binchotan /bin'CHotän/: noun
1: Japanese white charcoal; burns clean and hot without smoke or odor.
2: a heat that burns and leaves nothing behind.
I am a zombie. I am a ghost. I am the living dead.
The only benefit is that the dead don’t dream.
Not that I have time anymore to sleep. I don’t. I do what my brother orders. I am his blade, his gun, the weapon in his right hand. He points me at his enemies and his enemies die.
I wear a black suit every day now. It’s good enough to get me through what the daylight hours require of me: glad-handing investors who pour in one after the next to congratulate me on the outstanding success of Project Olympus. And it’s also good enough for what the nighttime hours require of me: meeting with friends of Aleksei who need “convincing.”
The people who need convincing are usually dead by morning.
I’ve killed a dozen men. Or is it more? I can’t remember. I lost track a long time ago. Aleksei calls it “proving myself.” I call it Tuesday. Thursday. Saturday night when the clubs are loud enough that no one hears the screaming and the strobe lights make the blood look like spilled drinks on the dance floor.
My hands don’t shake anymore. That’s how I know I’m irretrievably gone.
The day after everything changed, when the sun rose red and bloody over a skyscraper with all the lights on, Harold Fitzgerald sent an email—subject line:“Well Done.”I deleted it without reading.
It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing does.
The restaurants are packed? Doesn’t matter.
Reservations booked six months out? Doesn’t matter.
Michelin inspectors fawning at our feet? Doesn’t matter.
I don’t fucking care aboutanyof it.
I’m standing in the back room of The Caged Bird, waiting for Aleksei to finish his phone call. The bass from the club downstairs thrums through the floor, a ceaseless, churning rhythm to match a heartbeat I no longer possess. I pass the time by counting the cigarette burns in the leather couch.
Aleksei hangs up and turns to me with a smile.
“Bratishka!” he croons as he starts pouring vodka into two glasses. “Sit, sit. You deserve a celebratory drink. You’ve exceeded every expectation.”
I take the glass he offers and throw it down. The vodka tastes like nothing. Everything tastes like nothing now.
“The Southside Irish are finished,” Aleksei continues as he sips his own drink. “The docks are ours. The distribution networks are ours. Even the city council is finally seeing things our way.” He lights a menthol and the smoke curls between us. “You’ve been very productive.”
Productive.That’s one word for it. Aleksei points; I eliminate. It’s simple. Clean. No thinking required.
But the only thing I’m “producing” is a volume of blood and bodies that Chicago has never seen before.
“I have something new for you.” He hands me a folder and I open it without interest. Inside are photos of a warehouse on the North Side. I skim the details, but they don’t really land. Like everything else in my life, the specifics no longer matter to me.
“This one’s a bit different,” Aleksei adds. “Touch more delicate, yeah? The Koreans have been moving product through O’Hare. We need to send a message, but quietly. No bodies this time—just enough fear to make them reconsider their loyalties.”
I nod. Fear without bodies. I can do that. I’ve done worse.
“You look tired,” Aleksei observes, studying me through the smoke.
“I’m fine.”
“When’s the last time you slept?”
I don’t remember. Sleep means dreams, and dreams mean seeing Eliana’s face. The horror in her eyes when she looked at me in that alley. How she ran, ran, ran.
