everything you needed from Abbie?”
Milo’s eyes slid to Abbie, who had gone very still beside him. He let a low chuckle rumble in his chest, his free hand resuming its slow trail down the dips of her spine. “Yeah. I got it. All of it.”
“Good. Scott’s pulling the permits on those rooftops. It’s a dead-end corporate shell, but it’s a start. You heading back soon?” There was a pause, the faintest edge of something else in her voice. Maybe she was just tired.
“Soon. Wrapping up a few details.” He bent his head and pressed his lips to the knob of Abbie’s spine, feeling her shiver. “I’ll call you when I’m clear.”
He ended the call and dropped the phone onto the tangled sheets. The room felt quieter now, the spell fractured but not broken. He nuzzled the sensitive space behind Abbie’s ear, inhaling the salt-sweet scent of her skin.
“I want to see you again,” he murmured, the words a rough vibration against her neck. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of intent, layered with the promise of more secrets, more of this frenetic, stolen heat.
“Okay,” she breathed, the word soft and immediate. She turned her head, her dark eyes searching his. There was no regret in them, only a wild, complicated glitter. “Yeah. Okay.”
He kissed her then, a slow, deep possession that felt like a signature on a pact. When he pulled back, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “This stays between us. Our little secret.” He watched her, gauging her reaction. “Things with Sarah… it’s complicated. This is different.”
“I know.” She nodded, a quick, sharp movement. “It’s secret. I get it.”
He dressed in the dim light, each movement practical and efficient. She watched him from the bed, the sheet pulled up to her chin, her gaze tracing the familiar lines of his body as he concealed them again under rumpled layers. He gave her one last, lingering look—a catalog of her disheveled hair, her swollen lips, the intense, focused beauty of her—before slipping out the door.
The evening air outside the dorm was a slap of cool dampness, washing away the intimate staleness. He lit a cigarette, the flare of the match highlighting the grim set of his mouth. The nicotine rush did nothing to quiet the low hum of guilt, so he smothered it with the sharper, more familiar itch of curiosity. Camilla Flores. A social worker with files. A new thread to pull.
Her apartment was in a slightly nicer part of town, a brick walk-up with potted herbs dying on the landings. She answered the door quickly, her smile warm but strained. “Milo. Abbie said you’d come. Come in, it’s… well, it’s a mess.”
It wasn’t. It was orderly, lived-in, with woven blankets on a sofa and framed community college degrees on the wall. It smelled like lavender and stale paperwork. Files were stacked in neat, ominous towers on her coffee table and dining table.
“She said you’ve been compiling something,” Milo said, shrugging off his jacket. He accepted a mug of tea he didn’t want.
“Observations. Case notes from families forced out of their homes near the docks.” Camilla tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. She was beautiful in a calm, grounded way that felt miles removed from Abbie’s electric intensity or Sarah’s fiery danger. “They all follow a pattern. A buyout offer comes from a shell corporation. If they refuse, the pressure starts. Code violations they swear never existed. Small fires. Local suppliers suddenly can’t make deliveries.”
She talked with her hands, painting the air with frustration. Milo nodded, sipping the bitter tea, his eyes following her as she moved to a taller stack of files by a bookshelf.
“The most recent one, the Ortiz family, they had a grocery. Here, I have the health inspector’s report that condemned their—” She bent over to reach for a specific folder on a lower shelf.
The movement was simple, utilitarian. Her jeans stretched, defining the full, perfect curve of her backside. Milo’s gaze locked onto it, the journalist’s observation seamlessly blurring into the man’s appreciation. The guilt was a distant echo. This was just another form of intel gathering, another calculus. Sarah was a force of nature. Abbie was a thrilling secret. Camilla, with her compassionate eyes and incredible ass, looked like she could use a fun distraction. And he was definitely in the market to provide one.
She straightened up, file in hand, completely unaware of his assessment. “Here. See? The date on the violation is two days after their refusal. It’s manufactured.”
He took the file, his fingers brushing hers. “This is good, Camilla. This is the human cost the financial data misses.” He held her gaze, letting a bit of the weariness he actually felt show in his eyes. “It’s the story. Thank you.”
She flushed, a soft pink rising on her cheeks. “I just want it to stop. What do we do next?”
Milo set the file down on top of the others. “We connect your stories to Abbie’s numbers. Then we find someone who can’t be paid off or scared, and we give them the whole, ugly package.” He gave her a smile that was meant to be reassuring but felt like the first move in a different game. “You’re in the thick of it now. You ready for that?”
Camilla hugged herself, looking at the towers of paper that represented broken lives. Then she looked back at him, and her spine straightened with resolve. “I’m ready.”
He believed her. And he mused, the thought a dark, pleasant thrum in his blood, that such resolve would look even better unraveled in his bedsheets, a temporary but very welcome diversion from the world ending outside his door.