Chapter 5
VICTORIA
Good Lord, how can Azrael even work in this place when his mind was made for so much more?
The disgusting smell in the classroom air is thick, a diabolical concoction of stale chalk dust, recycled breath, and the faint metallic tang of old radiators. The space, the students, the old furniture—everything about this space embodies mediocrity.
Whenever I think I finally understand him, another piece of information pops up that just fucks up all my theories. Right now, that information is given by the space I just walked into. I take my usual seat and wait for his class to start.
The desk wood beneath my fingers is cold, but I barely register it. Around me, students squirm in their seats, tapping on their phones or whispering over half-finished notes.
Useless beings.
They don’t understand the greatness happening right in front of their eyes. They should worship him, but that would imply they have common sense. Instead, they just sit and waste space.
Now, of course, I’m not here to actually study.
My only reason for coming to this class for weeks now is my Professor.
Initially, it was just to understand him.
But now, I want to make sure I’m leaving my fingerprint on his life, even if it’s just for a few brief moments on a Thursday evening.
If I’m obsessed, he should be as well. It only seems fair.
I want him to notice me and start to wonder who I am, whether I’m the same person who messages him every day (blame it on the wine), and what my intentions are.
I enjoy playing with him and seeing how far I can go before he initiates the contact and craves the connection.
But that thought snaps quiet when Azrael enters the room. And although I see him every day through the surveillance cameras, that view never does justice to reality. He is imposing, walking like he owns the entire fucking world and could destroy it just for fun. Way too confident for a professor.
Could it be because he thinks he’s superior? Probably.
If there is one thing I’ve learned about him, it is that he doesn’t give a fuck.
Not about the others, not about his job.
Basically nothing. The only thing that seems to spark what appears to be a resemblance of excitement is when he talks about manipulating minds.
Which is why you stalk him like a pervert, right?
Right. The idea, however, goes on the back burner, and I just admire the man.
The exquisite specimen in front of me. Pretty horny, aren’t we? Fuck.
Today, his sleeves are rolled halfway up, exposing his forearms. If only he knew what that does to me. Or maybe he does. Maybe he is taunting me. Maybe he wants to be followed home, dragged to the floor, worshipped, and dissected in equal measure.
I imagine those hands wrapped tight around my neck, until I’m sliding into oblivion—but also gently slicing my skin, stained with ink, or blood, or both.
Sometimes I dream of him whispering imminent threats against my collarbone while I hang in chains from the ceiling.
Other times, I’m the one slicing him open, admiring how soft he must be on the inside. I want to hurt him just as much as I want him to twist my life in ways unseen until now.
Most nights, though, I fantasize about taking him. Not like in seducing—taking. A silk gag between his teeth. Him bound and furious while I carve my name on his skin. And then, I kiss his temples and tell him he’s safe as long as he behaves.
This could be a love story, if the definition is twisted hard enough.
I spend the next ninety minutes in simultaneous agony and ecstasy.
Being so close yet not close enough to touch or be allowed to.
I could just take him into my basement, but I need him to willingly join my plan.
All I can do for now is wait, gather the information needed, and make sure I have a solid plan in place the moment I ask him to destroy me.
When class ends, he avoids looking in my direction, but something tells me he’s already noticed me.
Am I that lucky? It’s already been five weeks since I started coming to his classes, so I should have my part in his routine by now.
But does he regard me as one of his stupid students, or does he see I’m special?
I wonder what he thinks this really is. Maybe he’s afraid, and that would be a good reason to keep his distance. Or maybe he is observing me, just the way I’m doing with him, and waiting for the inevitable meetup. Soon, Professor, soon enough.
As he leaves, I follow him again, like I’ve done more times than I’d like to admit. It’s not like I’m stalking him or anything like that. You cannot stalk something that belongs to you. It’s me taking care of my belongings.
He leads the way, and I match his tempo. When he slows down, I adjust my pace. My footsteps fall just far enough behind that no one thinks twice. And if he feels my presence, he never makes that fact known.
He doesn’t change his routine—including the daily stop at that awful place where he drinks something that could only dream of being coffee—nor does he try to get lost in the crowd.
We walk together, yet apart, in silence. By now, I can basically close my eyes and blindly walk behind him, and I’ll still find the way.
While I thought I was a sucker for routines and patterns, Azrael is a total freak.
I once spotted him sitting in class for thirty extra seconds, doing absolutely nothing, just so he could leave at six o’clock sharp.
The route, including the stop? Thirty-seven minutes.
On the dot. I think this Professor of mine might have more mental issues than I do.
I leave him at the entrance of his building.
I’m almost tempted to step in and end the agonizing wait.
After tonight, I’m more aroused than ever, and that never happens with stupid human beings.
But it’s neither the time nor the place for the discussion we are about to have, and fucking should only come as a reward, not an incentive.
So until the moment when I can put an end to this foreplay, I still need to figure out exactly what flavor of madness is hunting his demons.
As for my missions, Alex did a great job in excessively overbooking me.
Luckily, all the jobs were within the country, and all were basic enough that I needed little to no preparation.
He even managed to get an information extraction job, which kept me locked away with a target in a room for a couple of nights.
Over the course of those two nights, I often questioned if my condition was simply bloodlust or a sign of mental instability.
And while the bloodlust is possible—liquid red was always my favorite color—that doesn’t excuse the fact that it’s getting worse by the minute.
And the proof was sucker Forty-one. Alex even passively mentioned that one of the cleaners puked when he saw the body.
And yes, I was very proud when I heard that.
I could potentially be at the phase where I am approaching a point of no return, when my intrusive thoughts take over and declare a Purge Day. Which is why I need to get my shit together and make Azrael do what he does best with that brain of his and pull me out of this spiral.
But between these moments of obsession, there is the rest of my life.
Just like any Sunday, today is training day. No, not as in going to the gym. I’d rather pluck out my eyes with my own nails, shove them in gas, and light them on fire than sweat beside men who lift for attention and women who pose in front of mirrors, taking an unnatural number of pictures.
I personally prefer practicing in an abandoned basement in the city outskirts, something that can only be the best sport in the world besides hockey—Krav Maga. It is the most effective form of violence known to man: brutal and solely focused on terminating the threat.
My ‘instructor’ doesn’t talk much. He used to. Very dumb move.
He tried to correct my stance and teach me about “defensive intention.” And I showed him exactly what I believe about defense when I turned him into my personal punching bag.
He learned that lesson pretty quickly—either when I fractured his rib or after he fainted from the lack of oxygen, not sure—so now he just moves and tries to stay alive while I burn leftover stamina from my jobs.
I like that. The silence, the unspoken understanding that he’s not here to shape me in any shape or form. His only purpose is to exist and let me take advantage of the professionally taught tactics he uses.
Not even ten minutes after I finish today’s training, Alex interrupts my peace, again.
My hands are still burning from the last set, palms raw and knuckles scuffed. I haven’t even wiped the sweat off when the soft buzz in my ear starts. I just roll my eyes, cross the room, and key in the pin to turn on the system on the phone, so I can let Alex bother me.
“It’s 7:02. You’re late,” I say, wiping blood off my lip with the back of my sleeve.
“You didn’t sleep again,” he replies flatly.
Alex has a habit of asking personal questions without actually wanting a reply. Not that he will ever get one. He just likes to be as annoying as possible.
“Mission?” I ask, already pissed by his voice. I should have him send messages from now on.
“A simple job, Vic. Just like the last one.”
It’s true, if there is a word to describe Forty-two, simple is exactly it. I shot him, dead in under three seconds, and the fucker didn’t even know I was there. And now I’m about to do pretty much the same thing. Alex should know better.
“So again, something uninteresting. Alex, you need to start looking for targets that I can slice and torture a bit. Anything but a quick kill.”
Considering the circumstances, I probably need a three-month-long killing spree like I did last year in Poland.
“As long as he dies right after the sale, the Bureau doesn’t care what happens with the target.” And this comeback is easing my disgust a little.
“Looks like I’m bringing all the equipment.”
“Just try not to dismember him. Let’s keep the paperwork clean this time, Vic.”
This boy has some nerve. First, he wants a body. Now, he’s whining because my fun doesn’t fit his paperwork aesthetic. The audacity!
I sigh loudly enough for him to hear it. “Alex, darling. Has it ever occurred to you that you might be due for a turn in the trunk? Just to keep things interesting?”
He exhales, annoyed. “Don’t start again. I’m your—”
“I’m just saying.” I interrupt him lightly, running my thumb across the raw split in my knuckle. “It might be good for team morale. You’ve been safe for far too long while your stupidity is still growing. Imagine how motivated I’d be if the job was fun.”
He pauses. “You’ll not get a cent for killing me.”
“Pity. I was already picturing the duct tape on your mouth. Just remember, when I get to that, you need to breathe through your nose,” I say, a thin smile forming on my lips.
Making him suffer has been a dream of mine ever since he learned I hate being called Vic, which has made him overuse the nickname.
“I’m sending the information. This needs to be done as soon as possible.”
Another eye roll. “I didn’t say yes.”
“You never do. And Vic?”
“Yes?”
“Are you done with Azrael?”
Hanging up the phone is an answer in itself. If Alex thinks I’ll fuck up the job because of Azrael, then he understands nothing.
By the time I get home from my training, the target’s information is already in my inbox.
I read the file the way some people read horoscopes: half amused, already bored, and scanning for anything I could find interesting.
INCOMING: NEW CONTRACT
Target: Daniel Vorel
Age: 38
Collaterals: Divorced, no kids.
Current employment: Lindskey Ltd. Contracted by the government on Project Insipia.
Position: Director of Cybersecurity.
Payout: $230,000
Preferred window: 7-day deadline until Sunday, May 3rd.
Translation: he works for a group of men who need to google “is electricity Wi-Fi” while congratulating each other for existing. And apparently, working on a government project gave little Daniel a reason to grow balls.
The next few pages are filled with information so utterly useless, yet so entertaining, like how he still pays the vet bills for the Labrador mix his ex took last year when she moved to North Carolina. A poor dog with shitty parents.
Forty-three is the kind of man who needs something fragile around just to feel like he’s not the most replaceable thing in his own apartment.
No criminal record. No drugs. Not even a traffic violation.
The closest he came to rebellion was forgetting to pay the phone bill for three days.
Rents a loft in a building that screams industrial chic but mostly just looks like someone poured concrete onto a Pinterest board and gave up halfway.
I dig into his search history, and believe it or not, it’s all beige. His only searches are about self-help blogs, TED Talks, and therapy appointments he keeps rescheduling. The icing on the top is daily googling about “how to show your masculinity.” He should thank me for killing him.
I mutter mostly to amuse myself. “This is where we are now, Alex? Sending me after a man less interesting than a plant?”
The surveillance recordings are even worse.
He slumps as if his spine is allergic to confrontation.
Nicely put, he has the social presence of an expired yogurt.
His password is the digital equivalent of wet cardboard.
One click, and I am in his home network.
Two clicks, and I am watching him microwave oatmeal with the intense stare of a man defusing a bomb.
“Should I just stab him with a spoon?” I ask the laptop screen, sipping my wine.
But hey—work is work, and a number is a number.