I should clarify—Conner’s not my real brother. But when you grow up lost in the same foreign country, raised in the same underground gym, beaten into shape by the same heavyweight champion with fists like cinder blocks and a temper like fire… blood’s just a technicality.
We took punches side by side before we could shave. We watched each other break ribs and bleed on mats and still showed up the next day like we owed someone our pain. So yeah. He’s my brother.
And right now, my brother’s doing his best not to vomit on his shoes while I stand over a man whose teeth I pulled out one by one.
Family bonding at its finest.
“That,” I mutter, wiping my hands on the front of my shirt, “is the difference between you and me. I live for all the carnage. Isn’t that right, Tyler?”
The man on the floor spasms violently, his spine bowing off the concrete like a wire’s been pulled tight beneath him. Every muscle locks, his hands clawing at nothing, mouth frozen open in a soundless scream.
I watch, jaw tight, and I know. He’s seconds from dying.
Fucking punk.I squat down beside him, gripping his chin one last time, prying it open to look at the mess I didn’t finish. Three front teeth left. Intact.
“Four hours,” I mutter, voice flat. “That’s all you could take?”
His jaw sags in my hand, as his lips quiver from the shaky gasps of fleeting breath.
“Your victims took more from you for longer,” I snort, tossing his head back onto the floor. “You’re fucking pathetic.”
His body starts to rattle, legs kicking weakly, and blood bubbles from between his lips like he’s trying to drown in it. His eyes roll back, whites flickering. Chest jerks once. Then twice.
And just like that, I’ve lost him.
I slam it shut with a little more force than necessary, rising to my feet with a disgusted exhale.
“Waste of a file,” I spit, turning back toward Conner. “Could’ve at least diedafterI finished.”
“You know most of these criminals can’t withstand much, Lan,” Conner says quietly, pulling out his phone to log the time ofdeath, and the method of killing. “But it doesn’t mean you’re not still a fucking psychopath.”
I grab and toss a towel over my shoulder. “Takes one to hire one.”
Conner doesn’t respond. Doesn’t have to. We’ve both made peace with what we are. The body lets out a final, gurgling rattle. I glance down. Eyes glazed. Chest still.
Conner walks into my line of sight, latex gloves snap tight around his wrists with that crisp, sterile sound that always seems louder in a room this silent. He lays out the tools like a surgeon—bleach spray, enzyme foam, absorbent granules, sterile cloths, a portable UV scanner to double-check his work. Everything’s arranged in neat little rows on a tarp he unrolls with military precision.
He starts with the largest puddle—Tyler’s final offering. Conner sprays the bio-foam first, watching it hiss and bubble as it eats through the blood pooled along the concrete seams. The stench rises again—iron, piss, and now meat—and he turns his face just slightly, jaw clenching.
“Whole room reeks like a slaughterhouse,” he mutters, reaching for a heavy-duty cloth.
He wipes in tight, circular motions, using pressure and patience instead of speed. Unlike me, he doesn’t rush. Every stroke is methodical, turning deep red to murky pink, to dull grey, until only the memory of blood remains.
He sprinkles the granules over a smear near the filing cabinet and kneels down to scrub it out with a small, stiff brush. “Arterial spray on vertical surfaces…” he mutters like he’s back in a lecture hall. “Always the worst.”
“Still talking to yourself while you work?” I ask, watching him from the edge of the table.
“Better than talking to corpses like you do,” he mutters, brushing up a dark crust that had started to congeal along the baseboards. “Besides, if I leave one trace, one stray drop of blood behind, this whole place becomes a crime scene. You’d be surprised how much DNA stays in porous concrete.”
I shrug. “Not my concern.”
“Exactly,” Conner says, rising to his feet and swapping out cloths. “And that’s why I’m the one in gloves while you’re over there smelling like a butcher’s apron.”
He kneels beside the body, now still and slack-jawed, and carefully slips a plastic sheet beneath it. The motion is practiced, clinical—he doesn’t even flinch when blood drips onto his boot.
“Andthat,” he mutters, checking his UV wand for missed streaks, “is why we don’t torture people next to air vents.”
I snort, my eyes landing on the manila folder next to his disregarded leather jacket. My eyes light up, and fingers twitch with the need as I imagine the soon to be target. “This looks promising, Con.”
