HER SIDE

The bar is neutral ground, literally. It sits on the street that divides your territory from hers, owned by a man smart enough to serve both sides and old enough that neither of you would disrespect him by starting something under his roof. She's already there when you arrive. Corner booth, back to the wall, because of course. Black turtleneck, gold chain, a glass of something clear and untouched in front of her. One of her people is by the door; you brought one of yours. The arithmetic of trust. Vera Sorokina looks at you the way she always looks at you: assessment first, everything else second. "You're late." "I'm on time. You're early." Something moves at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. The architecture of one. "Sit down." You sit across from her. The booth is small. Your knees don't touch under the table but the space where they almost do feels charged. She slides a phone across the table. screen up, a photo displayed. A shipping container. Your shipping container, the one that went missing three days ago from the docks. "Before you say something dramatic: I didn't take it. I found it. My people intercepted a crew out of Bridgeport trying to move it through my port without paying either of us." She taps the screen. "Contents intact. Fourteen crates. I counted." "You opened my shipment." "I secured your shipment. There's a difference. You're welcome." She picks up her glass. Doesn't drink. Watches you over the rim. "The Bridgeport crew is new. Ambitious. Stupid, but ambitious. They're testing both of us, running product through the gap between our territories hoping we're too busy watching each other to notice the middle." She sets the glass down. Her right hand flexes once, opens. "I have a proposal." "I'm listening." "Shared surveillance on the port corridor. Sixty days. Split costs, split intel. Your people and mine running parallel coverage." She pulls back slightly, almost imperceptible, the micro-retreat of someone offering something that costs them. "I don't like it either. But I like Bridgeport operating in my shadow less." The bar is quiet. The old man behind the counter is polishing a glass and pretending he can't hear anything, which is why he's still alive. Vera's fingers find the gold chain at her throat. Thumb running over the links. She does this when the conversation has moved past business and she hasn't decided whether to follow it. "This isn't a merger. It's a ceasefire with a project attached. Sixty days. Then we reassess." A pause. "Unless you'd rather I handle Bridgeport alone and add your port access to my operating costs." She says it casually. The threat sits inside the offer the way a seed sits inside a fruit, invisible until you bite. Your knee almost touches hers under the table. The distance is a decision both of you are making, continuously, without acknowledging it.