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The Collector smiled. That was when I learned the most dangerous people sometimes smile the most.

“Congratulations,” he said in a singsong tone. “Your debt now belongs to me.”

The words settled over my shoulders like a noose. I have been carrying them ever since. One misfortune after another. One assignment after another.

One corpse after another.

And now, after all these years, I find myself standing in another alley, trying desperately not to vomit before meeting the devil himself. For my sake, I would have sliced open my wrists years ago and let death take me. But for Alcott’s sake, I stayed. I always stay, but the guilt, self-loathing, and self-harm remain. Taking in a shaky breath, I gather my wits and muster the courage to step into the cold brick building as if I had the confidence of a lion.

My steps echo off the hardwood stairs as I ascend to the third floor, where his office suite is kept. Two male receptionists sit outside of his door, annotating notes and performing other administrative tasks that are none of my business. They each wear a black three-piece suit and a white button-down shirt, with matching silver X cufflinks. One has black-rimmed glasses.

I’ve always called these men Twat One and Twat Two, but they do not need to know the terms of endearment I hold for them.

“The Collector will see you now,” Twat Two states, not even looking up from his desk.

Walking into his office feels like you are walking towards death.

My stomach twists as the floor-to-ceiling windows come into view. His ridiculously long oak table takes up nearly 65% of the room, but the area is so vast that it also houses black leather lounge chairs and a gothic fireplace, with dimly lit lanterns scattered across the walls. The Collector sat at the front of his table, papers sporadically about, mostly from different newspapers from various countries. Photographs of different people and places, probably from marks he will have on the “chopping block.”

“Hello, comrade!” The Collector’s cheerful Austrian accent booms from across the room. He shifts the newspaper in his hands to peer down to assess me. “It turns out I have a couple marks for you today. One is tricky but I have no doubt you can locate them. As for the other, they are an imbecile and have stepped outside our circle of associates, disobeying the rules. A big no-no!”

He pats at his table, signaling me to sit down beside him. I acquiesce.

“Not much of a talker today, are you?” His remark is very playful, which grinds my nerves.

“My apologies, I’m just tired,” I reply quietly.

He places the paper upon the table, then crosses his leg over his knee and wraps his hands around the perched leg.

“Well, you are quite busy! I keep you rather busy, yes?” His finger taps on the headline of one newspaper, reading The Twisted Twins Strike Again!

Narrowing my eyes, I cannot contain the annoyed exhale that escapes my mouth.

“Oh? You do not like the name?” He chides.

I smooth my hand through my hair. “We are not twins, so it does not make sense.” I try to keep my tone as neutral as possible.

“I find it funny the name stuck! I gave them a few for the title. It looks like that was the winner.” He chuckles to himself, then takes a sip of tea with his pinkie finger extended in the air. I spy the deep scar layered at the bottom of his chin, stretching toward his neck. I have always wondered what it’s from, who had gotten so close to the notorious Collector to be able to land a blow. Acid perhaps? A burn? The characteristics are very puzzling, but I dare not pay too much attention for he dislikes anyone to assess him.

Only he is allowed to assess.

“But sir, we are not twins, we—”

He interrupts my statement, eyebrows furrowed, gaze menacing. “Ah, potato, tomato. Murderer, assassin. Brothers, twins. It entertains me.” He leaned toward me, an oily smile on his face. “I employ you and your brother. I keep you and your brother safe, you see, so it will be whatever I like.”

A threatening silence falls around us. I dare not make a remark.

“Now. To discuss business. Your next mark is Thomas McSurry. You will find him at this soiree next weekend. A gathering of the rich. If you find any others there for the taking, go right ahead. These associates have not been minding the rules and regulations of our organization. Understand?” He gestures with his hands while briefing me. I nod in agreement.

“The next mark is the Widow.” His tone changes immediately. The playful amusement vanishes. For the first time during our conversation, he appears genuinely interested in something.

“Bring her to me alive.” His voice is sinister, adding emphasis to each word.

My stomach twists. Alive. The Collector never requests survivors.

“Do not damage her.” The words are soft but an order. Far softer than they should be, as his stare bores into my soul. “I have plans for her.”

A strange chill crawls down my spine. For reasons I cannot explain, I suddenly feel sorry for a woman I have never met.