I tap send.
The regret hits before the message even leaves the screen.
This is getting a bit too weird.
15
Anton
The floor’s cold under my bare feet. My shirt’s still damp from sweat. I haven’t slept. Not really. Just sat here while the coffee burned down and the thoughts wouldn’t stop.
I killed a man last night.
Not because I wanted to. Because I had to.
The burner I found in his jacket was wiped clean. No contacts, no history, no SIM. Just a blank shell meant for one call and one job.
A job that ended with a bullet through his skull.
No ID. No tattoos. No wallet. No paper trail.
So the question won’t leave me alone.
Who the fuck wants Mary Sullivan dead?
That should’ve been the end of it.
Standard protocol: move fast, cut ties, clean the trace.
Instead, I’m here with a cooling gun and cold coffee, still staring at the apartment across the lot.
Still watching overher building.
That’snothow I work.
I don’t linger. I don’t hesitate. I don’t look twice unless I plan to pull the trigger.
But she’s in my head now. And I can’t decide if that makes her more dangerous—or me.
Lev and Dima are gone now.
My phone’s on the table. Still open to Boris’s file. I haven’t touched it since it lit up at 1:14 AM.
Subject: Viktor Kozlov. Met with: David Thornton. Location: Brightside National. Employee ID flagged: M. Sullivan
Her.
I press the heel of my hand against my eye socket until black spots bloom behind my lid.
I should’ve shut it down already. Scrubbed it. Cut loose and moved on.
But I’m still here.
Watching.
Staring through the cracked blind like it owes me something.
She steps into view, towel barely covering her thighs, skin still damp from the shower. Her hair sticks to her neck in loose, dripping strands that darken her collarbone. Her feet shuffle across the floor like she’s half-asleep, half-late.
