Chapter 1 #2
And the smell…oh God, the smell. It hit me like a freight train. Curry. Indian food. Rich spices curling through the air, seeping into my helmet and my brain until my stomach actually growled loud enough to embarrass me.
“Fuck,” I whispered to myself. “My favorite.”
It was like the bastard knew I was coming and decided to make me dinner first. A little last meal situation, except the wrong person was about to die. Thoughtful, though. Points for effort.
I stepped in, keeping my knife ready but my footsteps light, shutting the door behind me so quietly I congratulated myself, and then I froze at the sound of a voice.
“Get the fuck out!”
My blood jolted, and I stopped breathing. Shit. Where the hell is he?
“You fucking weirdo, get out!”
I pressed back against the wall, raised my visor by an inch to get a clearer look at the apartment, scanning the shadows and the faint red glow at the end of the hall. But there was no figure, no footsteps, nothing except that red light pulsing.
And then he shouted again, his voice so loud it made the hair on the back of my neck rise. “No, you’re walking a thin fucking line, you asshole! Nobody’s dumb enough not to check that door! Get out before they shoot you!”
I blinked, then finally exhaled when I realized what was going on. He was playing a fucking video game.
Relief washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by amusement as I realized the guy was yelling at pixels on a screen with the kind of rage people normally reserve for war crimes.
He had to have headphones on because otherwise, what sort of lunatic screams into the void like that with no shame and no concern for the neighbors?
Actually…I am said lunatic.
Who am I to judge? Screaming into the void is literally my day job.
His poor neighbors, though. These walls couldn’t be thick. He was probably public enemy number one in the building. At least I had the decency to soundproof my gaming room back home. That’s called courtesy, Garrett. You should try it.
Although after tonight, nobody will ever hear you scream again.
Damn, that’s dark.
And it made my dick jolt.
Weird. I wasn’t usually so full of myself that my own thoughts got me hard, but suddenly all I wanted was a front-row seat to me getting myself off.
Funnily enough, there was a full-body mirror on the wall in front of me, and I looked at myself before dropping my gaze to my crotch.
You can’t, I told myself, fighting the urge.
Kill first, pleasure second.
I crept forward with a low groan until the living room came into view, and there he was, plopped on the couch, back turned to me, a controller clutched in his hands as he leaned toward a massive flat-screen TV.
Nice setup, actually. Expensive. Clean. Organized.
Definitely enviable. Too bad he wouldn’t be enjoying it much longer. Shame, really.
I tilted my head, knife still in hand, just in time to see his score flash across the screen. A low score. A pathetic score. In the very shooter game I dominated, the one I could play blindfolded, half-asleep, with one hand tied behind my back.
“What a loser,” I muttered, grinning.
“MOTHERFUCKER!” Garrett screamed, making me actually flinch hard enough that I almost dropped the knife.
“Jesus Christ,” I hissed under my breath. The man was volume incarnate.
He cursed at the screen, shaking his head and letting it fall forward in defeat, and for a second, I wondered if I should just sit back and let this play out, because honestly, watching him was pure entertainment.
He wasn’t just bad at the game; he was dreadful, fumbling, forgetting to move, getting stuck in corners, dying in places that weren’t even dangerous.
And he just shot himself in the foot. It was a tragic comedy.
Then his colleague got shot, and his character on the screen just stood there, wallowing in annoyance, and calling out for help because of his bleeding foot.
“You should move, buddy,” I advised him softly. “You’ll be next.”
Of course, he didn’t hear me, but he did answer whoever was in his headset.
“No, goddammit, it wouldn’t have worked either way. That’s the dumbest spot to hide. Yeah, yeah, rookie mistake. Ah, fuck!”
And then he finally got shot.
“Aaand he’s dead,” I chuckled, crossing my arms smugly, only to immediately jab my own bicep with the tip of my knife. “Ow! Shit!” I hissed, jerking my arm away, staring at the tiny tear in my jacket.
Smooth, Sly. Just smooth.
Groaning again, I threw my arms up in annoyance, only to let the knife slip from my hand and clatter on the tile floor like a cymbal crash in an empty church. I scrambled to snatch it up, my eyes glued to Garrett’s head, waiting for him to whirl around. But he didn’t. He was too busy raging.
“One more round,” he muttered into the mic. “We need to win this.”
Ha. Not with those skills.
I lingered there, debating when to make my move, when he suddenly paused the game.
“Need water. One sec.”
Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.
I panicked, scanning for a hiding spot, but before I could move, he turned. His headphones came off, and his eyes met mine instantly.
And then, he screamed.
Not just any scream, but a full-on, glass-shattering, high-pitched wail that sounded more like a horror movie final girl than a grown man.
“AAAAAHHHHH!”
I instinctively raised my hands like I was about to say, “don’t shoot,” which was dumb because he sure as hell didn’t own a gun, and then I realized I looked stupid, so I dropped my hands, dropped the knife again, and swore. “Fuck.”
Bending down, I scooped it back up and gave him a casual little wave with it, as if that would help. “Hey there, Gary. How’s it going?”
“What the fuck! Who are you and why are you in my apartment?”
“Ah, the usual questions,” I said lightly, preparing to launch into the dramatic speech I’d been crafting for years. “Let me start by saying—”
“What the fuck!” he yelled again, cutting me off.
I narrowed my eyes. He was staring right into mine, and that’s when I realized my visor was still up. Shit! Rookie mistake. I snapped it back down, dimming my view and cutting off the connection. Ah, that’s way better.
“Can I speak now?” I asked. “I had this whole speech prepared.”
“Get the fuck out or I’ll call the cops!”
“No can do.” I tilted my head, lips pursed. “Sit down, Gary.”
“What the fuck!”
I groaned. “Christ, man, is that all you know how to say? Expand the vocabulary a little.” I pointed my knife at the paused TV. “Look, I get that you’re freaked out, but frankly, I’m more disturbed by your kill-to-death ratio.”
“What—”
“Say those three words again and I’ll cut your tongue out,” I snapped, jabbing the knife toward him for emphasis.
That shut him up. His chest heaved, eyes wide, shoulders stiff, but at least he was listening.
“Good,” I said cheerfully. “Now, deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Yeah, like that. Relax, Gary. Sit down.”
“How do you know my name?” he stammered, his legs trembling like jelly, knees threatening to buckle.
I smirked under the helmet. “Let’s just say I know way more than your name.”
“Like what? Who are you?”
Oh, here it was. My big moment. The one I’d rehearsed. The big line.
I smirked wider, reaching for the chin strap of my helmet, my heart pounding with so much excitement it was about to burst in my chest. “Who am I? I’m—ah, fuck.”
The strap was stuck. Of course it was. Of course, this was the moment it chose to fight me.
I wrestled with it, muttering curses until it finally gave way, and then, with as much seriousness as I could summon after that debacle, I whipped the helmet off and let it fall.
It bounced off my boot and smacked the polished floor with a dull thud, and I groaned again, straightening my shoulders.
“Who am I?” I repeated, voice low and menacing. “I’m your biggest nightmare.”
Garrett stared at me, blinking rapidly, and then his jaw dropped.
“Sylvester Webb?”
Don’t.
Don’t you dare laugh.
My parents loved Rocky. That’s why they named me Sylvester. Therefore, the nickname Sly. They died when I was four, hence why I grew up in foster care, which led to me being bullied endlessly by Garrett and his little gang of assholes, who were also living there. And now here we were. Full circle.
“Holy shit,” Garrett breathed. And then, because the universe enjoys screwing with me, he actually smiled. “It’s been so long!”
I froze. What?
He relaxed, lowering his shoulders, eyes softening as if I was some long-lost buddy instead of the guy about to kill him.
“Hell, yeah,” I found myself saying, grinning like an idiot. “It’s been, what, four years since we—”
Wait. No. No no no. What the fuck was I doing? I was not here to reminisce. I was here to kill him.
I mean, accidentally make him kill himself.
I snapped my knife back up, pointing it at his face. “Stop that. Stay back.”
“Shit, Sylvester—”
“Sly,” I corrected.
“Sly,” he repeated, lips twitching, still amused, which pissed me off even more. “What the hell are you doing, man? How’d you get in here?”
“Your front door,” I deadpanned.
“Right.” He blinked. “Listen, whatever it is you want, I’m sure we can negotiate—”
“Nope. Sit.”
He frowned. “No.”
“Sit.”
“What the fuck—no! Get out!”
“I can’t!” I snapped, throwing my head back and groaning before glaring at him again. “I need you to kill yourself first.”
That shut him up. He gawked, tilting his head like a confused puppy.
“Huh?”
I sighed. “I’m here to make it look like you killed yourself. Or, you know, I’ll help make it convincing. Either way, the result’s the same.”
“I’m so fucking confused.”
“Good,” I muttered.
And then realization dawned across his face. His mouth dropped open, eyes widening, voice rising. “No fucking way. It was you? You killed my friends?”
“Whoa, whoa,” I said quickly, holding up my hands again, knife gleaming between my fingers. “Careful with the accusations, Gary. That’s harsh. And false. Their deaths were tragic accidents. Total freak events. Nothing to do with me.”
“No? You expect me to believe three of my best friends all conveniently killed themselves in the span of three days?” His face twisted in rage, his voice spiking again.
I shrugged. “Ever read The Virgin Suicides?”
“Oh, fuck off, Sly! It was you!”
“Rude,” I said, flipping the knife into the air and catching it just to show him I could. And, boy, could I. Damn, that was hot. “Take it back.”
“What? No!”
“Those are serious accusations, Gary!” I half-shouted, half-whined.
“Yeah, and I am serious!”
“Take it back!”
“No! Get out of my apartment!”
“No! God, stop! Listen.”
I sighed heavily and tilted my head back for just a moment before looking at him again. I found my composure and took another deep breath before asking, “So, how do you want to go?”
“Go where?”
“Heaven. Or hell. Odds aren’t great for you, buddy, seeing how miserable you made my life, but who knows. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“That’s what this is about?” His voice cracked, somewhere between disbelief and fury. “You want to kill me because of our past?”
“Our past that you made mi-ser-a-ble,” I corrected, emphasizing every syllable.
“Jesus Christ, it’s been years! Get over it already!”
“I can’t.” I pressed a hand to my chest dramatically. “The damage sticks, Gary. Like Gorilla Glue. You don’t get to walk away without consequences.”
“You’re a fucking psycho!”
That one actually stung, because it was true, but still. “You made me this way,” I snapped. “You’re my villain origin story. So? How do you want to go?”
“I’m calling the cops,” he spat, ignoring my very reasonable question before spinning toward the coffee table where his phone sat.
“No!” My voice came out louder than intended, my arm snapping forward, and before I could second-guess it, I hurled the knife with full force, aiming straight for his head.