"You're hurting me, Mint!"

"Stop resisting, and it won't hurt! By the way, what the fuck are you made of? I just touched your shoulder."

"You pushed me!"

"I didn't."

"You pushed me into this fucking room!"

"Because you failed to enter on your own! You're not a fucking guest, you're a prisoner!"

"You're such an asshole, Mint."

"Don't call me asshole in front of my men. Or Mint, for that matter."

"Asshole."

"Stop it."

"Asshole, asshole, ass—ouch!"

"I told you."

"You pushed me again!"

"I didn't. When I push you, you fall."

"I almost fell, you fucking ogre!"

"Seriously, what's wrong with your sense of balance?"

"Everything. I basically don't have one. But I'm not telling you anything until I'm free again, asshole. Give me liberty or give me death! Power to the people! Free Willy! No pasarán!"

"For God's sake, shut up! If you call me asshole in front of my men, I have to slap you. So please, stop it."

"Oh, Mr. Mercenary King the First under this name is being protective of his image—ouch!"

"That way."

"All the doors look the same!"

"Well, sorry for not placing emphasis on the interior design after you forced me to change headquarters."

"I just—"

"Yeah."

"Hey! Stop pushing me! You know I hate to be touched!"

"I know. I just don't care."

"You asshole! Captivity is making me all upset! And unwanted physical contact makes it even worse! I'm having a meltdown!"

"No, you're not. I see it when you're distressed. Now you just enjoy annoying me."

Well, what could I say? He's right. I don't know what came over me, but it feels so good.

I'm doing it simply for the pleasure of seeing the veins pulsating on Mint's temple. Not to move the world's events towards the best outcome possible and my endgame goal. Or humanity's, for that matter.

Something must be seriously wrong with me.

I'm behaving like a dimwit for no logical reason.

It's probably the result of my insomnia. Caused by Mint, so he totally deserves it.

"I haven't slept very well," I complain to him.

"I don't care. I did."

"I noticed," I snort. "You grab me like a fucking teddy bear in your sleep, and you won't let me go!"

"No, I don't," he objects, sounding honestly bewildered. "It doesn't sound like me."

"You do! The moment you fall asleep, you start to crawl in my direction!"

"I certainly don't. You're lying again. I've never—"

"And you're so fucking strong," I huff. "It's like I'm trying to sleep in a straightjacket."

He stares at me, shaking his head slowly as if he still had problems believing me. He must be in denial. None of his women dared to tell him about his clingy midnight tendencies before, probably. None of those who survived his bear hug and lived to see the morning.

He spends another minute trying to stare me down, to no avail. Then, he shrugs.

"So what. And you snore."

"I don't."

I hope my tone is indignant enough to convey my true feelings. He has no idea how heavy and hot his arms are. Being trapped by them makes the slightest movement impossible. And when, by some miracle, I free myself and climb over him to the other side of the bed, in two minutes he turns around and captures me again, crushing me against his chest, without waking up.

It must have something to do with his world-famous tracking skills. He was trained to chase elusive targets, and he does it even in his sleep. His built-in sensors react to the absence of body heat, and he hunts me down mercilessly.

"Why don't you wake me up?" he asks.

"I tried."

"Okay." He shrugs. "I don't even remember. So you can wake me up any time you want. Problem solved."

"You kissing my forehead and mumbling something like 'sleep, baby, everything's alright' didn't exactly solve my problem, Mint."

He closes his eyes for a moment, sighing.

"Then, before sleeping on," I inform him, "you also wrapped your legs around me, so waking you up only made things worse. Because you don't wake up! How the fuck can you sleep so soundly? You never even flinch in your sleep! It's like you're on sedatives!"

"I'm not," he answers morosely. "I'm... um... I'm just a good sleeper."

"That's strange. Men with a past like yours usually have problems sleeping. There's an 87% chance of nightmares, and—"

"There's always the floor," he reminds me.

That's his ultimate argument. He's so annoying. And grabby. And warm. And funny, when he rubs his face against my back, unconsciously, without knowing what he does, in the rare case I manage to keep him from arranging my body in a position facing him.

Sadly, only 35% of our nights' net time is spent spooning, as Nicole would call this version of assault, being rendered unmoving from behind, but, at least, retaining the possibility of unobstructed breathing. It's not nearly as bad as being pressed against Mint, face first.

Spooning, I can sleep. Not easily, I need to breathe out a few times, but it's nearly not as terrible as having my nose buried in his chest.

"Anyway," he says as if the problem were solved indeed, "back to the documents. The sooner you find them, the sooner you can sleep in your own bed again."

"Do I have new data?" I ask him. "I calculate things based on the data gathered or provided. I can't leave this place, so I can't gather new information, and you, honestly, don't deliver much to work with, either."

"Because you don't ask the right questions. Everything's here, in my head."

"Okay," I agree. "What was your last solid clue, again?"

"Well, the idiot you helped against me—"

"Solid, I said."

"The lab. It wasn't there. And it's a frequently used strategy to protect assets that—"

"These aren't facts, Mint. These are your preconceptions and beliefs. Never mind, most people have problems separating them. But back to the clues, okay? I know the doctor refused to answer the questions about the location of the formula."

"To put it mildly, yes. She freaked Jorge out."

"Jorge has a conscience," I point out. "That's not exactly a problem."

"Well," he answers with a grin, "these are just your preconceptions and beliefs. In our business, in fact, it is."

Touché.

"So, the lab," I go on. "Have you checked the shredder? There's always a physical copy, and documentation of this kind isn't two pages long."

"No."

"Do you know if the vaccine was placed under commonweal protection by the government? Because if it was, the lab doesn't have information about the location of the docs."

"No," he admits.

"What the fuck have you been spending your time with then, Mint?"

Touché. And he appreciates it even less than I did.

"Stop it, all right? Just do your job!"

"I'm doing it, Mint."

"And stop adding my name to all your fucking sentences!"

"Hey! I'm just trying to sound normal here!"

"What normal? It's annoying!"

"I'm sorry, Mint. I need to be extra careful abiding social norms, in order to appear—"

"Fuck social norms. I hate them. Just give me the location, okay?"

"I don't have it, Mint."

"I bet you know something, but you tell me nothing, except for my fucking old codename, which I already know perfectly well. By the way, don't you want to know my real name?"

"No. I don't."

"You're such an asshole, Jane. Or whatever the fuck you're called today."

"I told you. Names are overrated. And you're the asshole, not me, asshole!"

"Sooner or later, I'm going to slap you."

"I'm not afraid, fuck you! You're already torturing me with sleep deprivation! No surrender! Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité! Eat the rich! Think globally, act locally! You shall not pass!"

"Oh, shut up."

Another day spent without getting closer to the documentation, in other words.