"Complications like what? He's a civilian therapist with no security detail and a predictable routine. The complication appears to be you, mijo."
I bristled at the endearment. "Don't call me that. I'm not your son."
"No," Hector agreed, something almost like regret flickering across his features. "But you are my creation, which is why this behavior is so disappointing."
"Fuck your disappointment," I snapped. "You don't know anythingabout—"
"Light's on," Hector interrupted, attention snapping to his scope. "Target's up."
My heart performed its own combat drill against my ribcage as I swung my scope toward Vincent's apartment. Bathroom light first. Three minutes, then the kitchen. Both comforting and terrifying how well I knew his rhythm.
As soft kitchen lights illuminated pre-dawn darkness, my mouth dried to desert sand. From this angle, I could see him moving, still in pajama bottoms, chest bare as he filled his kettle. The sight of him alive, breathing, and beautifully unaware sent nausea clawing up my throat.
This morning ritual had become as familiar to me as my own. Wednesday meant chamomile tea, not coffee. He'd add a squeeze of honey, the expensive Manuka kind, and take exactly three sips before starting his plant inspection. Today he'd water the spider plant and trim the pothos. Tomorrow would be orchid day. His routines had become my religion.
I'd been studying him for weeks, memorizing every detail for a kill that never came. Now those same details would serve a different purpose: keeping him alive. I knew his schedule, his habits, the rhythm of his days. I knew which window didn't lock properly, which floorboard creaked outside his bedroom, which neighbor might notice a stranger. Knowledge meant for death was now repurposed for survival.
My hands trembled slightly, something that had never happened on a job. Cold sweat trickled down my spine. The thought of Vincent's life ending, of those gentle hands never touching another plant, of those perceptive eyes never seeing another patient... it hollowed me out from sternum to spine.
Here he was, getting ready for another day of helping people, and here I was, watching through crosshairs with a man who wanted him dead.
The wrongness raked claws down my throat, leaving it raw and bleeding. This wasn't just another contract. This was Vincent. The man who'd seen more of the real me in one hour than anyone had in decades.
"Perfect timing," Hector murmured, adjusting position. "Clean shot through the kitchen window. Take it."
"Too exposed," I argued, mind racing. "Better to wait until he moves to the living room. Less chance of being seen from the street."
Vincent moved to his plants, bending to examine a drooping fern leaf. His morning ritual began,
"He's perfectly positioned," Hector insisted. "Take the shot, Luka."
"We wait," I repeated firmly. "I'm the lead on this contract."
"Not anymore. Prometheus reassigned primary authority to me when you failed to execute for three weeks. I'm being courteous letting you pull the trigger at all."
I kept my scope on Vincent, watching him mist his plants, completely unaware two killers debated his immediate future from across the street.
"If we do this, we do it my way," I said, desperately playing for time. "Clean. Professional. No collateral damage."
Through my scope, I watched Vincent smile that gentle smile that crinkled his eyes. The one I'd seen up close yesterday.
"Look at you, getting hard for some fucking therapist," Hector spat, disgust dripping from every word. "All these years and you're still that pathetic little boy crying for your dead family. Can't even pull a trigger anymore. Get out of my way before I put you down too."
"No," I said, not moving. "You're not authorized to execute my contract."
My jaw locked, teeth grinding. This wasn't just about orders or protocol. For the first time in my career, I didn't want a contract fulfilled. I wanted Vincent to live. I wanted him to continue talking to his plants, running in the park, helping broken people piece themselves back together. I wanted him to exist in a world I inhabited, even if just from a distance.
My heart hammered so violently my molars vibrated, blood roaring in my ears like distant artillery. Everything narrowed—vision, breathing, options.
"Actually, I am." I heard rather than saw Hector shift his weapon. "As of 0200 this morning, the contract was officially transferred to my supervision. Your role has been reduced to observer status."
He was going to take my contract. Kill Vincent. Take away the one person who'd truly seen me.
Vincent moved in the kitchen, reaching for a mug from a high shelf.
"You couldn't save your sister," Hector said, voice flat. "You won't save him either. Some people are meant to die, Luka."
The mention of Ana flipped a switch.
