Pushups. One hundred. Fast and controlled, shoulders burning by fifty, arms strong by eighty. I pushed through. Pain was just information. Weakness was just something to outlast.
One hundred.
I rolled onto my back without pausing and started situps. Core tight, elbows to knees, breathing steady. The mission high was still coursing through me—adrenaline, endorphins, the chemical cocktail that came from violence and survival.
One hundred.
I stood, chest heaving, sweat slicking my skin, and headed for the bathroom.
The shower was mercifully hot. Scalding, even. I turned my face into the spray and let it beat against my skull, washing away the sweat, the rain, the faint copper smell of blood that always seemed to linger no matter how clean I was.
Feeling wasn't something I recognized anymore. Hadn't been for years. But the heat was something. A reminder that my body still worked, still functioned, still obeyed commands.
I scrubbed my hands twice. Under the nails. Between the fingers. Even though I'd worn gloves. Even though there was no blood.
Habit.
By the time I stepped out, the mission high was fading. The adrenaline was draining away, leaving behind the familiar hollow ache that came after. Not guilt. Not regret. Just ... emptiness.
I dried off, pulled on a clean pair of boxer briefs, and walked into the kitchenette.
A beer. Maybe two. Then sleep. That was the plan.
I opened the fridge, grabbed a Latvian lager I couldn't pronounce, twisted the cap off?—
And saw the phone.
It sat on the kitchen counter, black and sleek, screen dark.
It wasn't mine.
It wasn't there when I'd gone into the bathroom.
My hand moved before my brain caught up, setting the beer down, reaching for the gun I'd left under the sofa cushion. I had it up and ready in two seconds, eyes scanning the flat again, every sense screaming.
Someone had been here.
I checked the window sensors again. Still armed. The motion detector. Still active. The camera feed. Still empty.
What the fuck?
I moved through the flat again, slower this time, checking every corner, every shadow, every place a person could hide. Under the bed. Inside the closet. Behind the shower curtain.
Nothing.
No sign of entry. No footprints. No disturbance in the dust near the window. No scratches on the lock.
It was like a ghost had walked in, left the phone, and walked out.
The phone buzzed.
I spun toward it, gun raised, finger tight on the trigger.
It buzzed again. Incoming call. The screen lit up with a blocked number.
I didn't answer. Not yet.
I checked everything again. The door. The windows. The sensors. All clear. All untouched. No one had been here.
