City lights shimmered through the rain-streaked windshield as I pulled up outside Brooklyn's building. The engine idled, low and steady, like it knew better than to draw attention to itself. She didn't get out straight away. She just sat there for a second, fingers resting on the door handle, eyes fixed on something ahead of us that I couldn't see.
I watched her instead.
The streetlight caught the side of her face, softening it, turning her into something unreal for half a second. Her hair was damp from the drizzle, darker than usual, clinging slightly to her neck. I noticed the way her shoulders rose when she inhaled, how she always did that before leaving, like she was bracing herself for whatever waited on the other side of the door.
I leaned across the centre console, close enough to feel her warmth. My hands found her shoulders, light at first, then firmer, grounding. "I'll see you soon," I said quietly. "There's something I need to take care of."
She turned to face me, that familiar look in her eyes — half curiosity, half challenge. "You always say that," she said.
"This one matters," I replied.
I brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear, my thumb lingering just under her jaw. My hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers pressing gently, claiming the moment without rushing it. She didn't pull away. She never did.
I kissed her slowly, deliberately. Not desperate. Not hurried. Just enough to remind both of us that this was real, that whatever waited for me later couldn't touch this part. Her lips softened against mine, and for a second the noise of the city faded into something distant and unimportant.
When I pulled back, she searched my face, like she was trying to read what I wasn't saying. "Try not to get yourself killed," she said, attempting a smile.
"I'm hard to get rid of," I answered.
She rolled her eyes, but there was worry underneath it. I squeezed her neck once more, then let go. She stepped out into the rain, shut the door, and walked toward the entrance without looking back.
I stayed there until she was inside.
One of my men was talking before the door had even shut. Words spilling out like he was afraid silence might kill him.
"So basically what happened was—we were tracking him, right, and then he doubled back and there was this alley and—"
I slammed my palm against the dashboard. The sound cracked through the van.
"Slow the fuck down," I said. "Who—who the fuck even are you?"
The guy froze, throat bobbing. He looked young. Too young. The kind of guy who still thought this was a job you could explain afterward.
"Gerrad," he said quickly. "My name's Gerrad."
I looked at him properly this time. Sweat at his hairline. Fingers twitching in his lap.
"Do you know where the killer is?" I asked.
"Yes," Gerrad said, nodding too fast. "The other two guys—they've got him. He's wounded but alive."
From the passenger seat, another man turned slightly, voice steady, like this wasn't his first bad night. "He's caught. Both teams handled it."
I exhaled through my nose and looked at him. "What the fuck's your name?"
"Grendel."
"Alright, Grendel," I said. "Drive. Take us to him."
The Sprinter pulled out, tires hissing against wet asphalt. The city blurred past the windows—empty streets, shuttered shops, sodium lights flickering like they were nervous too. No one spoke. Gerrad kept glancing at me in the mirror. Grendel didn't look back once.
We found them in a half-lit industrial lot tucked behind a row of warehouses. The smell hit first—oil, damp concrete, and blood.
Two bodies lay crumpled near a loading bay. My men. Faces slack, eyes open, already starting to look unreal. A few feet away, the other two had the killer pinned against a rusted crate. He was breathing hard, one arm hanging uselessly, blood soaking through his sleeve.
I stepped out of the van slowly. Let the scene settle.
I crouched by the bodies first. Checked pulses I already knew weren't there. Anger stayed quiet in my chest. Cold. Focused.
Then I moved to the killer.
He tried to lift his head when he saw me. Failed.
I searched his pockets. Wallet. Phone. And a car key.
Good.
I stood and turned to the 2 other men. "You two. Black bag. Put them in it." I nodded at the bodies. "Drive his car." I tossed the key to the beefier one. "Bury them deep. Somewhere no one walks."
They hesitated for half a second—then nodded and got to work.
I looked at Gerrad and Grendel. "Load him into the Sprinter."
The killer groaned as they hauled him up. Blood dripped onto the concrete, dark and glossy.
One of them asked, "Where are we taking him?"
I watched the killer's face as he was dragged past me. Watched the fear finally settle in.
"Kingsmere," I said.
The doors slammed shut behind him.
And the night kept moving.
Just realised something. The place you truly belong to, never changes. Not the school but rather the secrets behind it. It smelled like rust and old dust, the kind of place where sound didn't die—it lingered. Every footstep echoed back at you like a memory you couldn't bury. We dragged him inside, boots scraping concrete, his weight sagging between my men like he'd already given up on being human.
The chair waited in the center of the room. Metal. Bolted to the floor. Honest.
I chained him there myself. Wrists first. Ankles second. Tight enough to hurt, loose enough to remind him he was still alive. When I stepped back, he was slumped forward, chin to chest, breathing shallow and wet.
I nodded to Gerrad. "Wake him."
Cold water did the trick. His head snapped up as he screamed, body jerking against the restraints like panic might undo steel.
"Where am I?" he shouted, voice cracking.
I stepped into his line of sight. Calm. Measured. "Relax," I said. "You're safe."
That did it. He lost whatever control he had left.
"I don't know anything!" he yelled. "I swear—I don't know anything!"
I sighed, rubbing my forehead. Same script. Every time. "God, why do you all do this?" I said. "You scream, you cry, you say you don't know anything. It never helps." I leaned closer. "Every time you shout that, I put a bullet in your head. Just once. Eventually you stop shouting."
He shook his head violently. "I'm dead anyway. Even if I talk—I'm a dead man."
I smiled slightly. "Oh. So you do know something."
I pulled the knife. Slow. Let him see it. The light caught the blade and bounced it straight into his eyes.
Just as I stepped closer, Gerrad's hand touched my arm. Light. Careful. "He can't say anything if he's dead."
I didn't look at him. "Dead man anyway, right?"
Gerrad swallowed, then crouched in front of the killer. "What's your name?"
The killer hesitated, jaw tight. "Jusher."
Gerrad nodded like that mattered. "Listen to me. That man behind you—he's a killer. He's killed people. He won't lose sleep over killing you. So help yourself."
Jusher laughed. A thin, ugly sound. "He's not a killer. I know a killer." He looked at me. Smirked. "This guy's weak. A cracker."
Something snapped.
I crossed the room in three steps. No warning. No pause. The knife flashed once.
He screamed as I sliced his tongue. Not clean. Not merciful. Blood poured from his mouth, spilling down his chin, dripping onto the blade like it belonged there.
"Talk then, motherfucker," I said, gripping his jaw and forcing his face up.
His scream turned wet, broken, animal. Blood hit the floor in steady drops. The sound filled the room, bounced off the walls, crawled into every corner.
I let go and stepped back, wiping the blade against his shirt. Then I reached into his pocket and pulled out his ID.
I held it up. "This you?"
He stared at it, eyes wide, breathing through his nose now, desperate.
"Haringey," I continued. "Treacherous borough. Not a lot of opportunity unless you're willing to get your hands dirty." I tilted my head. "Needed the money, huh?"
His shoulders sagged.
"For your wife," I said. "And the baby."
That did it. His eyes flooded. Tears mixing with blood.
"I—I just—"
"I know," I cut in. "Everyone's got a reason." I leaned closer. "I've got a girl who needs to see me too."
I stepped back and pulled the Glock from my waistband. The sound alone shut him up.
"This is your last chance," I said calmly. "Say it. Names. Orders. Anything."
He stared at the gun. At me. And shook his head.
Silence.
I pulled the trigger.
The sound was sharp. Final. His body jerked once, then went slack. Blood spread beneath the chair like a dark answer to a stupid question.
"What a dumbass," I muttered.
Gerrad and Grendel stared at me like they'd just learned gravity existed.
I turned to them. "Black bag."
They moved instantly.
"Concentrated sulfuric acid," I added. "Polyethylene container. Dump everything in. No shortcuts."
They nodded. Pale. Obedient.
I looked once more at Jusher's body. Husband. Father. Killer. Victim.
Then I walked out.
Kingsmere swallowed the sound behind me.
The acid wasn't my problem anymore.
Once the orders were given, once the bags were sealed and my men moved with that quiet efficiency I paid for, my role was done. That was the rule. You didn't linger. You didn't watch. You moved forward before guilt had time to grow teeth.
Don Esteban sent for me before the night could settle.
His office sat above the city like a throne room without the theatrics. Thick walls. Low light. The smell of cigars soaked into everything, even the silence. Power lived here — not loud, not rushed, just patient.
He didn't look up when I entered.
"Two of my men died," he said, calm as a banker reading numbers.
"Yes," I replied. "And the suspected killer is also dead. Taken care of."
That earned me his eyes. He leaned back slowly, fingers interlocking, gaze weighing me.
"Where are they?" he asked.
"In the process of melting."
A pause. Just a fraction too long.
"Melting?" he repeated.
"Sodium hydroxide's sloppy," I said. "Sulfuric acid's cleaner. No dental records. No bone structure. Nothing to trace."
His jaw tightened — not anger. Calculation.
"How hard do you think it is," Esteban said, "to find loyal soldiers?"
I shrugged. "Hard enough."
"If any more of my men die on your watch," he said softly, "it will be you in that acid."
I met his eyes. Didn't blink.
"Understood."
That was it. No dramatics. No forgiveness. Just a line drawn deeper into the dirt.
The hotel felt unreal after that — too bright, too alive. My men dropped me at the entrance and pulled away, the Sprinter disappearing into traffic like none of this existed.
I stood there for a second, breathing, letting my heartbeat slow.
That's when the car screamed to a stop.
Windows rolled down.
Muzzles flashed.
The night exploded.
Glass shattered. Screams tore through the street. A woman fell. Someone shouted something I couldn't hear over the gunfire. I dove behind a column as bullets chewed stone and metal, the sound punching through my skull.
"Call an ambulance!" someone screamed.
That word snapped something in me.
Ambulance meant police.
Police meant questions.
Questions meant rooms searched.
I ran.
Inside the hotel, chaos chased me — alarms, footsteps, voices blurring together. I took the stairs two at a time, lungs burning, hands slick with sweat. I burst into my room, grabbed the duffel bag stuffed with cash, my movements wild, unfocused.
Think. Move. Don't stop.
I hit the balcony and froze.
Two golden spears rose from the street below, decorative, useless — except they weren't. I tied the duffel tight, secured the knot with shaking fingers, and lowered it down, letting gravity take the weight.
I crouched there, breath ragged, listening.
The city didn't care. Lights flickered. Sirens wailed somewhere far enough away to lie to me.
I was still alive.
For now.