I tilted my head. “Is that important for this job?”
Marcos didn’t even look up. “When you apply for a real job, don’t you put your full name down?”
I smirked a little. “Fair point.”
I leaned back in the chair. “Ajori Kensington.”
He nodded and typed. “Date of birth?”
I told him, and he typed again.
“Social?”
I paused, eyebrows lifted. “Can you at least tell me what I’m signing up for before I start handing over my identity? I don’t know if I’m about to accidentally join the Illuminati or involuntarily sell my kidneys on the internet!”
Marcos laughed quietly. “Relax. None ofthattype of shit is going on.”
I sighed in a breath of relief.
Something about the way he said it made me believe him, so I told him.
Marcos typed for a few seconds, then his eyes skimmed across the screen like he’d just found the ending to my whole life story.
“Twenty-nine years old… clean driving record… no tickets… no court appearances… grocery store cashier… Uber driver.”
My stomach tightened. “How do you—”
He kept going, unfazed. “You live with your mother and younger brother at Apartment 3B on West Haven Court.”
My jaw clenched. “What the—”
He looked up at me briefly. “Daddy not in the picture?”
“No,” I confirmed, keeping it short.
I wasn’t about to unpack childhood trauma in front of a man who talked like he knew my blood type.
That probably was listed somewhere on there, too.
“But how do you know all that?”
I leaned forward, trying to sneak another look at the tablet.
Marcos immediately closed it with a quiet, final click. “Protocol.”
There it was again—that damn word.
“You think we just take anybody around here? People lie. People slip up. People run their mouths. If something goes left, I need to already know everything about you—where you sleep, who you answer to, who might come looking, who might crack under pressure. Backgrounds keep our people safe. They let us know what kind of mess you could drag to our doorstep.”
His eyes locked on mine, unreadable.
“And now that I know your whole picture, I’ll knowimmediatelywho to go after if you ever switch up.”
A chill rolled down my spine.
“Relax. It’s not personal, it’s necessary.”
Then he leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Good thing is, you passed the screening, which means, the job is yours if you want it.”