The Skull-Taker.
The Ghost with the Green Eyes.
Stories spread. Body counts rise.
And I don't give a damn.
Let them fear me.
Fear keeps idiots from getting close.
Fear keeps me from doing something even dumber than what I’ve already done.
I sit in another dingy bar, back to the wall, nursing a drink that tastes like paint thinner and regret.
A job broker approaches—young, cocky, reeking of ambition.
He slides into the booth without asking.
Bad move.
“What do you want?” I growl.
He flinches, but masks it quick.
“I got work,” he says. “High profile. Big money.”
I glare at him over the rim of the glass.
“Not interested.”
“You didn’t even hear it yet.”
I set the glass down slow.
“Didn’t have to.”
He hesitates, then leans in like we’re old friends. Like we share something.
“Word is, you’re not picky anymore,” he says, voice low. “Word is, you’ll take anything.”
I stare at him, letting the silence stretch until it’s suffocating.
Then I smile.
It’s not a nice smile.
It’s a promise.
He swallows hard and scrambles out of the booth, muttering an apology.
Smart boy.
I finish my drink, toss a few dirty credits on the table, and walk out into the sickly green twilight.
The streets pulse with neon and rot.
I breathe it in like punishment.
