Chapter 15
Going to the market was the perfect play. Not because I knew Sable would love the artistry, but it put me exactly where I needed to be. A quick walk from the luxury condos. No wheels, no mess. Just a clean break when the time came.
In and out.
The social posts also played double duty, taking care of Sable’s problem while accounting for my whereabouts.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
[JT]: Down. 20 minutes, 25 max.
I type back.
[Hex]: Won’t even need it. Got a set of legs I’d rather be spending time between.
[JT]: She could have been mine.
[Hex]: In what world, kid? She’s got steaks in the freezer older than you. You still need permission to rent a car.
[JT]: Anything you can do, I can do better.
[Hex]: Sure. Now go color or whatever it is 24-year-olds do, you little shit.
[JT]: Just don’t miss, old man.
I huff a bitter laugh, shaking my head as I shove my phone away.
Didn’t matter how much I wanted to keep JT out of this life—I never had the choice. Our mother was already a cold body in the ground by the time he was ten and I turned eighteen. Old enough to sign custody papers, too young to understand what I was signing up for.
JT followed me everywhere. He had to. I was his whole world by default, which meant he saw everything.
The fights. The blood. The men with dead eyes who smiled while calling it business.
Worst of all, he saw Ned Stauder for what he really was—not just a threat, but a parasite in pressed slacks.
The kind of man who could make you disappear in pieces and still have the paperwork come back clean.
Ned doesn’t have charm or brains. No, what he’s got is a sick instinct for sniffing out pain.
He finds the cracks in you like he was born to break people.
After my mother’s death, he offered me money for one fight.
Then another. Then ten. Before long, I was bleeding on concrete for cash while he sat in the corner, sipping bourbon like it was the fucking ballet.
He made sure it was always in his rings. His name behind every drop of blood. I fought until my knuckles split and my soul went quiet.
But he didn’t stop with me.
He watched JT. Waited. Knew my brother’s brain worked like a machine and saw dollar signs.
When he finally made his move, it wasn’t with fists.
It was with wires and cameras. Started him on surveillance gigs, tech runs, hacking jobs no fourteen-year-old should’ve been anywhere near.
Told him it was “just work,” like that made it better.
I found JT once, scrubbing footage clean after someone got shot during a backroom brawl. He didn’t flinch. Just looked up and said, “I tried not to watch.”
That night, I made a deal.
Told Ned he could have me—every fight, every broken bone—but JT stayed clean. No more jobs. No more blood.
He laughed in my face, but he took the offer. Said it was a shame, really. JT had promise. Maybe one day, when I finally broke, he’d come collect on the kid again.
That was the leash. Still is. He never really let go, just loosened the rope enough to make me think I had breathing room. That’s how men like him operate. They don’t kill you. They keep you alive long enough to watch everything you love hang from a hook.
JT got out. Got him in front of the right people: tech contracts, security firms, clients who paid for his mind instead of poisoning it.
But Stauder’s shadow is long. You see it in the habits we still carry.
The way our stomachs tighten when an unknown number calls.
The way JT keeps cameras in every corner of his place, footage rolling even when he’s home.
Eventually, I found a way to get us both out.
But some nights I still wake up with blood under my nails and the sound of his voice in my ear telling me it’s never over.
20:00
Back to business.
The market buzzes behind me as I slip out the side street, keeping my pace easy, unhurried. One block away.
18:45
I slip on black latex gloves, the material snapping against my wrists as I reach the service entrance.
It’s exactly where JT said it would be—discussing the plan late after the bar closed last night—tucked out of sight, away from the main street.
A steel door with no markings, nothing to make anyone look twice. I yank it open and step inside.
The hallway smells of fresh paint and industrial cleaner. No security. No cameras. For now.
17:30
The elevator panel is sleek, keycard only, but JT took care of that too. I tap in the code he sent me, and the 14 button lights up.
I lean against the wall as it climbs, eyes locked on the numbers ticking up.
16:15
The doors slide open to a quiet, pristine hallway.
Security cameras are spaced out along the ceiling, but JT assured me they’d be looping yesterday’s footage for the next half-hour.
All marble floors and recessed lighting.
It doesn’t smell like people actually live here, just expensive candles and new money.
I move straight to 1407.
The door is unlocked. As predicted.
14:50
I push inside and let the door shut softly behind me.
The place is too clean. Too impersonal. Will would like it. The kind of staged luxury meant to impress guests, but not actually used. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the living room, giving a view of the skyline.
The kitchen is spotless except for a single plate in the sink. Someone ate a late breakfast.
Too bad it’ll be their last.
13:30
The sound of running water pulls me forward.
Down the hall. Master suite. Door’s cracked just enough.
12:45
I slip inside.
The bathroom is all sleek marble, fogged mirrors, and warm steam curling into the air. The shower takes up half the space, glass walls offering no protection. The water runs steady.
They don’t know I’m here.
11:55
I reach behind me, pull the Glock from the back of my jean’s waistband. The one I conveniently grabbed from my saddlebag before we walked into the market. Adding the suppressor with ease.
10:30
I step closer.
10:25
They don’t hear me over the shower, and I leisurely pull open the door.
10:20
Finger on the trigger.
10:19
I raise the gun.
10:17
A breath.
10:15
I squeeze the trigger.
The shot snaps through the silence. The body drops. I step back to avoid the splash.
Twitches once. Goes still. Blood runs from the chest wound and begins to swirl down the drain.
Less than ten minutes and I’m on my way back to those legs.
But as I walk, the high of death doesn’t fade.
It never does… not right away.
Not when the man I just killed had it coming. Not when the world’s better without him breathing in it. Not when the thought of what he did is still sharp in my chest.
What scares me isn’t the act; it’s how clean it feels. How easy.
I remind myself I don’t kill for fun. I kill because someone has to, and men like him don’t get warnings. Only endings.
But there’s something wrong with how my pulse is still steady. How the weight in my chest isn’t guilt—it’s satisfaction.
That’s the part that keeps me up at night. Not the blood. Not the body. But the voice in my head that whispers, you liked that, didn’t you?
And I did.
God help me, I did