Lucius walked the old man to the door with the polite patience of a man escorting a problem out of his house.
The old creep moved with a spring in his steps now, not the careful shuffle he had brought in when the limousine door first opened. His shoulders sat higher. His eyes looked awake. His hands did not tremble as much.
Lucius watched all of it and did the math.
"Before you start negotiating like you own my porch," Lucius replied, "try this."
He produced a single vial from inventory, light yellow, clean glass, and set it into the old man's palm.
The man's fingers closed around it with greedy certainty.
"That one is stamina," Lucius added. "Not healing. It will make you feel like you are on top of your game for at least three hours. Then you crash like everyone else."
The old man popped the cap on instinct and drank as the vial might evaporate.
The effect hit fast.
His breathing deepened. His chest expanded. His jaw loosened. The lines around his eyes softened, then tightened again in a different way, sharper, hungrier. His eyes went down to his lap, and his eyebrows rose in surprise as if feeling something there after a very long drought.
He straightened and looked at Lucius like he had just discovered religion and decided to tax it.
"How much," the man asked.
Lucius leaned against the door frame.
"Three hundred thousand per vial," Lucius replied.
The old man did not flinch. His pupils seemed to widen.
"All of it," he replied.
Lucius smiled.
"That is adorable," he replied. "And no."
The man's lips pulled back.
"I can pay."
"I know," Lucius replied. "That is why I am not selling you more than ten. I need you walking around healthy and banging chicks your granddaughter's age, not hoarding my stock in a safe like a dragon with arthritis."
The old man's face tightened and twisted at the same time. His greed fought his pride and hormones. Guess who lost quickly?
"Ten," he repeated.
Lucius nodded.
-
Lucius's gaze returned to the line of waiting vehicles. Sedans, A couple of SUVs and one more limo. Men in coats pretending to be casual. A smile appeared on his face. He liked queues. Queues meant demand.
Then the days started to pass.
Comfortable silence, as long as he did not think too hard about how many strangers had stepped into his house while he was gone. He stopped brewing inside. He did not trust the walls. He hated that part, and he kept the hate warm on purpose. It helped him stay disciplined. It reminded him to punish the people who thought they could watch him shower. It could have been different if he had been assured the watchers would be young and hot ladies, but NO! The bastards did not even have this much decency...
He limited sales. Not because he could not make more, but because scarcity turned rich people into idiots and agencies into bullies. He wanted both frantic.
He also wanted proof.
Every time he left the house, he set traps. Tiny things that did not matter to anyone except him.
A strand of hair lay across the inside edge of the front door frame, invisible unless you knew where to look. A thin smear of graphite dust on the underside of the living room coffee table, wiped clean by a sleeve if someone crawled under it. A folded receipt half tucked under the base of the kitchen trash can, angled so it would shift if the can moved.
A book on the shelf pulled out two fingers' width more than the others, then pressed into place by anyone who wanted to search behind it.
He left a coin on top of the bathroom door trim, balanced flat. It would fall if the door frame shook. It never fell, but the coin turned once, a few millimetres, like someone had touched the trim.
He did not need cameras; he needed certainty, and he kept getting it.
He waited for Jones.
When the call came, it did not come with drama. It came with the bored efficiency of a woman who had seen too much and still bothered to finish her jobs.
Jessica's voice sounded like sleep and contempt.
"I have five folders," she replied. "Four suspects in each. Overlaps with your description. I am sending someone with copies."
Lucius's smile came back.
"Good," he replied. "I'll send your payment with the same courier."
Jessica exhaled.
"I am hanging up," she replied.
The line went dead.
A courier arrived an hour later with a plain envelope. Lucius brought it inside and did not even pretend to be grateful.
Five folders. Thick enough to make his inventory feel heavier just by looking at them.
He sat in the sitting room and went through each one.
Photos, addresses, habits, and faces. He read the second file slower.
Telford Porter.
Bald head. Tribal tattoos like his skin had lost a bet. Eyes that looked bored and mean.
Jessica had done her work. Daily routine. Where he ate. Where he drank. Who he buy drugs from. Names, phone numbers, and a list of prostitutes he had contacted in the past week. Lucius noted the patterns without reacting.
Vermin kept schedules, too. He examined all files again, just in case, then moved them into his inventory. If he was sure of one thing, it was this. Every time he left the house, someone got in. He stood, checked his traps one last time, and felt his mouth tighten.
He did not rage. He stored the anger and walked out. He started the Tahoe and drove. First thing, confirm Porter in person. He had tails again. Three cars, different gaps, the same patience. He did not mind. He treated it like exercise. He drove to a busy area and parked in a lot where people moved like ants, then walked two blocks and took a cab.
He got out at one location, crossed the street, and took another cab. Then another. Three different drop-offs. Three different drivers. He kept his head down and his face bored.
By the time he walked into a dirty bar, he was alone.
The place smelled like beer, sweat, and regret. Sticky floor. Scratched tables. A television in the corner playing something loud and pointless. He scanned the room.
There.
Telford Porter sat at a table, hunched forward, a drink in front of him, tattoos crawling over his scalp and neck like the ink was trying to escape.
Lucius walked over and stopped at the table.
He extended his hand.
"Mr Porter," Lucius greeted with a pleasant smile.
Porter looked up and sneered like that was his default facial setting.
"Who the hell are you," Porter replied, eyes sliding over Lucius. "And what do you want, pretty boy?"
Lucius did not react. He reached into his jacket and produced a bundle of cash. Twenties and fifties, thick enough to talk. He set it on the table. Porter's eyes shone.
His hand moved faster than his mouth. The cash vanished into his pocket. Lucius watched the motion with mild approval. Good reflexes, bad discipline.
He named the dealer Jessica had listed. Porter's posture shifted.
"He said you could help me," Lucius continued. "I need smart people with minds for business."
Porter barked a laugh.
"Smart," Porter replied. "You in the wrong place, suit boy."
Lucius leaned in slightly.
"I need a warehouse," he replied. "Rent first. Other details later. I want a place where nobody asks questions."
Porter scoffed and lifted his drink.
"Keep the cash flowing," Porter said, "and I'll dig up a warehouse so far off the map even God wouldn't know where it is."
Lucius kept the smile.
"And when can we start looking," he asked.
Porter pushed back his chair.
"Now," he replied.
Lucius stood.
In his inventory, a pistol, a rope and chalk waited. Preparation was a comforting concept. Porter led him outside to a white Honda Accord. Lucius stared at it.
He had expected an Impala. Something that tried to be dangerous. This was just disappointing. They drove. Porter talked in the lazy way criminals talked when they thought they were in control.
What was he making? What was he selling? Who was he connected to?
Lucius fed him lies in calm doses.
Chemical engineer. New money. Synthetic production. Bigger plans.
Porter listened and nodded like he understood any of the chemical processes. Lucius did not need him to understand. He needed him isolated. They reached the Bronx riverfront.
No residential buildings near enough to matter. The kind of place that smelled like rust and old water. Porter parked and led him to a side entrance.
Inside, the warehouse was empty and filthy. Rust on beams. Dirt on the floor. A few broken pallets. Bugs and rats were moving like they owned the place.
Porter spread his hands, proud.
"You can have it for three grand," Porter replied, then grinned. "Or ten per cent of your production every month."
He looked at Lucius.
"So, how is it?"
Lucius smiled.
He opened his arms wide like he was welcoming a deal.
"It sounds lovely," he replied.
The pistol appeared in his hand. Porter's grin faltered. Lucius aimed at Porter's legs. Three shots cracked through the warehouse. Porter screamed and dropped, cursing, hands clawing at the floor. Lucius stepped in, calm. Two more shots took Porter's hands out of the equation. Porter's voice turned into a stream of filthy pleading and hatred. Lucius ignored most of it.
He took the rope from inventory and bound Porter fast, tight, and practical. Porter could not stand. Porter could not crawl well. Porter could not grab. That was enough.
Lucius cleared a space on the floor, scraped away grime with his shoe, and took chalk from inventory.
He started drawing. A structure that locked into place as his knowledge guided his hand. It took over five minutes. The array finished clean and bright against the dirty concrete.
He dragged Porter to the centre. Porter's eyes were wide now.
"What the hell is that?" He rasped.
Lucius crouched near him.
"A business transaction," came the reply.
He stood at the first symbol of the circle and whispered.
"Sacrifice."
The air went wrong. Sound faded for a heartbeat. The rats froze. Even the dust felt still. Lucius focused on the ability he wanted.
Teleportation.
He held it in his mind like a hook. Porter's body started to come apart in a very unhealthy way. It was also wrong biologically, no blood, no gore. Just erasure, like pixels disappearing one layer at a time. In a second, he was gone. Even the rope vanished with him.
Lucius stared at the empty centre of the array. He felt annoyance bloom.
"That was good rope," he muttered. "Good quality. Not cheap."
He started erasing the chalk with his shoe.
A weight dropped onto his head.
He flinched and caught it.
The rope.
Lucius froze, rope in his hands. He cleared his throat.
"Noted," he said to the empty warehouse. "I will be more careful with my stingy complaints. Thank you..."
He finished erasing the array. Then he summoned Bob. The black book appeared in his hands. He opened it to the first page.
Under his Racial Skills, a new line sat there like it had always belonged.
Teleportation.
Lucius's smile returned.
He dismissed Bob into inventory and focused.
He picked a corner of the warehouse, a spot near a rusted beam.
He willed himself there.
The shift was instant. A faint pressure behind his eyes, then the world snapped, and he stood at the corner.
He tried again.
Back near the entrance.
Again.
Near the centre.
Again.
Each jump hit like a small punch in the skull at first, then softened as his body accepted the new rule.
He breathed through it.
He did not stop until the movement felt comfortable.
Then he thought about his car.
Driver's seat.
The smell of worn leather.
The steering wheel under his hands.
He smiled and vanished.