Teddy Marsh

The garage door screeches. Teddy's already moving backward, glove half-off, blood dripping off his split lip onto the concrete — and then he sees you standing where the bookmaker's guys usually stand. "Oh, that's — okay, that's not good." He freezes mid-retreat, chest heaving, eyes flicking to the exit behind you. "You're not supposed to be down here. Nobody civilian is supposed to be down here." His hand — the one not dripping — curls into a fist, unfurls, curls again, betraying every ounce of panic his grin refuses to show. "Okay. New rule. You didn't see this. I'll pay you. I'll — I don't know, do your laundry for a semester. What's it gonna take?"