“The very one.”
He props Skippy against the wall and immediately starts grooming himself. He smooths his hair, tugs his shirt straight, checks his reflection in the plexiglass of a bulletin board fixed to the cinderblock wall—like showing up rumpled to meet the most notorious hacker alive would be a cardinal sin.
“Why didn’t you tell me you know the world’s most prolific hacker that has ever lived?” he hisses. Then, panicked, “Do I smell like dead guy?”
He lifts his arm, sniffs, winces. “Fuck.”
The door swings open and the woman steps aside.
The apartment is a riot of sound and scent. The kitchen is immediately to the right, a second woman standing over a pot of tamales. She nods at me, then at Alejandro, then at the corpse. No reaction beyond mild acknowledgment.
I push through a curtain of hanging beads and step into the living room. It’s a chaos collage of thrift-store furniture: mismatched couch, battered recliner, a giant TV that looks like it cost ten times more than everything else combined.
Two teenage boys are parked on the coffee table, yelling at each other over a video game. The older one curses so loud the woman in the kitchen snaps,
“¡Oye! ¡Mira tuboca, chamaco!”?*
“Sorry mama.” he yells back without even glancing away from the screen.
He lands the winning blow in the game, throws his hands up—then finally notices me standing in the doorway.
His face cracks into a grin.
“Ayo, Saint. What’s good?”
I lean against the wall, arms crossed, one foot hooked over the other. “Same old shit.”
He stands, offering a dab. I return it.
Then he notices Alejandro. And Skippy.
His face scrunches. “Who’s the nerd?”
I don’t bother hiding the smirk. Alejandro looks between me, the kid, and the corpse like he’s walked into a fever dream.
“Alejandro…” I gesture lazily. “Meet the Grim Reaper.”
There’s a full beat where his brain just… stalls.
Then he sputters, “The Grim Reaper is afucking child?!”
* “Is Grim here?”
* "Hey! Watch your mouth, kid!"
The kid blinks at me like I’ve insulted his entire bloodline.
“I’m nearly a man,” he insists, lifting his chin. “I have a mustache.”
Before I can respond, the other boy hops off the coffee table and barrels toward us. “Same. Look.”
He tilts his face up proudly, presenting the faintest whisper of fuzz above his lip like it’s proof he fought in a war.
“Who are you?” I ask, because reality is bending in ways I’m not prepared for.
“I’m his cousin. Theo.” He keeps pointing at the fluff, waiting for validation.
“That’s peach fuzz,” I say.
