5. Talon
Chapter five
Talon
T hree more days of surveillance give me all I need.
Quell is coming apart at the seams. He jumps at shadows.
Checks every corner. Runs his fingertips along the windowsills, searching for the smallest sign of intrusion.
The cameras catch everything; the flinches, the darting glances, the way he freezes when something feels wrong but he can’t name it.
It’s like watching an animal trapped without ever seeing the snare.
Fascinating.
That’s what I tell myself as I rewind the footage for the third time, watching him pace his apartment at three in the morning, hands shaking as he makes another cup of tea. Just professional interest. Just intel. Nothing personal.
I sit in my dark living room, the monitors painting my face blue and cold. My laptop is open on Dreamscream.pro. Quell posted another drawing this morning. Another death. Not one of mine, but the precision is the same, the moment before the kill, caught in perfect, damning detail.
“This is taking too long,” I mutter, rubbing my jaw. Five days since Vincenzo gave me the assignment. Five days, and I still don’t know how this artist knows things no one should.
On the screen, Quell goes to the window again.
He parts the curtains with careful fingers, peering down at the street.
Looking for me. Not that he knows who he’s looking for.
His whole body is tight with nerves. Shoulders hunched, head cocked, like he’s listening for something he can’t quite hear.
The camera catches the hollow under his cheekbone, the dark smudges under his eyes, the way his fingers twitch against the curtain.
I lean in, watching his face. The paranoia is eating him alive. Good. Fear makes people easier to predict. Fear makes them weak.
But there is something else there too. Not just fear. Resignation. Like he’s always known someone would notice what he’s drawing. Like he’s been waiting for this. Waiting for someone to come for him.
I check my watch: 10:17 AM. Quell leaves for the coffee shop every day, exactly at 10:30, and stays for ninety-seven minutes. I’ve tracked it, mapped it, could set my clock by it. That means I have just enough time for another visit.
This isn’t personal. This is strategy. I need to push him. Escalate. Toward what, though, a confession? An explanation? I’m not even sure anymore. But whatever game we’re playing, I’m ready to change the rules.
I slide open my desk drawer and pull out a single sheet of heavy, acid-free paper.
The good stuff: 100% cotton, smooth, what the pros use.
I bought it yesterday, three neighborhoods over, in an art supply store, wearing a hat and sunglasses.
Probably overkill, but old habits die hard.
Next to the paper, I set down the charcoal pencil.
Professional grade. The clerk promised it was the best.
A message without words. Draw me.
I pack my tools: lock picks, gloves, a small camera to swap for the one in the bedroom, because the old one has a blind spot. Routine. Methodical. This is just another job.
Then why does my heart rate pick up as I get closer to his building? Why do I check my reflection in the car window before getting out? I straighten my jacket. Adjust the collar. Professional appearance. That’s all.
The fire escape feels almost familiar now. The metal is cold through my gloves, but I barely notice. Same window, same quiet slide of the lock. I slip inside like a thought, like I belong there.
The apartment smells different this time.
Not so much tea. More fear. Sweat and sleeplessness hang in the air.
I stand still, letting my eyes adjust to the dim.
Everything is technically the same, but it isn’t.
Quell has moved things, searching for proof someone has been here.
The kitchen counter is empty now, all the mugs and plates put away.
The couch cushions lined up perfectly. Books rearranged on the shelf.
He’s looking for me. The idea sends a weird little thrill through my chest.
I move across the floor, careful not to hit the boards I know will creak.
Who knows if someone else is in this building.
The drawing table by the window is cleared off except for a single sketchbook.
I run my fingertips over the surface. I can feel the grooves where he’s pressed too hard with his pencil, the rough spots where eraser shavings have been brushed away.
The sketchbook is closed. He’s done that on purpose. Usually, he leaves it open to whatever he’s working on. I think about opening it, but decide not to. Better to let him wonder if I have.
Instead, I go to the kitchenette. One mug sits in the drying rack, still damp. I pick it up. It has weight. The ceramic is smooth except for the rim, worn down where his lips always touch. I bring it to my nose and breathe in. The scent of his tea. Earthy. Complicated. A hint of something floral.
This isn’t intelligence gathering. This is something else entirely.
I set the mug down exactly as I found it, careful not to leave a trace, and keep moving.
There’s a stack of books on the coffee table: art books, psychology, one about dreams. I run my finger along the spines, feeling for which ones he’s reached for most. Some are pristine.
Others slouch, their covers soft at the edges.
The bathroom door is half-open. The space inside is cramped. On the wall, the medicine cabinet door hangs open; sleeping pills, a prescription for anxiety, toothpaste squeezed right in the middle. I don’t touch anything. Some things deserve privacy, even now.
The bedroom is last. I hesitate. If there is a line, this is it, and I’m about to cross it. Professional distance only goes so far. I step in anyway.
The bed is a mess, sheets twisted like he’s been wrestling them all night.
The pillow holds the shape of his head. I stand over it, staring at the hollow where he sleeps; or fails to.
My hand moves before I think about it. I press my fingers to the pillow, feel the softness, the faint dampness that says: bad dreams, night sweats, something unresolved.
I jerk my hand back. What am I doing?
On the dresser, propped against the wall, is a framed drawing.
A self-portrait. I pick it up, careful not to smudge the glass.
Quell has drawn himself with no mercy: tired eyes, a tight line between his brows, tension at the corners of his mouth.
But there’s more in the drawing than the cameras ever catch.
A kind of strength, hidden behind the exhaustion. Determination. Something unbroken.
I set the portrait back down and check my watch. I’ve already stayed too long. Time to deliver the message and get out.
Back at the drawing table, I put the blank sheet of paper dead center, lining it up with the edges, corners sharp. I lie the charcoal pencil across the top, a neat horizontal, slicing the white space in half. It’s perfect. Deliberate. There’s no way to miss it.
I picture him coming back, seeing it right away. Will he get it? Will he panic? Or will he do what I want most of all: pick up the pencil and draw?
I put the new camera in the bedroom, nudging it to cover the blind spot. Check the bug under the coffee table. Walk through the apartment one last time, making sure there’s nothing left behind except my gift.
I mean to leave, but I linger at the table, staring at the blank paper. Something tugs at me, a stupid urge to leave more. A note. A sign. Something real. Something that points to me.
Professional distance, gone just like that. I pick up the pencil and make a mark in the lower corner. Not a letter. Not even a shape. Just a little dent. Barely there. A starting point. An invitation.
Then I’m out, slipping through the window and down the fire escape, gone before my shadow can catch up.
In my car, I open my laptop and pull up the feeds from Quell’s apartment. All I can do now is wait. Watch.
He comes back at exactly 12:07 PM, right on time. I watch him come in, careful, eyes darting around, shoulders tight. He checks the lock, the windows, every corner. He started doing that after he noticed me. Then he sees it.
The paper.
The pencil.
He stops, hand still on the doorknob, just standing there. Doesn’t move, doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. Then, after a few seconds, he edges closer to the drawing table, circling it like it might bite him. His fingers hover above the paper, not touching, just feeling the air.
I lean in closer to my screen. My chest feels tight. Will he call the cops? Run for it? Shred the whole thing and pretend it never happened?
Nope. None of that. Quell just pulls out the chair and sits. He picks up the pencil. Turns it in his fingers, testing it, feeling the balance. Then, suddenly, he draws.
The camera angle sucks. I can’t see what he’s putting down.
All I get is his face, his hands, the way his shoulders move as he works.
He looks… locked in. Not scared anymore.
The pencil moves fast, sure, almost cocky, then slows for the finer parts.
His breathing gets quieter. His shoulders drop. He actually looks relaxed.
I switch to the overhead camera, the one pointed straight at the table. The drawing is coming together, with a pair of eyes staring right out of the paper. My eyes. So accurate it gives me goosebumps. He’s drawing exactly what I want. He’s drawing me.
But it isn’t how I look in photographs, or in the mirror.
It’s how I look in his head, through whatever weird link ties us together.
The angle is wrong, tilted, like he’s looking up at me from below, from the place where someone waits for mercy.
My eyes in the sketch are cold. I know that coldness, but I’ve never seen it staring back at me.
He keeps going, dragging the pencil along my jaw, shaping my mouth, darkening the spot where my collar hits my neck. Little details no one else should know. Things I’d never let anyone see.
I touch the screen, following the lines of the portrait as it builds itself. Something tight and new unfolds in my chest. I should feel raw, maybe even invaded. But I don’t. I feel… seen. Like really seen. Maybe for the first time ever.
“Quell,” I say. Just his name, soft. Not the target. Not the artist. Not anything else I’ve called him. Just Quell.
He can’t hear me. But when I say it, his hand stops above the paper. He lifts his head, listening. Then he smiles, a small, crooked thing, not afraid or tired or giving up. Just knowing.
He keeps drawing, adding shadows, highlights, making the portrait breathe, one careful stroke at a time.
When he finishes, he leans back, looking at what he’s done with a kind of cold focus.
Then, he does something I don’t expect. He turns the sketch toward the camera above his desk, the one he shouldn’t know is there, and holds it up, like he’s showing me. Just me.
My own face stares back. Perfect. Unnervingly perfect. But that isn’t why I stop breathing. It’s the words at the bottom, written in tiny, sharp letters:
I know you’re watching.
I shut the laptop. Disconnect. My hands don’t shake, but something else does. This isn’t about collecting intel anymore. It isn’t about the job. It’s something I don’t have a word for.
“I should have killed him already,” but even as I say it, I know I won’t. Can’t. Not until I figure out what this is. Not until I understand how he sees through me.
Not until I figure out why part of me wants him to.