Alone.
Vulnerable.
Human.
I moved closer. Silent. He didn't hear me until I was directly behind him.
Then—some instinct, some primal awareness of being hunted—he started to turn.
I grabbed him.
Chloroform rag from the kit—handler's addition for "quiet entry." I pressed it over his nose and mouth, my other arm locking around his chest.
He struggled.
Harder than I expected. Stronger. Panic gave him strength I didn't think he had. His elbow caught my ribs—the already-bruised ribs—and pain exploded white-hot through my chest.
I held on.
He thrashed. Made muffled sounds against the rag. His hands clawed at my arm, nails digging through my jacket.
Thirty seconds. That's what the handler said. Thirty seconds and he'd be out.
Twenty.
His struggles weakened. Body going heavy.
Ten.
I closed my eyes—just for a second—to block out his face.
And there she was.
Alena.
Laughing on the balcony that night, wine glass in hand, eyes sparkling under London lights. Her voice in my ear: "This feels different." The way she'd smiled when I said "better different." The way she'd whispered "okay" like a promise.
The way she'd looked at me after I came inside her—like I was everything.
The way she'd reached for me in her sleep that morning, trusting, warm, mine.
I opened my eyes.
The target went limp.
I held the rag five seconds longer.
Then let him drop back into the chair.
He was breathing. Shallow. Unconscious.
Not dead yet.
I stood there, staring at him. This man. This pedophile piece of shit who hurt children and stole from monsters and thought he was untouchable.
The world would be better without him.
That's what Klaus said. What the handler said. What the file proved with police reports and dropped charges and allegations that disappeared when money changed hands.
