Both boys look gutted—like I’ve denied them their rites of passage. They start talking over each other, arguing about growth patterns and hormones and howsomepeople mature later but still count as men, which is apparently directed at me.
While they defend their tragic lip hair, the two women—definitely sisters, same sharp cheekbones and efficient energy—start clearing the long dining table. They move with the kind of wordless coordination shared by women who’vesurvived several children, three jobs, and a hundred emergencies before breakfast. Masa tubs, notebooks, a cracked vase, a pile of laundry—gone in seconds.
Then they unroll a giant plastic sheet and gesture at the corpse like they’re inviting us to set down groceries.
This entire apartment is its own brand of insane.
Saint doesn’t miss a beat. “We need help identifying him.”
A notification chimes from a computer in the corner. Grim walks toward it without looking away from Saint, fingers already flying across the keys.
He grins like Christmas came early. “Yeah, I heard about your little predicament.”
Lines of code cascade across the screen. A digital swoosh flashes across the display, followed by the Grim Reapers infamous ASCII skull—the one that has tanked firewalls on four continents.
The one who rerouted a mercenary convoy in Syria by hacking their GPS and sending them in circles until they ran out of fuel.
The pixels dissolve, and the screen settles back into its idle pattern of a screensaver.
“Holy shit,” I feel the weight of it settle in my chest. “It’s really him,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Saint glances sideways at me, the edge of a smile tugging at her mouth. She’s enjoying this—watching me process the Grim Reaper in the form of a sixteen-year-old with a headset, a curfew, and opinions about algebra.
“We’ve gotta be quick,” she says, voice low but certain. “I’m being framed for his murder, and I don’t want the world’s assassins tracking us here.”
Grim nods, already rising from his chair. “I got you, señora apocalíptica.”
He steps up to the table and—God help me—takes a selfie with the corpse.
Theo darts in, flashing peace signs like this is a vacation photo for social media.
Then Grim angles his phone over Skippy’s face for a close-up. He reaches for the sunglasses.
“I wouldn’t take those off,” I warn, too late, my hand reaching out.
He lifts them and both boys’ recoil instantly, faces twisting.
“Oooh!” Theo steps back, holding a closed fist over his mouth.
“Dude—gross,” Grim mutters, keeping his arms locked straight and taking another picture. “The scans will get a better hit without the glasses.”
The images upload in seconds. Screens bloom across the monitor—surveillance archives, DMV records, social feeds, blurred crowd shots—everything flashing past too quickly to absorb.
I drift a little closer to her, voice low. “He’s a kid. And you just… trust him?”
Her mouth curves, subtle and sharp. “Not all of us have trust issues.”
“Oh, that’s fucking rich from you,” I mutter.
She tilts her head, finally looking at me. “Only with somepeople.”
The implication stings more than I want to admit. “Grim has never failed me.”
As if waiting for its cue, the computer chimes—a bright, decisive ping that slices through the room.
Grim leans back in his chair, grinning like he just solved world hunger. “Got him.”
The monitors flare to life, every screen in the room vomiting images, files, and clipped bits of security footage. Our dead man appears in a dozen angles—walking through lobbies, tapping on his phone at train stations, sipping coffee in an elevator. He looked a hell of a lot healthier in those than he does on the plastic-lined table behind us.
