I had the right shoes, but I wasn't going through the front. Too risky. The service alley was quieter—delivery bays, dumpsters, the ugly side of all the infrastructure that kept everything functioning.
I pulled a small device from my coat pocket, no bigger than a thumb drive, and placed it near the loading dock's electrical panel.
High-frequency interference. Cameras would stutter, alarms would throw false negatives, and IT would spend an hour chasing ghosts before they figured out what happened.
The cameras above me flickered, then went dark. After that, the service entrance lock surrendered, and the door sighed open for me. Behind it was a back corridor that smelled faintly of lemon-scented cleaner and courier cologne.
I lowered my hood when I reached the service elevator. No point looking suspicious now. Just a well-dressed man with resident-level confidence.
Ten paces down the polished corridor of the sixth floor, a brass plate announced the apartment number I’d read in the file.604. I squared my shoulders, smoothed my coat, and rapped on the door.
Justin Maier opened up a moment later, confusion flickering across his face before I smiled. Bright. Disarming.
“Sorry to disturb you at home, Mr. Maier, but Governor Harcourt asked me to bring you these documents. He needs your opinion right away.” I held up an empty folder. “He also mentioned a PAC file you have for him? I’m supposed to collect it.”
Maier raised a brow, suspicion flickering in his eyes. “And you are?”
“Julian. New intern at the campaign office.”
“Right.” His eyes narrowed. “Can I see some ID?”
“Of course.”
I showed him my driver's license, and his entire demeanor shifted when he saw the name.
“Valcourt.” Relief washed over his face, and he took a closer look at me. “So you’re a—”
“A fellow member, yes,” I said, flashing him another friendly smile.
“I actually went to college with your dad back in the day,” he said, shoulders visibly relaxing. “Damien Valcourt.”
“That's actually my uncle.” I smiled wider. "He's mentioned you before. Says you're the next governor of New York.”
Flattery. It worked every time.
Maier stepped aside. “You better come in for that file,” he said, ushering me past him. “Sorry about the whole ID thing. I had no idea you were a fellow DC member, and the guys at the front desk are meant to call ahead to let me know about visitors.”
“They said they were going to do that, but then a huge flower delivery came in. I guess they got caught up with that.”
"Ah." He turned to lead me deeper into the apartment. “So if you're interning at the campaign office, you must’ve just graduated from BHU last semester?”
“No, I'm still a senior.”
He whipped around. “But that means—”
I already had my gun out, suppressor attached. “Yeah. It means I'm still a Reaper.”
As the last word left my mouth, I shot him in the shoulder.
He went down hard, a strangled scream dying in his throat as he hit the marble floor. Blood bloomed across his shirt.
“Still paying my dues,” I went on calmly, closing the distance between us. “But you remember how that works, don't you? Fellow member and all.”
Maier clutched his shoulder, face white with shock and agony. He opened his mouth, and I aimed the gun at his forehead. “Scream again and the next one goes through your skull.”
He clamped his mouth shut, breathing hard through his nose as his face scrunched up with pain. “Fuck… just do it,” he gritted out. “End it.”
I cocked my head. “Why would I do that?”
