“We know. We’ve been watching you for a while now, cataloguing where you go and what you do. Looking for work, aren’t you? Having some trouble finding it.”
I don’t answer because there’s nothing to say that won’t sound defensive or weak, so I just hold his gaze and wait for him to continue.
“Prison record,” he says, tapping ash onto the floor without looking away from my face. “Makes things difficult, doesn’t it? Employers don’t like that sort of thing. They see that box checked on the application, and suddenly, they don’t have any positions available.”
“No,” I say. “They don’t.”
“What did you do? Before you got caught.”
“I made things people wanted.”
“Illegal things.”
“Sure.”
He takes another drag and exhales slowly, the smoke drifting up toward the ceiling and disappearing into the shadows.
“For how long did they put you away?”
“A year.”
“Must have been hard. Prison.”
I hold his gaze, slightly squinting at him.
“I don’t like talking about it.”
He laughs and takes another pull from his cigarette.
“Fair enough. Let’s talk about chemistry instead. Tell me about synthesis processes. Temperature control, pH balancing. And don’t hold back on me, I know exactly what you were cooking in that little lab of yours.”
I run through the basics, explaining the principles without getting too technical because I don’t know how much he understands, and I don’t want to sound like I’m showing off. He asks about supernatural components, and I shift to explaining how human chemistry combines with supernatural biology, how the two systems interact in ways that imply understanding both.
Basilisk venom requires precise temperature control because it degrades above certain thresholds and becomes useless or even toxic. Vampire blood needs pH balancing to prevent coagulation that ruins its properties.
His questions come fast, but they’re not trying to trip me up or catch me in a lie, they’re just testing me to make sure I know what I’m talking about. I answer without hesitation, and I watch his expression change from suspicious to satisfied.
He finishes his cigarette and immediately lights another one, the lighter clicking open and shut. He leans back against a support beam and studies me through the smoke.
“Our previous chemist isn’t available anymore. We need someone with your particular skill set.”
Ah, there it is. The reason why I’ve been kidnapped in such a quick, efficient way. They don’t want me hurt, they need me in one piece.
“What’s in it for me?”
“Money. Protection. Steady work doing what you’re good at.” He pauses and gives me a lazy smile. “But first, you need to prove you can actually do what you say you can do.”
I hold his gaze. “Fine.”
He nods to the golem, who pulls a knife from his belt and steps behind me with footsteps that make the floor vibrate. The blade cuts through the zip ties, and blood rushes back into my hands. I flex my fingers and feel pins and needles in my palms, painful but better than the numbness.
“This way,” the blond man says.
They lead me deeper into the warehouse, past empty pallets and abandoned equipment covered in dust. We stop at a partition wall made of plywood and metal studs, and he opens a door, then gestures for me to go through.
The lab is small, maybe ten feet by twelve, with a single work bench against the far wall, and shelving units on either side. There are burners, beakers, measuring tools, temperature gauges – all of it basic equipment, but functional and well-maintained. Ingredients are laid out on the work surface in labeled containers, neatly organized.
The golem and the undead take up positions on either side of the door, blocking the only exit. The blond man leans against the wall and lights yet another cigarette, and I’m starting to think he goes through multiple packs a day.
