21. Talon
Chapter twenty-one
Talon
B lood pools around the cleaner’s body, spreading in a perfect circle, like ink on wet paper.
I watch it creep across the floor, inching toward Quell’s feet where he sits on the floor, pressed up against the wall.
His sobs come in short, broken gasps, each one sounding like it’s tearing something loose inside his chest. “It will never end unless I’m dead,” he says.
Over and over. The words blur together, barely language anymore.
We're supposed to be packing. I'm going to get him out of here, hide him somewhere better, but when he returned with his few items of clothes and every art supply he has here, he froze. It was the blood, the body. I should have moved her, but the focus was moving us instead.
I don’t argue with him. What can I possibly say to make this better? There is nothing to fix what’s been broken since the first time he saw through my eyes.
The gun is still warm in my hand. I stare at it, feeling the weight, the purpose.
Then at Quell. His face is wet with tears, glasses askew, hands shaking so badly it makes his whole body tremble.
He looks like he’s coming apart, piece by piece, right in front of me.
And it is my fault. I’ve been the reason all along.
His drawings show me kneeling, gun in hand, waiting. Accepting. Ready for an end. I thought it was a threat. Now I understand it’s a solution.
“It will never stop,” Quell whispers, fingers digging into his scalp. “Not until I’m dead.”
No. Not until one of us is dead.
I step away from the body. My footsteps are silent on the hardwood.
The apartment feels small, airless, shrinking by the second.
I move toward Quell, each step slow and deliberate.
When I reach him, I lower myself to my knees, back straight, shoulders squared.
Just like in his drawing. Just like the vision he didn't want to tell me about.
Quell’s eyes lock on mine. Wide, glassy with panic. His pupils are so dark they drown out the color.
“If it ends with me,” I say, voice low and even, “then let’s end it.”
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Just a choked, desperate sound.
I hold the gun out to him, grip first. It hangs in the air between us, this machine built for ending things. My arm doesn’t shake. Nothing in me hesitates. This feels right, in a way I can’t explain. Like I’ve been moving toward this moment since the day I decided not to kill him.
“Take it,” I say.
He looks at the gun as if it might jump at him, or maybe even bite. “Talon, no…”
“You say it will never stop. Not until one of us is dead.” I keep my voice soft, but there is no wiggle room. “So I’m giving you the choice.”
Quell’s hands are shaking. Actually shaking. I think he might fall apart right there. But he reaches out, slow, hesitant, his fingers barely brushing the metal like he doesn’t trust it, or maybe himself.
“I can’t…”
“You can.” I press the gun into his palm, folding his fingers around it, one at a time.
His skin feels cold and sticky, but my hand stays steady, almost warm.
I guide his hand, the gun now properly in his grip, and lift it up to my forehead.
The barrel is hard against my skin. One final moment. “Don’t think. Just pull the trigger.”
His breath stutters, like he’s drowning. The gun shakes against my forehead, scraping little lines into my skin. I don’t move. Don’t even blink. I just keep his hand there, holding the gun tight to my head.
“Listen to me,” I say. My voice drops low, just for him. For the small space between us where our breaths tangle. “There’s money in the safe behind the bookshelf. Combination’s 4826. Enough to get you gone for a long time.”
A tear rolls down his cheek, slow and shiny. Then another. He doesn’t pull the gun away.
“In the closet, top shelf, there’s a black backpack.
Three burner phones inside. Use the blue one first. It’s already got a number in it; a guy who can get you a new name, new papers.
” The words come out smoothly, like I’ve practiced.
I have, in my head ever since the cleaner showed up at our door.
“Tell him I sent you. That I’m gone. He’ll help. ”
“Talon, please…”
“After that, you go west. Keep moving. New hotel every night. Pay cash. Stay off the main roads.” I squeeze his wrist, making sure the gun stays put. “They won’t find you if you’re smart. If you’re careful.”
Quell is shaking so hard now that the tremors run through his whole body, like he is fighting off a fever. The gun wobbles against my forehead, but I keep it there, steadying it with my own hand. His knuckles are white, bone-tight around the grip, but his finger hovers just off the trigger. Barely.
“You already see it, don’t you?” My voice sounds weird, echoing in my own ears like it belongs to someone else. “My face. My end.”
His eyes go huge. That is answer enough.
“I’m tired, Quell.” The words feel strange coming out. I don’t usually say stuff like that. I don’t open up. But if these are my last seconds, I want them to be real. “You’ve seen too much. In your drawings. Through my eyes. All those deaths, all that blood. It’s poisoning you.”
He is breathing fast now, too fast. His chest flutters up and down like a bird trapped in a shoebox.
“It’s your choice,” I tell him. “But if you really think killing me will give you peace, this is your one shot.”
The gun is cold on my skin now, or maybe that’s just the sweat running down my hairline. Quell’s hand is shaking so badly that I have to grip it tighter to keep the barrel in place.
“Dying would stop the dreams.” I let my thumb brush over his wrist, feeling his pulse thumping wild under my touch. “Maybe it should be me.”
Something in his eyes just… breaks. Like a dam bursting, or a wall getting knocked down in one blow. His face twists up, lips shaking, and a sound comes out of him that isn’t even a word. His finger hovers over the trigger, flexing, relaxing, flexing again.
“I’m not afraid to die, Quell.” I mean it. Death isn’t scary anymore; it’s just something that waits around the corner, like a stray dog. “But I am afraid you’ll keep waking up alone.”
The gun hits the floor between us, falling from his hand like it is red-hot. The sound it makes echoes in the apartment, sharp and final, like a door slamming shut. The noise vibrates through the floor, through my knees, up my back. Something decided. Something broken. Something saved.
Quell’s face just… folds in on itself. His lips part, trying to shape a word, but all that comes out is a choked, ugly gasp. His hands, empty now, hover awkwardly in the air before clawing at his throat, his chest, like he can’t get any oxygen at all.
I don’t move. Just watch him unravel, every muscle in his body tense and shaking with the effort to breathe. His eyes are wild, desperate, locked on me like I’m the last thing holding him to this world.
“I…” He tries, but whatever he means to say gets strangled out, caught somewhere in his chest. His face is going gray, lips edged with blue.
I know what this is. A panic attack. It's a bad one. His breathing is all wrong, too fast, too shallow, like his body has decided it is dying and is determined to make it true. He is gulping air, but none of it seems to reach him.
“Quell.” I don’t touch him. Don’t try to comfort him. Just say his name in case he needs something to grab onto.
He doesn’t answer. Just stares, eyes rolling back, eyelids fluttering. Then his body goes loose and heavy, collapsing sideways like a puppet with the strings cut.
I catch him before he hits the floor, one arm behind his shoulders, the other steadying his head. He slumps against me, a solid heat and dead weight, his mind checked out. I lower him down carefully, making sure his head lands softly on the hardwood.
The room is quiet now, except for the slow drip of the kitchen faucet and Quell’s ragged breathing, rough but slowing now that he’s passed out.
The cleaner’s body is still there, not far away, blood pooling out and going dark, sticky at the edges.
Two bodies on my floor. One dead, one unconscious.
And me, still kneeling, still alive, when I’ve been so sure this day would end another way.
I straighten Quell’s glasses where they’ve gone crooked. He looks younger with his face slack, all the tension gone from his jaw and brow. The tear tracks on his cheeks are drying, leaving pale streaks behind.
“I’m sorry,” I say, though he can’t hear me. My hand brushes his cheek, just for a second, and then I let go. “For all of it.”
I pick up the gun from where it lands, check the safety, and tuck it into my waistband. The metal is warm, shaped by Quell’s grip. I can still feel the ghost of its weight against my forehead.
He didn't pull the trigger. He couldn't do it. Maybe that means something, maybe not. Either way, nothing changes. Vincenzo will send more cleaners. More killers. The dreams will keep coming. Quell will keep seeing things no one should have to see. And I’ll keep putting him in danger just by existing in his orbit.
I get up, my knees stiff from kneeling. For a second, I just stand there, staring down at Quell’s unconscious body. At the cleaner. At the blood, the broken glass, and the life we’ve tried to build here; a place that never really is safe.
Then I move. Fast, precise, the way I always do when there is a job to finish.
First stop: the bedroom. Go-bag from under the bed.
Already packed, always. Old habits. I shove in extra ammo, the second passport from the hollowed-out book.
Cash from the safe. Only what can’t be traced. Only what can’t be replaced.
Weapons next. Guns from the closet, knives from the kitchen. I wrap them up, methodical, each one where it belongs. My hands do the work automatically, muscle memory, while my mind wanders.
I think about the morning. Quell’s sleepy smile when I leave, the way he curls into the warm spot I leave behind. His drawings, always so careful, always so damning. The vision was of me kneeling, waiting for an ending.
It came true, in a way. Not the ending either of us expected, but the pose, the surrender; that part was right. Sometimes the universe has a sick sense of humor.
I finish packing fast, ruthlessly. Everything I own fits in two bags.
A whole life stripped to essentials, ready to walk out the door.
That’s how it always is. I never let myself keep the things that make leaving hard.
I split everything into two piles, his and mine.
I know where to send him; the last remnant of my old life, where he can have the life I was supposed to lead.
Quiet seaside existence, peaceful, slow and safe.
Until Quell. Until I started thinking of this place as ours, not just mine. Until I caught myself lingering over little, pointless things because they make me think of him. A chipped mug he always uses. That blanket he wraps around himself while he draws. The second toothbrush in the bathroom.
I pack them for him; let him keep the memories safe for me. They aren’t mine to take.
Once everything is packed, I haul the bags to the door and set them down. Quell is still out, breathing steadily now, color back in his face. He’ll wake up soon. I should be gone before then.
He’ll be fine. He’ll use the burner phone to call himself a cab, use the was of cash to avoid detection, and make his way up the country from one motel to the other.
He has the contact information for my guy who can get him a new name, new ID, and when he reaches the coast and sees my final gift to him, he’ll be happy.
Lonely, yes, but maybe that will push him enough to get a proper social life.
I’ll leave in the car Vincenzo knows about, I’ll leave a trail of small bank transactions, lead the hunters after me. I’ll never know he’s safe; that would be too dangerous, but I’ll dream about him.
I crouch beside him for a last look, memorizing the lines of his face, the curve of his mouth, the way his hair falls across his forehead, the graphite smudges always on his fingertips.
“I’m sorry,” I confess, even though he can’t hear me. “But this is the only way it ends.”
The last of my things go in my bags; another is packed for him beside it, everything he'll need for a new life, better than before.
And then my body freezes. I can’t do it. But if the dreams end with me, then this is the only way. I have to disappear. Quell deserves a chance at a life without blood, without nightmares, without the constant fear of being found.
Even if it means I’ll wake up alone for the rest of mine.