It’s just me and him, and the sound of his life bleeding out over thousand-thread-count sheets.My hands are shaking.Not from fear or adrenaline.I can slice the skin off a man’s face without as much as a spike in my pulse.
It’s rage crawling under my skin with nowhere to go.
I crouch beside him.He gurgles again—no words, just noise.A dying animal.
Lindy was right.
This world?It’s blood and ghosts and chains.You don’t pull someone like her into it and expect to keep them whole.And now I’ve lost her.Because I couldn’t keep the violence from touching her.I’m going to make Travis wish he were never fucking born.
I stare down at what’s left of the man I carved open and know she hates me because she saw this.That hurts worse than any knife ever could.I wipe the blade clean on his shirt.Doesn’t matter.My jacket’s ruined.Blood soaked into the lining.I won’t burn it.Not in a hotel room with sprinkler sensors and high-end ventilation.
I peel it off, fold it inside out, and slide it into the compression sack I brought.Same with the gloves.Shirt too.I grab a clean rag from my bag, wipe my face and the back of my neck.I change into the dead man’s clothes, his suitcase is open, tailored shirts and slacks neatly pressed.I choose navy.Neutral.Forgettable.I wear forgettable well.
The whole thing takes four minutes.I've timed it.Practiced it.That’s the job.Kill, clean, walk out.
In the bathroom, I scrub my hands, fingernails, and the creases of my palms.Blood lifts, pink and warm, swirling down the drain.I catch my reflection in the mirror.Calm.Cold.The man Lindy walked away from.
I press the heel of my hand to the counter.Breathe once, hard.Think.Where the fuck is she?Is she safe?Did she run?Is she okay?
I told her to stay away from this fucking room.She was safe with the wife by the pool.I checked the angles.Cleared the cameras.But that was before.Before she saw me for what I am.There’s a huge fucking difference between training in our basement and walking in on me removing an eye from a man’s face.
I glance at the clock.Fifteen minutes since entry.Too long.I’ve got maybe five before the body starts to go cold, before his wife or someone else notices he isn’t answering his phone and decides to check the room.
I don’t give a fuck.His wife could walk in right now and I’d give her identical slashes to her sick-ass husband.Innocent or not.I can’t think about her.Or about the corpse.Any of it.
There’s only Lindy.
I shove the compression sack deep into my gym bag, zip it closed, and slide my sunglasses into place.My head is up, shoulders squared.I walk out of the room like I belong here.Because I do.I’ve made peace with that.It's her here I haven’t made peace with.Her softness burned into me like acid.
I move through the hallway, past the cameras Adrian disabled thirty-seven minutes ago.The loop will hold another twenty-two.The lobby is quiet.No screams yet.No discovery.
I blend.Blend and vanish.
And the whole time, the only thing I see is her face.
Our hotel room smells like her.Vanilla and coffee and that damn strawberry shampoo that settles in your throat and stays there.If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend she’s still here.
I’ll give her space.It’s the right thing.Pressing her now will only push her further.But every hour that passes stretches something inside me tighter.Makes it harder to breathe.
I cave and text her.
You don’t have to talk to me.Just let me know you’re safe.
Ten minutes later, three dots pop up.Then disappear.Then come back.Then, finally?—
Lindy Girl:
I’m okay.I just need a little breather.
I read it a hundred times.Could be worse.Could be goodbye.Could be nothing.Another message buzzes in.
Lindy Girl:
Your world.I was so sure I could be cut out for it.But it’s a lot.
I type out ten different responses.Delete them all.Eventually, I settle on truth.
Then let me build a new one for you.
