Apartment hunting.
One of the most rigorous and pain-enduring things a human could possibly do.
You scroll. You visit. You pretend you care about natural light and kitchen space while knowing full well you won't be there long enough to cook a real meal. Walls blur together. Hallways smell the same. Everything feels temporary, like the city itself doesn't expect you to stay.
My contract was coming to an end.
Maybe that was a blessing in disguise.
No commitments. No addresses to burn. If things went wrong, I could disappear without leaving anything behind except a forwarding address and a body count.
"You're being followed."
Your voice slid into my head like it had paid rent. Familiar. Comfortable. Rotten.
I didn't turn around. Didn't break stride. Just kept walking, letting the rhythm of London carry me forward—heels clicking behind me, engines humming, the city pretending it didn't see predators stalking their prey in plain sight.
I knew keeping the gun was a good idea.
Two bodies in the same week. That should've bothered me more than it did. If victim number two decided to join you—manifest into some twisted hallucination that whispered encouragement and judgement in equal measure—I might seriously need therapy.
Or a priest.
"So?" you asked. "What's the plan?"
You were enjoying this. I could hear it in the way you leaned into each word, like a spectator settling into their seat.
"Do you ever shut up?" I muttered under my breath.
"Not when you're about to do something interesting."
You sickened me. Waiting for me to kill another human being. Like it was a performance. Like empathy was something you'd misplaced along the way.
But—annoyingly—you weren't wrong.
No point signing a new lease if the place was going to get torn apart. No point imagining a future when everything I touched ended up broken. I needed to remember what I was fighting for.
Brooklyn's face flashed in my mind. Her smile. The way she tilted her head when she listened, like she was trying to see inside you.
I exhaled slowly.
The alley appeared ahead of me like a scar cut into the city.
Narrow. Dark. Inconspicuous. Brick walls sweating grime, bins overflowing with rot, the air thick with damp and silence. A London alley through and through. The kind people avoided instinctively, without knowing why.
Perfect.
Three men in.
Two men out.
I stepped into the alley first.
You followed.
Maxwell didn't walk—he drifted. A shadow stitched to my side, hands in pockets, grin sharp and knowing.
"God, I missed this," he said, eyes gleaming. "You always pick the best places."
"Shut up," I whispered.
I pressed myself into the recess of a cellar entrance, barely wide enough to count as shelter. My breathing slowed. My pulse didn't. Footsteps approached—confident, heavy, unhurried.
He was alone.
Good.
He passed close enough that I could see the outline of his jaw, the cheap jacket, the way his shoulders were squared like he expected resistance but not competence.
I stepped out.
Hands in my trousers. Calm. Casual. The gun rested against my palm like it belonged there.
"Evening," I said.
He turned.
The shot rang out before his brain caught up.
He went down screaming, hands flying to his leg, the sound ripping itself from his chest like something feral. Pain stripped him of dignity instantly. Blood soaked the concrete, dark and spreading, steaming slightly in the cold night air.
Maxwell laughed softly.
"Oh, that's beautiful."
I didn't rush. Didn't raise my voice. I walked toward him slowly, letting every step echo.
"Please," he gasped. "Please—"
I crouched in front of him, eye level, gun steady.
"Relax," I said. "If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be talking."
His breathing stuttered. Tears streaked his face. He nodded frantically, clinging to my words like a lifeline.
"Why are you following me?" I asked.
He swallowed hard. "I—I was told to."
"By who?"
"I don't— I don't know his name."
Maxwell leaned down beside him, face inches away, smiling. "They never do."
I ignored him.
"You know who I am," I continued calmly. "You know what I did. So tell me why you thought this was a good idea."
His lips trembled. "You crossed the wrong people. This isn't street shit. This is organised. Big money. Big families."
"Mafia?" I offered.
He nodded violently. "You don't understand what you're involved in."
I stood.
"Here's what you don't understand," I said quietly. "I'm already involved."
I raised the gun.
He screamed again—cut off mid-sound.
The echo bounced violently between the walls, then died.
Silence rushed in to fill the gap.
Maxwell clapped slowly.
"God," he said. "You've still got it."
I stared down at the body. No rush. No panic. Just the familiar hollow settling into my chest.
We left together.
Two men out.
⸻
The hotel room was anonymous. Beige walls. White sheets. Nothing worth remembering.
I sat on the edge of the bed, gun laid neatly on the table like an accessory rather than a weapon. My hands were steady. That scared me more than the kill.
"You see?" Maxwell said, leaning against the wall. "You're not broken. You're efficient."
"I didn't do it for you."
He smiled wider. "That's the lie you keep telling yourself."
Sleep didn't come willingly.
When it did, it dragged me down violently.
⸻
I woke up unable to move.
Tape pressed over my mouth, tight and suffocating. My wrists burned behind my back, bound to the chair. Panic surged—sharp, immediate.
The room was dark.
Then I saw him.
The man from the alley stood in front of me, blood dripping steadily from the hole in his head, pooling at his feet. Four others surrounded him, faces half-hidden, eyes gleaming.
"Don't fuck with us," they said together.
A chainsaw roared to life.
I screamed—
And woke up.
Sweat drenched me. My heart slammed against my ribs like it wanted out.
The room was empty.
My phone rang.
Brooklyn.
"Hey," she said softly. "Are you free tonight?"
I closed my eyes.
"Yes."
She chose our date.
Dinner first—some small place tucked away from the main roads. Warm lights. Soft music. The kind of restaurant where nobody asked too many questions.
She talked about everything. About how she hated feeling watched. About her father's expectations. About how she wanted something real, something hers.
I listened like it mattered more than anything else.
After dinner, she suggested a walk.
The river glimmered under the city lights. Couples passed by, laughing, unaware of how fragile everything was.
She leaned into me, arm hooked through mine.
For a moment, I let myself pretend.
Then I saw them.
Three men. Reflections in glass. A rhythm too deliberate to ignore.
My muscles tightened.
I couldn't act. Not with her here.
So I stopped walking.
She turned, confused—then I kissed her.
Slow. Intentional. Like I was imprinting myself into her memory. Like I needed her to remember me this way if tonight was the last night I got.
She laughed softly when we pulled apart. "What was that for?"
"Because I wanted to," I said.
That wasn't a lie.
We talked longer than we should've. Sat on a bench by the river. She rested her head against my shoulder. I memorized the weight of it. The sound of her breathing.
This is what you'll lose, you said.
Eventually, I called her an Uber.
She hesitated before getting in. "You'll text me?"
"Yeah," I said. "I will."
I watched the car disappear.
As the taillights vanished, something settled inside me.
It's over.
Good run.
I turned into the alley.
Pain exploded.
Darkness swallowed me.
I woke up tied to a chair, staring out over the city from a glass-walled high rise.
"Get it over with," I said hoarsely.
I closed my eyes.
A tear slipped free.
"No," a calm voice said. "I'm not going to kill you."
I looked up.
The man was power in human form. Controlled. Untouchable.
"I need you."
"For what?"
He smiled. "You killed my men."
"And?" I said. "Aren't you angry?"
"Of course," he replied. "But I'm more impressed."
He stepped closer. "You murdered an illuminati-level billionaire's son. And you walked away."
Silence.
"I want you," he said, "to work for me."
Bodies. Connections. Disposal.
"You'll be compensated," he added. "You'll never worry again. Your girlfriend will be taken care of."
Brooklyn.
Greed stirred.
"Yes," I said.
And deep inside, something new was born.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
Pride.
.