My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, beating so fast it hurts. The adrenaline is a drug, flooding my system, making the colors of the alley too bright, the sounds too sharp. I can hear the distant siren of a police car. I can hear the drip of water from a gutter. I can hear the blood rushing in my own ears.
I need to move.
I holster the Beretta. I crouch down and strip the dead man’s submachine gun—a Škorpion. I check the mag. Half full. I sling it over my shoulder.
I run to the end of the alley. There is a chain-link fence with a gap cut in the bottom. I squeeze through, the metal tearing at my jacket.
I am in a secondary lot, filled with shipping containers stacked two high. A maze of rusted steel.
I find a container with a broken padlock. The door is slightly ajar. I squeeze inside and pull it shut behind me, plunging myself into total darkness.
The silence is sudden and absolute.
I slide down the wall until I am sitting on the floor. The metal is freezing cold through my trousers. The container smells of industrial grease and stale air.
The crash hits me.
It starts in my hands. The shaking comes back, violent this time, uncontrollable. My teeth chatter. My chest heaves, fighting for oxygen that doesn't seem to reach my lungs.
I wrap my arms around my knees, rocking back and forth. The image of the man’s face as the bullet took him flashes behind my eyelids. The sound of the shot. The weight of his body.
I killed him. I ended him.
And I liked it.
The thought is a monster rising from the deep. I didn't just survive. I felt a surge of power, a spike of dominance so pure it was intoxicating. The kill wasn't just necessary; it was a release.
And then, the second wave hits.
Heat.
It starts in my belly, a hot, coiling pressure that has nothing to do with fear. My blood, already boiling with adrenaline, rushes south. I am hard. Painfully, confusingly hard. My cock strains against the fabric of my trousers, aching for friction, for release.
It is a biological imperative.Fight or fuck.The nervous system, overloaded with death, demanding life. Demanding sensation.
I try to breathe through it. I try to recite the Fibonacci sequence. I try to think of spreadsheets, of profit margins, of anything clean.
But all I can see is Killian.
Killian running into the gunfire. Killian stepping in front of me. Killian in the kitchen, his hands in my hair, his mouth on mine.
The need becomes unbearable. It is a physical pain, a burning itch under my skin.
My hand moves. I can't stop it.
I fumble with my belt. My fingers are slippery with sweat and the dead man’s blood. I undo the button, shove the zipper down. The sound is loud in the echo chamber of the container.
I wrap my hand around myself.
The sensation is electric. The contrast between the cold air and the heat of my skin makes me gasp. I squeeze tight—too tight—and stroke.
Killian.
I imagine him here. In the dark. I imagine him finding me. I imagine his reaction to the blood on my jacket, the gun in my lap.
He wouldn't be horrified. He would understand. He is a creature of violence, just like me.
I stroke faster. I spit into my palm, the saliva mixing with the grit and the blood residue. It makes a slick, wet sound.
