1
TESS
My walk home from the pub on my own always feels a bit creepy on weekday nights, especially the last part where the streets are silent.
The trick is projecting confidence. With my phone in one hand, and pepper spray in the other, if anything happens, I’m all ready to use them to… Run like a cat whose paw was trodden on.
It’s a nice summer evening though, warm enough to not wear a coat and the clear sky is black with a tinge of purple from the streetlights. If this weren’t the city, I’d be able to see the stars.
This dark lane curves around the park, and it’s the only way home. I’d like to stick to bigger roads that are better lit, but London is old and the layout has all the control of a toddler’s scribbles. I round the corner leading to the turn off towards my shared house. Ahead there’s a small car parking spot before a pedestrian entrance to the park. There’s a man—no, two, one with his back to me, the other to his side—next to a car.
I grip my pepper spray and phone tighter.
The man I can see from the back has enormous shoulders and is wearing a black T-shirt and dark jeans, and from beneath his sleeves tattoos curl down his skin. The other man is slighter built, and has tan trousers and a cream button-down shirt.
I keep walking. A bit faster. I glance behind and around me—nothing, the street is empty—then refocus on the men.
Broad-shoulders guy claps shirt-guy on the back, and there’s a glint of silver. A needle pressed to the neck.
I let out a strangled cry of surprise, and the broad-shouldered man turns, looking right at me.
Terror grips my throat.
He’s wearing a mask. It’s pinky-purple neon, with roughly crossed-out eyes and a grinning mouth.
While the masked man is distracted, shirt-man flails his arms at his attacker’s face.
The mask slips.
I get a full view of a strong jaw and grey eyes. Dark brows and messy black hair. Black eyelashes so long it’s like he’s wearing mascara. His nose isn’t quite straight, but his mouth is wide, with plush lips in a flat, angry line.
Shirt-guy takes his opportunity. Yanking out of the masked man’s grip, he stumbles away, through the pedestrian entrance to the park.
For a moment, I’m seized by fear and the unreality of it all.
Then my brain and body catch up.
I run.
2
KIRILL
The girl sprints away. She’s young, maybe in her twenties. Jeans, pink top. Long brown hair that whips over her shoulder.
Too sweet-looking to be caught up with my chaos.
Blyat.
This isn’t how this was supposed to happen. I tug the mask back into place, and for half a second, I consider sticking to my original plan. Drug my victim, drag him to my basement in the house at the centre of my Blackfen territory, torture him.
But the girl saw my face, and they’re running in opposite directions. I draw my gun, complete with silencer, and I stare after her. I should shoot her non-fatally, make it clear that she’d do better to keep her mouth shut.
She saw me. If she goes to the police—or another mafia—all the work I’ve done for years could come crashing down.
Plus, I’ll get more information from the shit-stain who I was meeting if I torture him.
Shooting her is the logical choice.
