Marlowe
Dorian showed up at the den three days after the claiming, sober, steady, carrying a toolbox instead of a bottle for once, and asked Bear directly if there was any kind of work a disgraced, unpatched associate could do to start actually earning back trust instead of just talking about it.
"Grunt work," Bear told him, watching his reaction carefully. "Fence repair. Supply hauling. Nothing that requires trust yet, because you haven't earned any."
"I understand." Dorian didn't argue, didn't perform wounded pride the way I half-expected. He just picked up the assignment sheet and got to work, and I watched from across the yard with an unfamiliar, cautious hope settling into my chest — small, unglamorous proof that he actually meant what he'd promised at the gate that night.
I didn'
