"Oh, by the way," I said casually, as if mentioning forgotten milk. "My name isn't Julian. It's Luka."
"Of course it is," he sighed. "Any other fundamental truths you'd like to share? Are you actually from Mars? Is the car we're in stolen? Are you a secret K-pop stan after all?"
"First of all," I gasped, "I hate K-pop. And no, the car isn't stolen. It's mine. Paid in full with blood money."
Vincent flinched at my phrasing but didn't look away. Progress.
"Luka," he repeated, testing my name on his tongue. It sounded different from his lips. Intimate. Real. "Is that your real name? Or just another lie?"
"It's my real name." I swallowed hard, something cracking open inside me. "The only thing about me that's still real."
He studied me silently, those perceptive eyes seeing too much. "I think there's more to you that's real than you realize, Luka."
The way he said my name undid me in ways a bullet never could.
"Rule number one," Isaid, dabbing at a particularly nasty gash on my forehead as we parked in the underground garage. "No psychology bullshit while we're on the run."
Vincent's eyes narrowed, that unexpected backbone I'd glimpsed earlier making a reappearance. "You kidnapped me, Luka. You don't get to make rules."
I grinned despite the sting of the antiseptic wipe he'd found in the glove compartment. The garage lights flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows across his face as he examined my injuries.
"Your psychoanalyzing makes my trigger finger itchy. And my dick hard. Psychoanalyze that."
"Your coping mechanisms are fascinating," he said, deliberately ignoring my request as he rummaged through the first aid kit. "Deflection through humor, sexualization of tense situations, aggression thinly veiled as playfulness. Classic responses to childhood trauma."
I snatched his wrist mid-reach, my fingers easily closing around the bones. "What did I just say about psychology bullshit?"
He didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Instead, his pupils dilated slightly, his pulse quickening under my thumb. "If you're going to invade my life, I'm going to invade yours. Seems fair."
Interesting. Terror had sharpened rather than dulled his edges. I released him, fingers lingering longer than necessary.
"Careful, doc. I'm not one of your patients."
"No," he agreed, voice steady despite the slight tremor in his hands. "My patients don't typically break into my apartment covered in someone else's blood."
"Your patients are missing out." I winked, then hissed as he pressed an alcohol wipe against my split lip without warning.
"Oops," he said innocently. "Did that sting?"
I laughed, the sound surprising us both. "You've got teeth, Vincent Matthews. Good to know."
Something shifted between us. It wasn't quite trust, but a mutual respect, maybe.
"Where exactly are you taking me?" he asked, closing the first aid kit.
"The Acropolis. It's... neutral ground for people in my profession. No killing allowed. House rules."
"So it's an assassin sanctuary? How charmingly civilized."
"We prefer 'professional dispute-free zone,' but yeah. Sanctuary works."
I led him toward an unmarked door in the parking garage, withdrawing one of my special pennies as we approached. The attendant barely glanced at us until I handed over the copper coin. Her eyes widened slightly, suddenly much more alert. Where Lincoln's profile should have been, the hooded ferrymanstared back.
She pocketed the penny with a nod.
We crossed to a service elevator tucked in the corner of the garage. Vincent stood with arms crossed over the too-large clothes I'd given him, looking simultaneously vulnerable and defiant. The elevator lights cast harsh shadows beneath his cheekbones, highlighting the stubble darkening his jaw.
"When we get inside," I said quietly, "stay close. Don't stare. And if anyone asks, you're my asset."
