The Arbiter

CHAPTER 1 - Deimos

I don't believe in mistakes.

Mistakes are for careless men. Emotional men. Men who act before they think. I'm not one of them.

Every moment I make is measured. Every breath is deliberate. Every life I take is decided long before my arm ever tightens around their throats.

The rain doesn't care about my precision. It turns clean plans into mud. The grave is too shallow. Water gathers at the bottom, swallowing the sharp edges I carved an hour ago.

My boots sink deeper with every shift of my weight. The shovel slips once. Twice. I adjust the grip. I always adjust.

The sirens start as a tremor in the distance. Not for me. Too far. Wrong direction. They grow louder anyway.

I calculate distance. Wind direction. Response time. The forest sits eight miles from the highway. The average patrol interval at this hour is thirteen minutes. I've been here eleven.

Eleven is acceptable.

The shovel hits stone. I curse under my breath. Not because of the noise, but because I should have checked the soil density twice. I always check twice.

Rain runs down my face, into my eyes. Or maybe that's sweat. My pulse is steady. It has to be steady. Fuck. I replay the last hour in my head. My jaw tightens.

The handshake.

It was brief. Calculated. Intentional. A performance. But skin is skin. Pressure is pressure. But he was sweating. I would have felt it though. Wouldn't I?

The sirens are closer now. Or maybe the rain is distorting the sound. Hard to measure acoustics in a storm. The grave is still too shallow. I don't rush. I don't panic. And yet, I'm digging faster than I should.

Tonight…

I made a hell of a mistake.

The kind of mistake that doesn't bleed. That kind that waits to be found.

And someone is about to find it.

When I finally bury the bastard, I head to my car, leaving the fresh crime scene behind. My phone vibrates; a client waiting for my confirmation. The vibration is still quieter than the pounding in my head. The job is done. Almost.

The handshake. It shouldn't matter. The probability of trace recovery is minimal. Even if they found something, it wouldn't lead them to me. But I don't deal in probability. I deal in certainty. At that moment I decided to erase my mistake. Even the word itself cuts deeper than I cut him.

I glance toward the trees as distant headlights cut through the rain. They'll find him soon. I know they will. But sadly for them... I know exactly where that body will be transported. Wealth buys discretion. In the second they find out it was a "Carlo Gambino."—An important mafia member.

They'll transport him in the private mortuary on the other side of the town. And I'll be there, destroying the evidence before it causes trouble. I'm not in the mood to hide in another state.

I regain my posture and map out the entry.

I pull the black hood over my head, adjusting the fabric until only my eyes remain.

I don’t like hiding my face, there’s a certain power in being seen and not stopped, but until I know the exact layout of this mortuary, I won’t risk the mess of getting caught.

I drive in silence. The city is a blur of grey, indifferent to the monster moving through its veins.

A few calls ensure the body ends up where I need it.

The client is handled, and my bank account looks much better, but it doesn't ease the irritation clawing at my throat.

I lied to him. The last thing I need is one of the Elites screaming into my phone like a petulant child.

I'm not scared of him; I'm scared that I'd end up killing him too, just to stop the noise, before I could fix my initial mess.

I reach the building. It’s obscenely large for something meant to store the dead. A monument to forgotten lives.

I need the grid. I'm not a master of electronics, but I always find a way. Brute force has its own kind of elegance. I have exactly ten minutes to get inside after I kill the power. Maybe fifteen if security is on a break. Doesn't matter. I only need five.

The body is already inside. Pathologists are creatures of habit; they check the file and examine the exterior first, which gives me a window.

The lights die along with the security cameras I've already compromised.

I slip through the sanitary ramp at the back, the safest option.

No one uses it now. Irony is a quiet thing.

I slide through the door that normally requires a staff card and head for the stairs. It's pitch black, but my eyes adjust. I know the body is on the third floor. I can almost smell the antiseptic and the lingering scent of my own work.

The second floor holds the examined bodies in those clinical fridges. I don't know the technical term, and I don’t care, but the thought that I'll most likely end up in one of them someday makes my eyes roll.

On the first floor, the “security” stays in their cramped little room. Why do they even bother? As if someone would want to steal a fucking body. Then the realization hits: I am the one breaking into a mortuary. Security is necessary. But against me? It’s a joke.

As I reach the third floor, a loud mechanical hum from below vibrates through the building. That lazy motherfucker finally fixed the generator. My internal monologue is cut short as the lights flick on above me. Bright. Clinical. Unforgiving.

"Motion sensors," I mutter.

Of course. Nothing says "discretion" like a spotlight announcing my presence. I take another step, the light following me down the hallway like a hungry dog. I despise modern security. And electricity. The night just keeps getting better.

My heart beats faster, but it’s not fear. It’s adrenaline. I need to find that pathologist. It's late; so there's only one. Perfect. If the fucker is already running tests on that body, I'll smash his head until he forgets both me and the evidence.

The atmosphere here is thick enough to touch. Dark. Cold. I love this place already. Something tells me this will be fun.

I hide behind a massive pillar in the main hall, my breathing shallow and controlled.

Someone is in the reception area. No. The pathologist's office.

I can only see a silhouette behind the thick glass.

A woman. Interesting. The main hall is still dim; the cheap system is taking its time to reset. That's my window.

I slip into the autopsy room as silently as a ghost, moving to the body and coat the palm with a chemical mixture. Strong enough to compromise trace evidence without raising immediate suspicion.

But then, I hear footsteps. Shallow. Decisive. Outside the room. My head starts ringing again. That familiar, lethal hum of adrenaline. I melt into the shadows behind a wall with a small observation window.

Suddenly, the motion sensors betray me. The hall lights up, bathing the sterile tiles in an unforgiving glare.

I don’t move. I freeze, becoming part of the wall itself.

I need to see if she notices. When the door opens, I duck my head beneath the window line, my heart a steady, heavy drum in my chest.

"Hello?"

A soft, feminine voice calls out. The lights die since I’ve remained perfectly still. Metal instruments clink. The sharp, cold song of her trade. The sound of cutting begins, then stops.

"Really smart, buddy," she says confidently.

But I can hear it. There's a flicker of fear underneath the bravado. I can practically taste it.

A long pause follows.

"But not smart enough."

Something in my chest tightens. Did this woman just challenge me? She found the chemical burn. She knows I'm here, or at least she suspects it. And she's terrified, yet she’s standing her ground.

A grin spreads beneath my mask. What a beautiful coincidence. I peek slowly over the edge of the window, careful not to trigger the sensor. I need to see her.

My eyes fall on the woman examining my art. She turns her head slowly toward my direction, sensing the weight of my gaze on her back. My breath hitches. Jesus fucking Christ.

Her eyes trace the one-sided glass, trying to pierce the darkness to see who’s watching. Time stops. My gaze locks with hers, though she cannot see me. Those magnificent, icy blue eyes. She looks like a fucking angel. No, not an angel. Something indescribable.

Minutes pass, and I can't look away. I haven't taken a breath in an eternity, and I don't care. If I ever end up on her table, I hope she takes her time with me. I hope she carves into me with that same clinical precision. God, I'm fucking sick.

She can't see me, but she feels me. Something fractures inside me, not loudly, just enough to let a sliver of light in.

I watch her every movement. She shakes her head, trying to convince herself she's just paranoid. But I am here. And I don't think I'll ever be able to stop watching her from now on.

She looks at the file again. No mention of chemical burns. Her pulse rises; I can see it in the frantic way she glances from the palm back to the papers. She's nervous, and I've never seen anything more beautiful than her fear blooming under my gaze.

She doesn't report it. Not yet. She's either stupid or brave. I’m starting to bet everything I own on the second one.

Then… she leaves the room. I slide against the wall, sinking to the floor for a moment, my own heart finally finding its rhythm again.

My head is rushing with thoughts. Dangerous, spiraling thoughts, I didn't know my fucked-up mind was capable of.

What an interesting creature. A spark to my rotting soul. I've only had one look, and I will count every goddamn one she gives me from this moment on. I will name every gaze. Every flicker. Every emotion her icy little heart dares to feel while looking for me in the dark.

I thought I came here to clean up a mess. I didn’t realize I was coming here to find my new religion.

Her first gaze felt like lighting. It struck me once. Twice. Again. My whole body went rigid, trembling under the electricity. And it wasn't enough. I want more. I want everything she gives me.

She lifted her head slowly from the body. Those pale, almost inhuman blue eyes moved through the sterile room. Calm, analytical, and then they stopped. On me. For a second. Just one second.

She couldn't see me, but she felt me. And that was enough to split my chest open.

If lighting had a taste, it would taste exactly like that moment. I would climb the highest structure in the world just to wait for that strike again. To crave it. To let it consume me whole.

I wouldn't burn the world for her. No. I'm not one of those desperate fools who mistake lust for devotion. I would find a way to put the both of us on a different planet entirely. And I would hunt her there.

Even if it took a decade.

Even if it took a lifetime.

It still wouldn't be enough for me.

I want to feel the rush of chasing something that thinks it can escape. Knowing it never will.

I don't need to touch her. Yet. Observation is far more intimate.

She's a fallen angel, studying my art. And she doesn't even realize she's stepping inside it. My poor little storm. She's fascinated.

I saw the way her fingers linger over the precision of my cuts. The way she tilted her head, trying to understand the intention behind the brutality.

She's not innocent. She can't be. No sane, innocent woman chooses to spend her nights with the dead.

I will corrupt her thoughts. It doesn't matter what's inside that beautiful mind of hers. Because soon enough.

I'll be the only thing left in it.