19. Talon
Chapter nineteen
Talon
I get back to the apartment just after noon, my gun a familiar, comforting weight at my back.
The security sweep takes forever today. I check every angle, every shadow, every spot a second time, like I expect something to leap out and bite me.
Two weeks with Quell and my paranoia is getting downright impressive.
I shut the door behind me, soft click and just stand there.
Listening. The place is dead quiet. No scratch of pencil, no off-key humming, just the kitchen clock ticking away like it’s the only thing alive.
Yeah, something’s wrong. The silence feels different when it’s not supposed to be there, even though it was normal before Quell came and turned everything upside down.
My feet barely make a sound on the floor as I creep down the hall.
Living room? Empty except for the evidence of Quell’s presence, a mug of tea abandoned on the coffee table, still warm when I touch it.
Kitchen, nothing. Bathroom door wide open, lights off.
I find him in his bedroom, curled up in the armchair, knees tight to his chest. He’s clutching his sketchbook like it’s a life raft, knuckles white.
He doesn’t even hear me come in, which is weird, considering how jumpy he’s gotten lately.
His glasses have slid down his nose, and there are streaks on his cheeks, dried tears catching the light.
I stay in the doorway, watching. Something’s shifted since this morning.
When I left, he was sleepy and smug, tangled in my sheets with that lazy grin that makes my heart do stupid things.
Now? He looks like he’s seen a ghost. Worse.
Not the usual haunted-by-his-visions thing, but something sharper, meaner, right now.
I back up into the hallway, thinking fast. No way am I going to sneak up on him and make it worse. So I go back to the front door, open it, let it slam a little. “Quell?” I call, making sure he can hear me.
Silence. Then a shuffle from his bedroom. “In here,” he calls back, voice thin and shaky.
When I come back to the doorway, he tries to pull himself together, sitting up straighter, face arranged into something less tragic. The sketchbook is half-hidden at his side, but his fingers are still gripping the edge like he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he lets go.
“Everything okay?” I ask. As if the answer isn’t already written all over him.
He nods, a quick, awkward jerk. “Fine,” he says, but his eyes flick to the sketchbook and then away. “Just tired.”
I step into the room carefully, keeping my shoulders loose and my hands easy at my sides. I’ve learned how to do that for him, to soften the parts of me that make people tense up. “You’re a shit liar,” I say, but I keep it gentle.
He almost smiles. It’s there for a second, then gone. “Yeah,” he answers. “I know.”
I crouch down in front of him, so we’re eye to eye. “What happened?” My voice is low, steady. “Did you have another vision?”
His eyes dart to the sketchbook again, and something in my chest goes cold. Whatever he’s seen, it’s in there. Locked up in graphite and paper, waiting.
“Talon…I…” He stops. Swallows. His hand shakes where it grips the sketchbook.
Before he can finish, his eyes slide shut and his chin drops, trying to stop the tears from coming. He falls forward into me, arms locking around the back of my head, his body going slack against me as he sobs uncontrollably. The sketchbook slips from his fingers.
I catch it before it hits the ground.
For a second, I just hold it, feeling the weight settle in my hands. I’ve seen a lot of Quell’s drawings by now. Deaths. Violence. Moments frozen in time from my point of view, or from the eyes of the people I’ve killed. I think I’ve gotten used to whatever his pencil can show me.
I’m wrong.
I open the sketchbook, and everything in me stills.
The drawing is perfect, down to the smallest line.
It’s me, but not the killer, not the weapon.
Me, kneeling on a bare floor. Back straight, head tipped forward a little.
There’s a gun in my hand, resting against my thigh, finger nowhere near the trigger.
My eyes are closed. My face is calm. Too calm.
The calm of someone who’s already made peace with what’s coming. And one sentence written underneath.
It isn’t a murder. It’s a goodbye.
I stare at the drawing, at this version of myself ready for something final. The acceptance on my face, that’s what hits the hardest. Not defeat. Not fear. Just… steady resolve. Like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, and why.
I know what it means. I always have, really. The second Vincenzo’s eyes land on Quell in that ice-cold office, the second Mickey shows up with a gun and orders. I’m the threat now. Me being in Quell’s life, that’s what puts him in danger.
I’ve been kidding myself, thinking we could just… exist. That I could keep killing for Vincenzo, keep my place, and Quell would stay safe. That Vincenzo would just accept my ultimatum and move on. That was never going to happen. Every day I stay, Quell is marked.
I reach into the dresser drawer and pull out the syringe I had left there when I first grabbed him in case he ever tried fighting me. Using my teeth, I pull the cap off the needle and plunge it into his neck.
Quell slumps, his arms dropping from my neck as he passes out. He’s now free from the dreams, and then whatever horrors went through his mind when he was drawing, it's all too much for him.
It's easy enough to lean him back and rest him in the chair. He seems used to sleeping in awkward positions from my studying.
I close the sketchbook and set it down on the table.
My decision is made before I even admit it to myself.
I need to go. I need to make Quell disappear, and then I have to walk away from him.
Give him a shot at a normal life, or at least one where he’s not always looking over his shoulder for Vincenzo’s men.
Quell shifts in the chair, eyelids fluttering, but he doesn’t wake. I stand, memorizing every angle of his face, the way his hair falls over his forehead, the slight part of his lips as he breathes. Three weeks, and I’ve already forgotten how to exist without seeing him.
I move through the apartment with practiced efficiency. Grab the go-bag from the closet, that's already packed. Cash from the safe behind the bookshelf. Enough to disappear for a while. Fake IDs, the ones even Vincenzo doesn’t know about. Extra ammunition. A burner phone, still in the box.
We need to leave; I need to drop Quell somewhere safe before he wakes.
But writing a goodbye note is harder than I imagined.
I sit at the table and stare at the blank page.
What do you even say when you’re walking out on the only person who’s ever really seen you?
The only one who knows what you are and still stays?
I write clinically. Safe house addresses. Bank account numbers. Contact info of trustworthy allies in case things get desperate. Basically, a cheat sheet for how to vanish before Vincenzo ever comes looking.
The pen feels awkward in my hand, like I’ve forgotten how to write anything that matters. I always figure if I die, it’ll be fast. Messy. This… feels like mercy. I cross that out. Too dramatic. Too honest.
I try again. He deserves more than a life with someone like me. Better, but still too much. I scratch it out, pressing so hard the pen tears the paper.
Simple, then. Just the facts. Just what he’ll need to stay alive. I slip the note into his bag, beside the money and a single set of clothes. This is less than ideal. I could vanish in a heartbeat, but I need more time to get Quell to the same level of safety.
My hand finds the gun at my waist. The weight is familiar, grounding. I’ll need it, wherever I’m headed. Vincenzo’s reach is long. I slide it into my waistband, the metal cold against my skin. It’ll warm up. It always does.
I drift back to the spare room, drawn to Quell. He’s out cold. Completely vulnerable. Trusting. No idea I’m about to walk out of his life.
The stupid part? I don’t want to go. The realization hits me hard, sharp enough that I have to brace myself against the doorframe. This is supposed to be a job. Find the artist, silence him, move on. Simple. Clean. That’s what Vincenzo wants.
Instead, I’ve found something I didn’t know I needed. Someone who sees through all my careful disguises, all my distance, and still wants me close. And now I’m going to leave him somewhere he doesn’t know.
If he’s safer without me… then that’s what he gets.
My eyes land on the sketchbook again, right where I left it. Something tugs at me. A detail I’ve missed. I pick it up, careful not to wake Quell, and flip through the pages. There are more. Five, six drawings, all the same image. Me, kneeling. The gun. That look of certainty.
I’ve seen enough of Quell’s visions to know what they mean. They always come true. Every single one. Which means that somewhere, somehow, I’m going to end up exactly like this. Not dying for him, not in the pictures, anyway. But ready to. Prepared.
I look at Quell, still asleep in the chair, then back at the drawing. Is this what I want? To vanish, to protect him by stepping out of the picture? Or am I just running from the fact that I’ve let someone matter, after years of empty space inside me?
Why does it feel like leaving would kill me more than staying ever could?
I set the sketchbook aside and wander into the kitchen. Grab the note from his bag and scrunch it up in my hand. Not yet. Not like this. I need to think. Need to be sure.
I go back to Quell’s room, dropping onto the floor beside Quell’s chair. He doesn’t move. His breathing’s slow and deep, the way it always does when he’s really out.
The air around him is thick with the smell of graphite and old tea. It’s as familiar now as gun oil and metal. My hands feel empty, restless. I was so certain just minutes ago. Leave. Disappear. Keep him safe by staying gone.
But the drawings keep tugging at my thoughts. Quell’s visions always come true. Always. Which means eventually I’ll be kneeling with a gun in my hand, ready to die, or disappear, or whatever that look on my face means. If it’s going to happen anyway, does running now actually change anything?
Or am I just stealing what little time we have left?
I look at Quell’s sleeping face, memorizing every line, every shadow. The soft curve of his mouth. The furrow between his brows that never really goes away, not even in sleep. The graphite stains on his fingers, permanent after years of drawing.
A thought hits me, sudden and sharp: What if the vision isn’t set in stone? What if, just this once, knowing what’s coming could actually change things?
I’ve never believed in fate. Never trusted anything bigger than my own choices, my own actions. But Quell’s gift makes me question that. Makes me wonder what’s fixed, and what isn’t.
If I leave him now, am I just fulfilling the vision differently? Choosing a different kind of death, not physical, but something worse?
I reach out, brushing a strand of hair from Quell’s forehead.
He doesn’t wake, somehow looking happy despite the slack muscles.
Complete trust, even in a drugged sleep.
It undoes something in me. No one’s ever looked at me the way he does.
Like I’m something worth keeping, worth fighting for.
Like the blood on my hands doesn’t matter, not in the way that counts.
Vincenzo will come for us, eventually. That’s a certainty I can't ignore. But I've faced worse odds before. We both have.
I settle back against the wall, watching Quell sleep. The go-bag is in the hallway, packed. The gun presses into my back, solid and familiar. I can still leave. Disappear.
But not yet. Not today.
The kitchen clock ticks in the distance, steady and slow. I listen to Quell's breathing, the small rustles as he shifts, the hush that fills the space between us. This moment right now isn’t much. Just quiet. Just stillness. The pause before a decision.
But it’s ours. And for now, that’s enough. I need to make sure he's safe before I leave him, and I know the place to take him so he can start over. All my savings and carefully set backup plans can give him the life it could never offer me.
Freedom.