Chapter 19: Running's Good For The Heart

Jamie was never particularly great at math, or maybe he just had a very loose relationship with the concept of time. He’d said ten days. It had been eight.

When the buzzer for the penthouse rang, Leo didn’t even have to look at the monitor to know who it was. Only one person on this entire planet pressed a buzzer with that kind of rhythmic, impatient aggression.

Leo opened the door, and there he was. Jamie looked exactly like he’d just spent several hours cramped in a first-class pod—messy hair that defied gravity, a wrinkled linen shirt that probably cost more than a mid-sized sedan, and that specific Oxford-bred energy of looking like he didn't care about anything while actually calculating everything. He had two bags slung over his shoulders and a frantic sort of buzz about him, likely powered by three double espressos and pure transatlantic adrenaline.

Jamie didn't wait for an invite. He pushed past Leo, dropped his bags with a heavy thud on the polished floor, and did a slow, dramatic 360-degree rotation in the center of the foyer.

"Right," Jamie said, his voice raspy from the flight.

Leo leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "Right what?"

"You live like a supervillain, Leo. I knew it. I suspected it from the brochures, but seeing it in person? It’s confirmed. You’ve gone full antagonist."

Leo rolled his eyes, closing the door. "It’s just a penthouse, Jamie. Don’t be dramatic."

"In Manhattan? With these floor-to-ceiling windows?" Jamie started pace-walking toward the living area, his eyes darting around. "There are no photographs. Not one. Who lives in a place this big and doesn't have a single framed memory of a cat or a distant aunt? Only people who are planning to blow up the moon, that’s who."

He wandered further in, his boots clicking on the stone. He stopped dead when he reached the bedroom doorway, pointing a finger at the nightstand. "And what is that? Is that a sword? Leo, tell me that isn’t a sword leaning against your bed like it’s a lamp."

Leo walked over, glancing at the blade. It looked harmless enough to him, though he knew better. "It’s decoration."

Jamie stared at the sword for a long, quiet moment. He looked at the hilt, then at the sharp edge, then back at Leo’s face. He didn't look convinced, but he also didn't look like he wanted to argue.

"Obviously," Jamie muttered, throwing his hands up. "Decoration. For when the ninjas break in during your morning smoothie. Totally normal."

Leo didn't bother explaining. He just grabbed one of Jamie’s bags and started heading toward the guest suite. "You’re early."

"Couldn't stay away," Jamie said, following him. "London was getting boring. Everyone is talking about the same three things, and none of them are as interesting as whatever trouble you’re getting into over here."

They were in the kitchen about four minutes later. Jamie was leaning against the marble island, mid-sentence about some disastrous "girl situation" back home.

"—so I told her, the third person in the equation is now officially the main person, which makes the original person the secondary person, and honestly, the math just wasn't mathing for her—"

Jamie stopped. His mouth stayed open, but the words died in his throat.

Foxy had decided to go visible. It wasn't an accident. Leo could feel the smug ripple of energy coming off the spirit as it hopped onto the kitchen counter, casually walking past a bowl of fruit before sitting down right in front of Jamie.

Foxy didn't move. He just sat there, tail wrapped neatly around his paws, staring Jamie directly in the soul with those unnervingly bright eyes.

Jamie looked at the fox. Then he looked at Leo. Then he looked back at the fox.

"That’s..." Jamie started, his voice an octave higher than usual.

Leo sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "That’s Foxy."

"That’s—"

"Don’t," Foxy interrupted.

Jamie froze. The fox’s voice was clear, sharp, and distinctly unimpressed.

"Please," Foxy continued, tilting his head. "Whatever you are about to say about my name, just don't. Spare us both the effort of me having to act offended."

Jamie’s eyes went wide. He looked like he was having a minor stroke, or perhaps a very major revelation. "It... it talks."

"Yes," Leo said.

"And you named it Foxy?" Jamie turned to Leo, his expression a mix of horror and genuine disappointment. "You have a talking, mystical creature in your kitchen and you gave it a name a five-year-old gives their first stuffed animal?"

"He did," Foxy added helpfully. "He’s remarkably uncreative when he’s under pressure."

"It was a quick decision!" Leo snapped, feeling the need to defend his honor. "I didn't think I’d be introducing him to guests."

Jamie looked between the two of them, his brain clearly trying to reboot. He looked at the fox again, then at the "supervillain" penthouse, then back to Leo. He looked like a man who had just realized the world was much weirder than he’d previously been led to believe.

"Okay," Jamie whispered. "Right. Fine."

He pulled a kitchen stool out and sat down heavily, resting his head in his hands.

"You need a moment?" Leo asked.

"I absolutely need several moments," Jamie muttered into his palms. "And probably a very large drink."

"No," Leo said, for the fourth time.

"It’s Tuesday!" Jamie shouted, already halfway through changing into a fresh shirt he’d pulled from his suitcase. "Seven p.m. on a Tuesday. Even the most dedicated world-conquerors take Tuesdays off, Leo. It’s in the handbook."

"I have work, Jamie. Actual, legitimate business that requires me to be conscious and not hungover."

Jamie turned around, buttoning his shirt with one hand and gesturing wildly with the other. "You’re in New York. The city that literally never shuts up. You can’t stay in this sterile fortress with your talking pet and your bedside sword. You’re going to turn into a hermit. Or a monk. A weird, rich, sword-wielding monk."

Leo looked over at the counter. Foxy was still visible, grooming his fur with an air of complete indifference.

"He’s right, you know," Foxy said, not even looking up. "You’re boring when you’re brooding. Go out. Let the loud human take you to a loud place."

Leo glared at the fox. "Traitor."

"I prefer 'consultant,'" Foxy replied.

Leo looked back at Jamie, who was wearing his most winning, annoying grin. Leo knew this look. He’d seen it at Oxford when Jamie wanted to convince a professor to change a grade or a bartender to stay open late. It was the look of someone who wasn't going to stop until they got their way.

"Fine," Leo groaned. "One drink. If it’s loud, I’m leaving."

"Deal!" Jamie cheered.

They ended up in a divey little bar in the West Village. Jamie had found it on his phone during the Uber ride over, claiming it had "character." In reality, it was dim, smelled faintly of stale beer and old wood, and was tucked away down a flight of stairs where the cell service was non-existent.

Leo actually didn't mind it. It wasn't the kind of place anyone from Zephyr Global would ever set foot in. No one here was looking to network or climb a corporate ladder. It was just people drinking and talking. He could disappear here.

They grabbed a corner table. Jamie ordered for both of them, then immediately launched into a monologue about his life. Jamie talked fast—it was like he had a surplus of words and a limited time to use them. He told stories about London, about people Leo barely remembered, and about his various failed business ventures that he treated like hilarious jokes rather than losses.

Every now and then, Jamie would say something actually profound, a little nugget of wisdom hidden inside a layer of sarcasm. Then, as if embarrassed by his own depth, he’d quickly pivot back to a joke about a bad date.

Leo mostly listened. It was a relief, honestly. In his world, every conversation was a chess match. With Jamie, it was just... noise. Good noise.

Foxy was under the table, invisible to everyone but Leo. Every few minutes, Leo would feel a cold brush against his ankle, followed by a whispered comment in his ear.

"That girl at the bar thinks your friend is an idiot," Foxy whispered. "She’s not wrong, but she finds it charming."

Leo fought the urge to smile into his glass.

For the first time in three weeks, Leo felt the tension in his shoulders actually drop. He wasn't the CEO of a tech giant or a man with a target on his back. He was just a guy at a bar with his annoying friend and his invisible fox. It felt normal. It felt so normal that it was almost scary.

The air outside was biting. The kind of New York cold that felt sharp, like it was trying to etch the outlines of the buildings into the dark sky.

They decided to walk back. Jamie was humming some song Leo didn't recognize, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. They were about halfway through the walk, passing through a quieter residential stretch, when Jamie’s energy shifted. The playfulness dropped away, replaced by that keen, observant edge he usually kept hidden.

"So," Jamie said, his voice low. "What are you actually doing here, Leo?"

Leo didn't look at him. "I told you. Building the New York branch. It's a massive undertaking."

"Don't give me the Zephyr Global PR script," Jamie said, stepping over a crack in the sidewalk. "I’ve known you since we were nineteen. You hate cities. You hate the noise, you hate the crowds, and you definitely hate being the center of attention. You’ve been here three weeks and you look like you’re waiting for the floor to drop out."

Jamie stopped walking for a second, forcing Leo to stop too. "Something specific is happening. What is it?"

Leo stared down the street. The orange glow of the streetlights hit the pavement in long, distorted rectangles. He could feel Foxy trotting along beside them, his spirit-form visible only to Leo, pretending to be a regular animal out for a stroll.

"It’s business, Jamie," Leo said, though the words felt heavy and fake.

"Right," Jamie said. He started walking again, his pace slower now. They went half a block in silence. "Is it them?"

Leo felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. He didn't answer. He couldn't. Not yet.

They walked another twenty yards before Leo finally exhaled. "Yes."

Jamie just nodded. He didn't ask for names. He didn't ask for details or the "how" or the "why." He’d been at Oxford with Leo during the worst of it. He’d seen the fallout. He knew enough to know that when Leo said 'them,' it meant the kind of trouble that didn't just go away with a lawyer or a checkbook.

"Understood," Jamie said.

That was the thing about Jamie. He was loud and annoying and dramatic, but he knew exactly where the line was. He wouldn't push. He wouldn't pry. He just wanted to know what kind of game they were playing.

They walked the rest of the way in a comfortable, heavy silence. Leo watched Foxy. The fox was having the time of his life, darting through patches of light and shadow, sniffing at the base of a lamp post like he was a normal creature of flesh and bone.

Leo watched the fox’s tail disappear into the darkness of an alley before reappearing under the next light.

Four years ago, Leo had been dying in a ditch in the middle of nowhere, convinced the world was over. Tonight, he was walking through the most famous city on earth. He had a penthouse, a billion-dollar company, a friend who would jump off a bridge for him, and a spirit fox that talked too much.

It was a lot to process. It was too much, actually.

Leo shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets and looked up at the towering skyscrapers. He decided, right then and there, not to examine his life too hard. If he looked too closely at the stitches holding everything together, they might start to unravel.

"Race you to the lobby?" Jamie asked suddenly, breaking the silence with a grin.

"No," Leo said.

Jamie took off running anyway.

Leo watched him go, then felt the cold brush of Foxy against his leg.

"You should run, Leo," the fox whispered. "It’s good for the heart."

"Shut up," Leo muttered, but he picked up his pace anyway.