Chapter 3 Gabe
GABE
I take a slow sip of coffee, grimacing at how cold it is now. Two hours in a parked car will do that. The radio plays jazz softly—Miles Davis, “Kind of Blue.” Appropriate mood music for tonight’s performance.
My phone vibrates once. It’s a text from Adrian.
Ready. Owner counting cash in the office.
I don’t reply. No need. Our choreography was mapped out days ago, and each step was rehearsed mentally. Adrian always prefers being inside, setting the stage. I prefer to watch from afar before making my entrance, observing patterns, and being ready to adapt if necessary.
A black Audi turns into the alley, headlights briefly illuminating puddles from yesterday’s rain, right on time.
The car stops, and Reynolds emerges, glancing furtively over both shoulders.
His salt-and-pepper hair catches the dim security light as he straightens his tie—as if anyone cares how he looks for what comes next.
His wedding ring glints as he punches in the door code.
The same gold band he wears in campaign photos with his picture-perfect family while he funnels city contracts to his brother-in-law’s construction company.
The same hand that accepts cash envelopes from developers looking to bypass zoning laws.
The door closes behind him. I count to thirty, letting him settle in, letting the front desk girl guide him to the room where Adrian waits instead of his usual sex worker.
I run my thumb along the edge of the syringe in my pocket. The sedative inside is enough to immobilize a man of his weight for approximately four hours. Enough time to transport him to the space we’ve prepared in the basement.
I step out of my car, straightening my jacket. The alley is empty, quiet except for distant traffic and the hum of the massage parlor’s ventilation system.
I slip through the rear entrance, the familiar scent of incense and cheap air freshener filling my nostrils. The hallway lights flicker—dim enough to hide sins, bright enough to find your way. Perfect for our needs.
Mei, the night manager who never asks questions when paid enough, nods once as I pass. She’ll be elsewhere for the next thirty minutes. Another envelope of cash well spent.
My footsteps are soundless on the thin carpet as I approach room three.
The anticipation builds in my chest, a familiar tightness that’s almost sexual in its intensity.
This isn’t the meticulous art that Adrian creates with his chocolates.
My pleasure is more primal—the raw satisfaction of removing cancer from the world.
I ease the door open without knocking.
Inside, Reynolds lies face-up on the massage table, Adrian standing over him. The councilman’s eyes dart to me, then back to Adrian, pupils dilated with fear. His mouth opens in what should be a scream, but nothing emerges—just a pitiful wheeze of air.
“Right on time,” Adrian says, setting down the empty syringe. “Our friend has just lost his voice.”
I lock the door behind me, watching Reynolds struggle against the restraints Adrian has already secured around his wrists and ankles. The lidocaine injection to his vocal cords is working perfectly.
“Can you believe it?” I whisper, circling to the head of the table. “A politician with nothing to say.”
Reynolds thrashes harder, his lips forming silent pleas I’ve seen a hundred times before. Please. Money. Family. The holy trinity of desperate bargaining.
“The thing about corruption,” I tell him, leaning close enough to smell his cologne, “is that it spreads if left untreated.”
His eyes widen further, tears collecting at the corners as understanding settles in. Something is very wrong, and no one can hear him scream.
I nod to Adrian, removing the larger syringe from my jacket. Reynolds’ silent terror is a masterpiece in its own right.
I slip out through the back exit, leaving Adrian to handle final preparations.
A few minutes later, I ease our unmarked van into the alley, cutting the headlights before turning.
The vehicle—a nondescript white cargo van with false plates—is our workhorse.
Clean interior, lined with plastic sheeting.
No windows in the cargo area. Nothing to trace back to either of us.
Adrian appears at the service door, his face impassive as he holds it open. I nod once, and he disappears back inside. By the time I reach the door, he’s already wheeled Reynolds out on a laundry cart, the councilman’s rigid form wrapped in a sheet.
“No complications?” I ask, opening the van’s rear doors.
“Smooth as chocolate ganache.” Adrian’s eyes glitter with humor.
We work in silence. Reynolds weighs more than I’d expect—the weight of corruption, perhaps. The drug keeps him still, but his eyes track our movements frantically. The fear emanating from him fills the cramped space with a tangible energy.
Thirty minutes later, we’re descending the hidden staircase beneath my club’s storage room. The basement stretches beneath the entire building—soundproofed, climate-controlled, and divided into specialized rooms. My personal workshop.
We wheel Reynolds into the central space. The walls are lined with preservation tools, chemicals, and my growing collection of specialized instruments. The three mummified figures I’ve recently completed watch silently from their display stands—eternal witnesses.
I position Reynolds under the industrial lights and remove the sheet. Sweat beads across his forehead as I lean over him, meeting his terrified gaze.
“Councilman Reynolds. I believe in transparency—something you’ve claimed to value.” I adjust the gurney, raising it slightly. “You’re wondering why you’re here.”
I pull out a folder and open it so he can see the contents. Photos, documents, bank statements.
“Three homeless shelters demolished for luxury condos. Thirty-seven families were displaced. Six million in kickbacks funneled through your brother-in-law’s shell companies.” I flip through the evidence. “The Davidson family—remember them? The father killed himself after losing everything.”
Reynolds’ eyes well with tears, either from fear or the inability to blink properly.
“Society calls people like you ‘necessary evils’ of progress.” I pull on latex gloves with deliberate snaps. “I just see the evil.”
I circle Reynolds slowly, relishing the panic in his eyes as they follow my movement. Unlike Adrian, who relies on precise measurements and calculations, I prefer conversation. Connection. Intimacy before the end.
“You see, my friend here needs your blood.” I run my finger along Reynolds’ arm, feeling his pulse hammering beneath the skin. “But me? I need your understanding.”
I bring my face close to his, inhaling the scent of his fear. “Do you know what the ancient Egyptians believed? That judgment awaits after death. That your heart would be weighed against a feather of truth.”
Adrian moves behind me, laying out collection tubes and labels with the same care he applies to his chocolate molds.
“Too bad this is the only judgment you’ll get.” I grab Reynolds’ jaw, forcing him to look at the photos of the families he destroyed. “Look at their faces. The people who slept under bridges because of your signature. The kid who lost her father because you wanted another vacation home.”
I release him, a grin spreading across my face. My fingers find the first blade—a beautiful obsidian scalpel, its edge catching the light.
“Not so much blood this time,” Adrian cautions, positioning collection containers. “The Valentine’s truffles need a particular viscosity.”
“Artists compromising for artists.” I wink at Reynolds, whose eyes widen further.
The first cut is always an indulgence, a red line revealing the fragility beneath men who think they’re untouchable. I work in frenzied bursts, a conductor drawing crimson music from unwilling instruments.
“You’ll make a handsome addition to my collection.” I run bloodied hands through Reynolds’ hair, styling it as his life drains into Adrian’s containers. “I’m thinking northeast corner, beside the judge. Poetic, don’t you think?”
Adrian works silently behind me, filling vials and marking them while I begin applying the first preservative compounds. The chemicals will take weeks to transform the tissue fully, but certain processes must begin immediately.
“The ancient Egyptians removed organs, preserved them separately in canopic jars,” I tell Reynolds as his eyes begin to cloud. “I extract them too, but mine are filled with cedar oil and herbs before being returned to the cavity. The whole corrupt package, preserved for eternity.”
I’m already envisioning him displayed—another warning statue in my underground gallery. Perhaps standing upright, one hand extended as if reaching for a bribe that will never come.
“What do you think, Adrian? Should he hold the evidence folder in the display?”
Adrian considers my question, tilting his head as he seals another vial with Reynolds’ blood.
“Perhaps folded in his breast pocket. Corrupt heart, corrupt evidence.” He carefully labels the final container. “Poetry in presentation.”
I nod, appreciating his artistic sensibility.
While Adrian transforms blood into chocolate, my artistry flows through multiple mediums—the jazz that fills my club, the piano melodies that pour from my fingers, and ultimately, flesh and bone transformed and preserved.
Each corpse becomes a composition, displayed as warnings that no one but us will ever see.
There’s beauty in that privacy, a symphony of justice only we can appreciate.
Reynolds’ eyes flicker, fighting to stay open as his blood fills Adrian’s containers. His consciousness hangs by a thread, but I know he can still hear me. I lean close to his ear, my voice soft.
“Your legacy won’t be the buildings with your name. It won’t be the policies you championed or the handshakes with mayors. It will be this—becoming part of something honest for once.”
The councilman’s chest rises and falls in shallow breaths. Between the blood loss and the preservation fluids seeping through his system, the darkness will claim him soon. The extraction will finish what we started—the final notes in this particular composition of justice.
I step back and move to the industrial sink to wash my hands. The rhythmic scrubbing calms me as the water runs from red to pink to clear. A ritual of transition.
“I’ll need about three hours to complete the initial preservation,” I tell Adrian. “You’re welcome to stay, but I know you’re eager to begin your work.”
Adrian carefully packs his collection of vials into a temperature-controlled case. “Valentine’s Day waits for no one. Especially not chocolatiers with demanding clientele.”
When he leaves, I’m alone with Reynolds and my thoughts. I adjust the lighting, positioning the body exactly as I want it preserved. My fingers apply compounds that will maintain his features in perfect stasis.
Sometimes I wonder what pulled me toward preservation while Adrian chose consumption. Both of us transform death into art, but in such different ways. He incorporates his victims into creations meant to be devoured—temporary pleasures dissolving on the tongue. I make mine eternal.
Is that why I’ve started to keep them? Three bodies are displayed beneath my club, with Reynolds soon to join them.
A growing collection that whispers to me in the quiet hours when the club is empty.
Sometimes I think I should stop at four—a neat quartet of corruption.
But the truth is, I’m no longer sure I can.