9. Talon
Chapter nine
Talon
He wanted an update on Quell, yeah, but mostly he wanted me to take other jobs. I think he's missed me while I've been obsessing over Quell. So instead of answering him, I did some other work, just so I would have something different to update him about
So I did some stalking. Not because I wanted to keep Vincenzo happy, but because I wanted to keep him from thinking about Quell.
Maybe if Quell disappeared, stopped posting his art, everyone would forget about him.
My shoulders ache from hours hunched in surveillance, keeping eyes on people who aren’t Quell. The thought of him waiting behind the door makes my chest pull tight, a feeling I don’t want to look at too closely. I slip inside, quiet as always, though a part of me hopes he hears me.
The safe house is dark. Just a thin line of light under Quell’s door. I stand in the hallway and listen. Nothing. Only the refrigerator’s low hum and the soft, steady tick of the wall clock. Time moving on, even though everything else feels like it’s coming apart.
I set my bag down without a sound. First thing, the gun goes into the lockbox. I’ve started keeping it away from myself here. Not because I think Quell will touch it. More because I don’t want him to see me as just another weapon. Like that’s all I am.
The bolt slides back, and my hand hovers on the bedroom doorknob.
This is a ritual now. These last few days, I've been checking on him before I do anything else. Just to be sure. Just to see him. I tell myself it’s about security, keeping tabs on my…
asset. But every night, that excuse gets a little harder to believe.
I ease the door open, just a sliver at first, then a little wider.
The bedside lamp is on, casting soft shadows across the room and catching the figure on the bed.
Quell sits propped against the headboard, knees up, the sketchbook I bought him balanced on his thighs.
His hair is falling forward, hiding his eyes, his hand moving over the page, quick and sure.
He doesn’t notice me yet. Or maybe he does.
I watch him for a second. The pencil spins between his fingers, leaving graphite smudges on his knuckles. His breathing is steady. Deep. He looks… peaceful, drawing like that. Even here. Even as my prisoner. Not that the word fits anymore. It hasn’t, not for days.
“You’re back,” he says, still not looking up. So he knows I’m here after all.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough, more than I mean. I clear my throat. “It’s late. You should be sleeping.”
“It's hard to sleep when you’re not here.” He says it as if it's nothing, just a fact, like the weather. But it lands somewhere under my ribs, sharp and dull all at once.
I step in, closing the door behind me. The room feels smaller; the air feels heavier. I keep to the wall, leaning back. Close enough to see the lines of his drawing, far enough not to reach for him. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Measuring distance. Making sure it’s enough for both of us.
“Where were you?” He finally looks up, pencil pausing mid-line. The lamplight catches in his eyes, turning them amber, not brown. “All day. You were gone all day.”
“Work.” It comes out without thinking. Like a reflex.
“Did you kill someone?” It's not an accusation, just the same plain question, steady as clockwork. He has asked it every night since I brought him here. Like it’s normal. Like it’s no different than asking if I’ve answered emails or picked up groceries.
I could lie about where I've been; what I will eventually do to the banker. He already knows it. I can't lie about death, but it would be easy to lie about. He wouldn’t know that. But something has shifted between us. The drawings, the long quiet nights, the way he looks at me like he already knows exactly what I’ve done, it makes lying seem a waste of time.
“No,” I answer with a slight smile. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
The words just sit there. Heavier than they should be. True, but still a confession. I haven’t killed anyone for nine days. Not since he arrived. But planning to kill someone felt just as guilty.
“Nine days?” Quell’s pencil stills. He tips his head, studying me the way he studies his sketches before committing them to paper. Taking in every angle. Memorizing the lines of me. “Because of me?”
“Yeah.” I shift, suddenly aware of how I’m standing, where my hands are.
I never think about things like that. Never second-guess my own body.
But his eyes make me notice everything, all at once.
It’s been our routine. I tell him when to get up, bring him three meals a day, plus snacks and tea with honey, just as he likes it.
Each day I collect his washing. I packed him four sets to rotate through the washing cycle.
Each night I tell him to go to bed. The rest of the time, he is free to draw.
He’s getting quite good at perfecting the wall outside his window, but I’ve been bringing him animal pictures to inspire something more pleasant.
He looks healthier. No one should look healthier being held prisoner in a small room than they do living a free and normal life, but Quell is benefiting from twenty-four-hour care. I’m enjoying it too; it reminds me of the old days before I became Talon the killer.
“Why?” he asks. “Why haven’t you done the one I drew yet?”
I don’t answer right away. I’m not sure I have an answer that makes sense, even to myself. If I don’t kill the banker, his dream will never come true. I need to know whether it's possible.
Over the afternoon, Vincenzo called twice with jobs.
I told him I’m working on something bigger.
The Quell situation. He’s given me space for now.
Time. It won’t last forever, but I know it's the right answer, because Quell hasn't dreamed about the people Vincenzo wants gone. Clearly, they aren’t mine to take.
“Just haven’t wanted to,” I say finally. It’s an incomplete truth.
Quell nods slowly, like he’s working out a puzzle. “Is it because of me? Because I see what you do?”
That’s too direct. Too close to a truth I haven’t even admitted to myself.
I move to the window instead of answering, checking the pointing between the bricks for no reason other than to break the odd feeling between us.
Empty. Quiet. Safe. He follows me and stands there next to me, close enough to touch.
“I had a dream last night,” he says, when I don’t respond. “A vision, I think.”
My shoulders tense. I turn back to him, watching his face. “About what?”
He hesitates, then flips back a page in his sketchbook. “About this.”
He holds out the book. I cross the room and take it, careful not to let our fingers touch. The drawing shows a man standing with his back to me, half turning, face full of fear as a knife covers the top half of the page.
Like I… or the killer… crept up behind him, and he turned one second before having his throat slit.
I recognize the face right away. Mickey Jameson. Not a mark. A friend. Or, you know, as close as someone like me gets to friends. He does logistics for Vincenzo, moves cash, keeps things from getting messy. He set up safe houses for me before. Bailed me out more than once.
“You know him,” Quell asks, though it's not really a question.
“Yeah.” My voice sounds flat, even to me. “He’s not a target.”
“He will be.” Quell’s voice is soft, almost sorry. “It always happens. What I see… it always happens.”
I look at the drawing again. Mickey’s face, every detail right. The tiny scar above his left eyebrow from a bar fight years ago. The crooked nose he never fixed. The tired look in his eyes.
“No,” I say, sharper than I mean. “Not this one.”
Quell doesn’t argue. He just looks at me like he’s heard it all before. People not wanting to believe him. People thinking they can change what’s coming.
“When did you draw this?” I ask.
“Last night. After you left.” He takes the sketchbook back, his fingers brushing mine. The touch sends a jolt up my arm, sharp and bright. “There’s something else.”
His cheeks go pink, starting at his neck and working up. I’ve never seen him blush before. It makes him look soft, almost breakable. I want to see it again.
“What?” My voice drops.
He hesitates, then turns the page. “This.”
For a second, my brain just… stops. The angle is wrong, not looming over a body, but close, so close. Two people, faces almost touching. Eyes shut. Lips meeting.
Us.
Me and Quell. Kissing.
The detail is brutal, impossible to mistake. My jaw, set hard. Quell’s eyebrows, drawn tight in a frown. My hand cupping his cheek, fingers buried in his hair. His fist gripping my shirt, dragging me in.
Heat hits me, fast and embarrassing. I step back, but I can’t tear my gaze away from the page. From what it shows. Something I barely let myself imagine, laid out in black and white.
“I don’t understand,” I say. It's a lie. I understand exactly. I just don’t know what the hell to do about it.
“Neither do I.” Quell’s voice is thin, almost lost. “It’s not like the others. Not a death. But it felt the same when it hit me. Real. Like it’s going to happen, not just something I make up.”
I make myself look at him, not the drawing. His eyes are huge, uncertain, but not scared. He’s waiting. For me to laugh, or yell, or tell him he’s wrong.
Instead, I say, “Did you like it?”
It catches us both off guard. I didn’t mean to say it. Too blunt. Too real.
Quell’s cheeks go even redder. He ducks his head, glances at the sketch, then back up at me. He simply nods. “Yes.”
Just that. Three letters. It hits me harder than I expect. People fear me, respect me, even admire my work from a safe distance. But nobody ever wants me. Not like this. Not knowing everything about me, about what I do.
I take the sketchbook back, this time making sure our fingers brush. I let it linger, just a second longer. His skin is warm and soft. Not a killer’s hands. An artist’s.
I look at the two drawings side by side. Mickey in his final moment. Quell and me, tangled together.
Two futures. Both of them are impossible, in their own ways.
“If these both happen,” I tell him slowly, “it’s a problem for me.”
Quell curls up tighter, hugging his knees. “Why?”
"Because I don't want to kill Mickey." I meet his eyes and try not to look away. "But I do want to kiss you."
The words just sit there, heavy and awkward, like I’ve broken something between us that can’t be fixed.
I never talk like this. Don’t let myself.
But Quell has been in my head. He’s seen what I’ve done, the things I’ve had to do, and he still looks at me like I’m something else.
Something better. What’s the point of pretending?
"So don't kill Mickey," he says, like it’s just that easy.
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
I shut the sketchbook and hand it back. Our fingers touch again, and this time neither of us moves away. Not right away. "Because what you see always happens."
"Not always." His voice is quiet, but he doesn’t sound like he’s guessing. He sounds sure. "Things change. They have to."
"How do you know?"
"I've never drawn myself before." He puts the sketchbook aside. Then he shifts, feet on the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed. Closer now. Close enough that I could touch him if I wanted. If I dare. "I've never been in the visions. Not until now."
I don’t move, though I want to. I want to step toward him, or maybe away, or maybe both at once. This is new ground. Not the kind you can fight your way through. It’s dangerous in a whole different way.
"So what does that mean?" I ask.
He shrugs. "I don't know." It’s so blunt, so honest, it almost makes me flinch. "But I think… maybe we get to choose. Which future happens."
That possibility just hovers there, thin as a soap bubble. The idea that it isn’t set in stone. That we can actually shape it. That we have a say.
I look at him, really look. The way his hair always slips into his eyes, the way his hands tremble if he thinks no one’s watching. The way he looks back at me, steady and unblinking, even after he knows what I am, what I’ve done.
Something shifts deep in my chest, like a plate sliding loose under the earth. I brought him here to figure him out. To take care of a problem. To make sure he doesn’t become a threat. I don’t plan on… wanting to keep him safe. Or wanting him to see me. Or wanting anything, really.
"And if I decide I want the second drawing to happen?" My voice barely makes it out, rough and low.
Quell’s breath stutters. Just a tiny hitch, but I notice. "Then it will."
The distance between us feels smaller, like the room is shrinking. My heart pounds so hard it’s almost embarrassing. This isn’t the plan. I don’t do connections. I don’t let people in. Especially not people who can see through me.
But here we are.
I step back, needing air, space to think. “I should let you sleep.”
A flicker of disappointment crosses his face, gone as quickly as it comes. He nods, not arguing. “Will you be here in the morning?”
“Yes.” That I can promise at least. “I’ll be here.”
I move to the door, guiding him back to the bedroom prison. I can feel his eyes on me the whole way. At the threshold, I stop and wait. He steps inside, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, hands folded, just watching me.
“Quell.” His name seems different now, heavy with things I can’t say. “The drawings. Both of them. I need to think.”
“I know.” He tries for a smile, a sad, understanding thing. “Good night, Talon.”
I nod, then close the door behind me. In the hallway, I lean back against the wall and let out a breath I don’t know I’ve been holding. Two futures. Two impossible choices. And in the middle of it, a man I barely recognize, wanting things I’ve never dared to want.
The house is quiet, but the silence isn’t empty anymore. It’s full. Full of possibility. Full of risk. Full of something that feels dangerously close to hope. Tomorrow, I need to give him more freedom, even if it's only a test to see if he will choose to stay.