CHAPTER 5 - Deimos
The first mistake Bryan makes is touching what's mine.
My monitor freezes on the exact moment his hand settles on the edge of Madeline's desk. Too close. Leaning toward her like he belongs there. Like he has the right to occupy the same air as her. My jaw tightens, a slow, rhythmic grinding of bone.
The camera angle isn't perfect, but it's enough. Enough to see the way she tilts her head up to look at him. Enough to see the space between them shrinking until the oxygen itself must be screaming.
She leaned back into him. Not by accident. Not because she had to. She chose not to move. I replay the footage, dragging the slider back a fraction of a second, again and again, until the pixels distort into a jagged mess. His hand is on her waist. His thumb is shifting. Testing.
I sit very still. Most people would think jealousy feels like fire. Loud. Chaotic. Explosive. It doesn't. Not for me. For me, it feels like precision. It feels like a blade being honed to a microscopic edge. My mind begins organizing possibilities the same way it would during an assignment.
Bryan's throat is the easiest target. Thick muscle, but poorly protected. A blade pushed between the sternocleidomastoid and the carotid artery would silence him quickly. Efficient. Minimal mess. But that would be too merciful.
My fingers tap slowly against the armrest of the chair.
The knees. Break them first. Both of them. A hammer would work. Or a metal bar. Something blunt enough to shatter bone without killing him too quickly. He needs to be grounded before he can be unmade.
Then the hands. People underestimate how much pain lives inside them. One finger at a time. I imagine the sound they would make snapping backward. Nails. Pulled slowly. I want to see the hands that dared to touch her rendered useless.
Bryan laughs at something she says. The sound leaks through the low-quality audio feed like static, grating against my nerves.
No. Not the hands. The tongue. That's the real problem. The way he talks to her. The way his mouth shapes her name. Madeline. Mali. My nails drag slowly over the polished wood of the desk, leaving shallow, angry grooves in the surface. The tongue should come out first.
I lean forward slightly, studying the screen. Bryan shifts closer again. My pulse remains perfectly steady, but something darker coils beneath it.
This is why men like him never understand the danger they stand against. They believe violence announces itself. Raised voices. Threats. Warning signs. But the real violence is quiet. Calculated. Patient.
I could walk into that morgue tonight and end him before anyone even realizes I was there. I already know the blind spots in the camera grid. The exact route between the service elevator and the security office. The keycard access codes.
The way Bryan leans back in his chair when he's bored, exposing the soft underside of his throat. A fatal vulnerability. I know the time he leaves the building. I know where he parks. Which nights he goes to gym. Which bar he prefers on Fridays.
Bryan thinks he's part of the system that protects her. The irony almost makes me smile. Because right now the only thing protecting him is her.
My gaze shifts back to the screen. Madeline leans against the edge of the desk now. And then it happens. She smiles at him. Not a polite one. Not the restrained professional smile she gives the others. This one is softer. Warmer.
Something in my chest tightens violently.
My apartment suddenly feels smaller. Darker.
I exhale slowly through my nose. Three seconds.
Four. Five. Control returns the way it always does.
Like a blade sliding back into its sheath.
But when it comes to her. It's too fucking hard.
The restraint I must obtain is torturous.
Bryan doesn't understand the privilege he's been given tonight. He's alive because she's looking at him. Because if she wasn't, I would already be there. Watching through a camera is one thing. Watching a man flirt with something that belongs to me is another.
My gaze drifts to the phone resting beside my keyboard. For a moment I consider simply ending it. Driving there. Breaking his neck in the parking lot. But that would frighten her. Fear easily forms into hatred. And hatred directed to me is... counterproductive. No. A warning will do. For now.
My fingers unlock the phone. A number appears on the screen. Hers. I've had it for days. Of course I have. The message takes less than five seconds to write. No theatrics. Just the truth.
ME: "Don't let him touch what doesn't belong to him. Consider this your only warning."
I hit send. Through the monitor, I watch her phone vibrate on the desk. Then add one more line. Because clarity is important.
ME: "Next time there will be consequences, Madeline."
My lips curl slightly. Let's see if she listens.
On the screen, Bryan notices the immediate shift in her expression as she glances at the notification.
"Everything okay?"
He asks, his voice full of that misplaced, heroic concern.
I lean back in my chair, watching carefully. She doesn’t look at him. She glances at the camera. Not by accident. Never by accident. For a second, it almost feels like she's looking directly at me through the screen.
Bryan follows her gaze and chuckles, oblivious to the fact that he’s breathing on borrowed time.
"Stalker again?"
The humor will leave him soon enough.
She lies to him, telling him it’s nothing, but I can see it in the subtle tension of her jaw. Cute. Bryan finally pushes himself off the desk, muttering something about getting back downstairs before his boss thinks he’s slacking. Good. Leave.
But he pauses in the doorway. Of course he does.
"Hey," he adds, turning back toward her with that hopeful, irritating grin.
"You should come tomorrow night."
My fingers stop moving on the keyboard. The air in my apartment seems to hold its breath. Madeline tilts her head slightly, a flicker of hesitation crossing her features.
"Come where?"
Bryan shrugs casually, leaning against the doorframe as if he hasn’t just signed his own death warrant.
"Hospital thing. Small party. They rented a private lounge at the Grand Aurora Hotel."
My attention sharpens instantly, cold and focused. The Grand Aurora. I know the floor plans. I know exactly how many exits lead to the darkened alleyways of the city.
He continues.
"Doctors, cops, forensic staff... some donors too. Dress up, drink expensive alcohol, pretend we all like each other. The theme is Masquerade night, so take a mask too."
Her expression shifts somewhere between reluctance and curiosity. She’s tempted. Not by him, but by the chance to feel normal for a few hours. To forget the scent of formalin and the weight of the note in her pocket.
Bryan grins, that easy confidence flaring up again.
"You deserve a night off, Mali."
I watch her closely. Every small movement. Every breath. A party. A room full of people. Masks. Music. Noise. Chaos. Perfect cover.
Slowly, a smile spreads across my face, the kind of smile that never reaches the eyes. Bryan thinks he just invited her out for a drink. What he actually did... was inviting me. And I won't be watching through the screen anymore.
The Grand Aurora hotel is exactly the kind of place people with money choose when they want privacy disguised as elegance.
Crystal chandeliers hang low from the ceiling of the private lounge, their golden light softened by velvet drapes pulled across the tall windows.
The room smells faintly of expensive perfume, polished wood, and champagne.
Music hums through hidden speakers. Something slow.
Something that makes people sway without thinking.
Masks were apparently part of the theme. Not extravagant ones. Nothing theatrical. Just enough to blur identities. Half-masks made of velvet, satin, matte lacquer. Enough for comfort. Enough for anonymity. Ideal.
Getting inside was almost insultingly easy.
Hospitals survive on donations. Donors are welcomed with open arms and selective blindness.
It took less than twenty minutes to create a charitable foundation that doesn't technically exist, another ten to attach a generous contribution to the hospital's development program.
People stop asking questions when money is involved.
My name, a fake one, tonight sits printed neatly on the guest list beneath the title private donor. No background checks. No curiosity. Just a handshake at the door and a polite thank you for supporting medical research.
I almost laughed.
I stand near the far end of the room where the light is weakest, one shoulder resting casually against the marble column. The bar is behind me, the dance floor in front of me, and every entrance point within my line of sight. Old habits.
My mask is simple. Matte black leather molded across the upper half of my face. Sharp lines along the cheekbones. No decoration. No shine. It hides my brows, the bridge of my nose, and the most recognizable parts of my features.
From a distance I look like another guest who prefers quiet over conversation. Up close... they would probably feel something is wrong. But no one comes close. Most people instinctively avoid men who stand too still.
I've mapped the room. Doctors. Two detectives I recognize from case reports. Several donors. A few nurses. Cops. Lucy. Bryan. And then… Her.
Madeline.
The moment she steps fully into the light, the entire room seems to lose definition around her. She doesn't belong here. Not in this room full of practiced smiles, expensive alcohol and carefully hidden corruption.
I didn't come here to attend a party. I came here to watch the woman who owns every violent thought in my head.
She looks like something that wandered in from another world by mistake.