"Thanks," I said simply, because anything more would've been too much for both of us.
Lo nodded, then immediately reverted to his usual self. "Don't get sappy on me." Lo flicked his wrist, nails flashing blood-red under the lights. "I just don't want to break in a new roommate. The last one got all grumpy when he found my collection of extracted teeth."
"That was one time," I reminded him.
"Details." Lo's fingers fluttered through the air like dismissing butterflies. "So, what's the plan for tonight? Brooding on the roof? Stalking your therapist? Creating another murder board?"
"It's a surveillance log," I corrected automatically. "And I need to think."
Lo raised his hands in surrender. "Say no more. I have a date with a finance bro who thinks a Rolex makes up for a lack of personality. He won't be missed." He paused. "I mean that literally. No one will notice he's gone."
"Try not to track blood into the room this time," I said, already heading toward our shared quarters.
"No promises!" Lo called after me.
Back in our temporary quarters, I closed the door, leaning against it as my mind raced through possibilities.
Three days.
Seventy-two hours to discover why Prometheus wanted Vincent dead, why it needed to be messy, and how to prevent it without signing both our death warrants.
I crossed to my bed and reached underneath, pulling out a locked case. I put in the combination and the lock released with a satisfying click.
Inside lay my most prized possession: my surveillance log. Fine, my murder board. Whatever.
I spread it out on the bed, examining the photos, notes, and timelines I'd compiled over three weeks. Vincent watering his plants. Vincent jogging in the park. Vincent reading on his balcony, face softened in evening light.
With a sniper's precision, I'd noted all potential angles on his apartment, calculating trajectories, accounting for wind patterns andstructural obstacles. I'd mapped every approach to his office building, identified all escape routes, and memorized the patterns of every security guard. My murder board contained the kind of detailed ballistic calculations that would make my old shooting instructors proud.
Yet I hadn't taken the shot.
I pulled out the contract penny, the one specifically assigned to the Vincent hit. The ferryman's hooded figure stared back, emotionless, indifferent to my dilemma. One penny, one passage across the river. One soul delivered to the afterlife.
Unlike regular currency, these special copper pennies were the exclusive currency of our world, accepted only by those in the know, opening doors normal money couldn't. Each penny represented a completed contract, proof of service rendered to The Pantheon. They bought supplies, safe passage, information, and, most importantly, respect. In our circles, a man's worth was measured by the pennies he'd earned. With thirty-two to my name, I was practically royalty among assassins. It afforded me the kind of status that bought me three weeks of surveillance instead of immediate sanctions when I failed to complete a job.
Rules were rules. Contracts were binding. This was the world I'd inhabited since I was six years old, the only world I truly understood.
But Vincent? Vincent represented something I'd never encountered before. Not just attraction or fascination, but recognition. In that therapy office, for the first time in my life, someone had truly seen me. Not the carefully constructed Julian Keller persona. Not Luka, the efficient assassin. Me. The broken pieces underneath it all.
And maybe that was exactly what made him dangerous.
I flipped the penny, tracking its copper blur before snatching it from the air and slapping it onto my wrist. The ferryman stared up, metal cold against my pulse point, a silent reminder etched in ancient copper: duty always collects its due.
"Fuck you too," I muttered, pocketing the coinagain.
I woke to fingersdigging into my bicep, yanking me upright. Sleep evaporated instantly as my brain fired into defense mode. Pure instinct took over. I came up swinging, a wild haymaker aimed at the shadowy figure.
"Up and at 'em, hotshot." Hector's gravelly voice sliced through darkness, his calloused hand catching my fist mid-air. "Still sloppy when you first wake up. I taught you better than that."
The sudden jerk sent my blanket sliding to the floor, leaving me gloriously, defiantly naked with impressive morning wood standing at full attention.
Hector recoiled, dropping my arm as if burned. "Jesus Christ, put that thing away. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"What's wrong withme?" I snapped, now fully awake and reaching for boxers. "You're the one who broke into my fucking room while I was sleeping."
"Not breaking in when I have override clearance," he said, flicking on the light without warning.
From across the room, a knife whizzed through the air, embedding itself in the wall inches from Hector's head with a solid thunk.
