The Man with the Black Ring

Ethan liked the quiet part of his job — the steady brush strokes, the smell of fresh paint, the way time seemed to blur when he was in the zone. He didn’t paint houses for conversation; he painted because he enjoyed disappearing into the work.

The black ring on his right hand was just part of him now. The embedded symbol was subtle enough that most people didn’t notice. And those who did… well, they tended to notice for a reason.

The house was large, airy, and filled with warm light. On the first morning, he’d barely unpacked his drop cloths before she appeared. The homeowner. She was polite, but her sudden appearances made him jump more than once. No one ever came to watch him work — except her.

Every hour or so she returned. Sometimes with iced tea, sometimes with a plate of fruit. “You’ve been working for hours,” she’d say with a smile that lingered just a little too long.

Ethan kept to his rhythm, keeping the conversation light. Lunchtime usually meant a quick sandwich in the back of his van, but on the third day she leaned against the doorway and insisted: “I’m making a proper lunch today. Hot. Sit at a table for once.”

Something in her tone made it sound less like an offer and more like an inevitability. He agreed.

At the dining table, over steaming bowls of pasta, she reached forward to pour him more water. That’s when he saw it — the delicate silver chain against her collarbone, the pendant with the unmistakable Partners ID symbol.

It clicked. The extra visits. The persistence. The hot lunch.

He met her gaze, and she didn’t look away. Instead, a slow smile spread across her face, like they’d just agreed to a secret without saying a word.

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