Midnight, a gunshot, and a figure frozen in the shadows.
The gunshot echoes longer than necessary in my ears.
I don't make a move.
Neither do the men behind me.
The body on the floor does what bodies always do after the last breath—goes slack, as if surprised the world kept going without it. It's blood spreads slowly across the marble.
I turn my head just enough to see that there's a shadow near the far doorway. Half-hidden by the column. Thin and standing too still.
Not running.
That's the first mistake.
The second mistake is breathing too quietly.
I notice it anyway.
"Clear." one of my men says from the far side of the room.
I don't answer.
My attention is already elsewhere.
"Lock the room." I say.
They obey and seal all windows and doors while retreating in the process. The space empties until it's only me, the dead, and the shadow that shouldn't be here.
I didn't raise my voice.
"Come out."
Silence.
The boy doesn't move.
That's the third mistake.
I reach into my coat and take out my gun—not fast, not threatening. Just enough for the shape of it to register in the low light.
"I won't ask twice."
A pause.
Then the shadow steps forward.
He's younger than I expected. Early twenties, maybe. Clothes too thin for the weather. Shoes scuffed at the toes. No jewelry. No weapon.
His hands were empty and he had no obvious way to protect himself.
But his eyes were steady.
That's the fourth mistake.
Most witnesses can't hold eye contact.
He stops a few feet away from the blood on the floor with the body between them, like he's measured the distance.
Smart.
"Name," I say.
He swallows.
"Adrian."
Just that.
No last name.
Interesting.
"How long were you standing there?"
"I didn't time it."
Honest. Or careful.
"Did you see his face?" I ask, gesturing at the corpse.
"Yes."
"Did you hear what he said?"
"Yes."
"Repeat it."
He hesitates a bit. Just a fraction.
Then: "He said you were too young then to understand what you were inheriting."
I tilt my head. That's accurate.
"Anything else?"
"He asked if you'd sleep at night knowing you did this."
"And?"
"And you said you already don't."
The silence after that is heavier than the gunshot.
I step closer.
He doesn't back away.
Up close, I can see the tension in his jaw. The way his shoulders are held too straight. He's afraid.
He's just disciplined about it.
"Do you know who I am?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Then you know what happens to witnesses."
"Yes."
"Why aren't you begging?"
He blinks once.
"I don't think it would help."
The answer comes too fast.
That's the fifth mistake.
Or maybe the first smart thing he's done tonight.
I raise the gun to his chest.
One pull and this ends exactly the way it should.
Yet I hesitated.
Not because of mercy but because of recognition. There's something familiar in the way he's standing. The way he's already accepted the outcome, but refuses to collapse into it. I've seen that posture before.
In mirrors.
"Who sent you?" I ask.
"No one."
"Wrong answer."
"I wasn't spying," he says. "I was delivering food."
I glance at the paper bag near the column. Grease already soaking through the bottom.
My mouth tightens.
"Continue."
"I took the wrong hallway. The elevator was blocked. I heard voices and stopped."
"And didn't turn around."
"I didn't know it was you."
That's not better.
"Who do you work for?"
"A restaurant."
"Name it."
"Cat and Dogs All the way."
I cringe inwardly as I recognize it.
Neutral ground. No affiliations. Cheap enough that men like mine never notice the delivery staff. So he's telling the truth.
But that actually complicates things more.
"Do you have family?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Who?"
"My mother."
"Anyone else?"
"No."
I file that away.
"How much do you know about the families?" I ask.
"Enough to know which streets to avoid."
"Which family do you belong to?"
His throat moves.
"I don't belong anywhere."
That's when I see the resemblance.
It's subtle. A line in the cheekbone. The set of his eyes.
Nothing obvious.
Nothing that would get him claimed.
But enough that someone older would recognize it instantly.
"Your father," I say. "Who was he?"
His gaze sharpens.
"Someone who lives poorly."
Not wrong.
But incomplete.
I lower the gun slightly.
"Do you know why you're still alive?" I ask.
"Because you're deciding if killing me is worth it."
Sharp.
I smile at him but it doesn't reach my eyes.
"You're alive because killing you would be inconvenient."
He exhales.
Slow.
Controlled.
"What happens now?" he asks.
I study him.
He hasn't tried to run.
Hasn't screamed.
Hasn't begged.
Most importantly—he hasn't lied.
"I can't let you go," I say.
His shoulders tense.
"And you won't kill me..."
Correct.
"Congratulations," I add. "You've become a problem."
He almost laughs.
Almost.
"Am I your hostage?"
"No."
"Your prisoner?"
"No."
"Then what am I?"
I step past him.
Close enough that my coat brushes his arm.
He stiffens.
Doesn't pull away.
"You're under my protection," I say.
I stop at the door and glance back.
"Which means," I continue, "you'll stay exactly where I can see you."
The door opens.
My men look up, surprised to see him alive.
I don't explain.
"Search him," I say. "Then bring him."
Adrian's jaw tightens as hands pat him down. Still no resistance or panic.
As we walk down the corridor, I feel it.
That awareness. The sense that something has shifted.
I don't believe in fate.
But I believe in consequences.
And I've just chosen one.