His wedding ring glints as he punches in the door code. The same gold band he wears in campaign photos with his picture-perfect family while he funnels city contracts to his brother-in-law’s construction company. The same hand that accepts cash envelopes from developers looking to bypass zoning laws.
The door closes behind him. I count to thirty, letting him settle in, letting the front desk girl guide him to the room where Adrian waits instead of his usual sex worker.
I run my thumb along the edge of the syringe in my pocket. The sedative inside is enough to immobilize a man of his weight for approximately four hours. Enough time to transport him to the space we’ve prepared in the basement.
I step out of my car, straightening my jacket. The alley is empty, quiet except for distant traffic and the hum of the massage parlor’s ventilation system.
I slip through the rear entrance, the familiar scent of incense and cheap air freshener filling my nostrils. The hallway lights flicker—dim enough to hide sins, bright enough to find your way. Perfect for our needs.
Mei, the night manager who never asks questions when paid enough, nods once as I pass. She’ll be elsewhere for the next thirty minutes. Another envelope of cash well spent.
My footsteps are soundless on the thin carpet as I approach room three. The anticipation builds in my chest, a familiar tightness that’s almost sexual in its intensity. This isn’t the meticulous art that Adrian creates with his chocolates. My pleasure is more primal—the raw satisfaction of removing cancer from the world.
I ease the door open without knocking.
Inside, Reynolds lies face-up on the massage table, Adrian standing over him. The councilman’s eyes dart to me, then back to Adrian, pupils dilated with fear. His mouth opens in what should be a scream, but nothing emerges—just a pitiful wheeze of air.
“Right on time,” Adrian says, setting down the empty syringe. “Our friend has just lost his voice.”
I lock the door behind me, watching Reynolds struggle against the restraints Adrian has already secured around his wrists and ankles. The lidocaine injection to his vocal cords is working perfectly.
“Can you believe it?” I whisper, circling to the head of the table. “A politician with nothing to say.”
Reynolds thrashes harder, his lips forming silent pleas I’ve seen a hundred times before.Please. Money. Family.The holy trinity of desperate bargaining.
“The thing about corruption,” I tell him, leaning close enough to smell his cologne, “is that it spreads if left untreated.”
His eyes widen further, tears collecting at the corners as understanding settles in. Something is very wrong, and no one can hear him scream.
I nod to Adrian, removing the larger syringe from my jacket. Reynolds’ silent terror is a masterpiece in its own right.
I slip out through the back exit, leaving Adrian to handle final preparations. A few minutes later, I ease our unmarked van into the alley, cutting the headlights before turning. The vehicle—a nondescript white cargo van with false plates—is our workhorse. Clean interior, lined with plastic sheeting. No windows in the cargo area. Nothing to trace back to either of us.
Adrian appears at the service door, his face impassive as he holds it open. I nod once, and he disappears back inside. By the time I reach the door, he’s already wheeled Reynolds out on a laundry cart, the councilman’s rigid form wrapped in a sheet.
“No complications?” I ask, opening the van’s rear doors.
“Smooth as chocolate ganache.” Adrian’s eyes glitter with humor.
We work in silence. Reynolds weighs more than I’d expect—the weight of corruption, perhaps. The drug keeps him still, but his eyes track our movements frantically. The fear emanating from him fills the cramped space with a tangible energy.
Thirty minutes later, we’re descending the hidden staircase beneath my club’s storage room. The basement stretches beneath the entire building—soundproofed, climate-controlled, and divided into specialized rooms. My personal workshop.
We wheel Reynolds into the central space. The walls are lined with preservation tools, chemicals, and my growing collection of specialized instruments. The three mummified figures I’ve recently completed watch silently from their display stands—eternal witnesses.
I position Reynolds under the industrial lights and remove the sheet. Sweat beads across his forehead as I lean over him, meeting his terrified gaze.
“Councilman Reynolds. I believe in transparency—something you’ve claimed to value.” I adjust the gurney, raising it slightly. “You’re wondering why you’re here.”
I pull out a folder and open it so he can see the contents. Photos, documents, bank statements.
“Three homeless shelters demolished for luxury condos. Thirty-seven families were displaced. Six million inkickbacks funneled through your brother-in-law’s shell companies.” I flip through the evidence. “The Davidson family—remember them? The father killed himself after losing everything.”
Reynolds’ eyes well with tears, either from fear or the inability to blink properly.
“Society calls people like you ‘necessary evils’ of progress.” I pull on latex gloves with deliberate snaps. “I just see the evil.”
I circle Reynolds slowly, relishing the panic in his eyes as they follow my movement. Unlike Adrian, who relies on precise measurements and calculations, I prefer conversation. Connection. Intimacy before the end.
