Whatever helps you sleep.
Dorian
So are you gonna do the job?
Me
Fine. Give me the details.
Dorian
Good boy.
Reapers took out an X dealer and his friends while they were attempting a confiscation. The bodies are located in a warehouse on the corner of Cavern and Fosterwood street.
Me
I’ll take care of it.
Oh, and Dorian?
Dorian
Yes?
Me
If you call me a “good boy” ever again, I’ll slit your throat.
Dorian
So testy.
Message received. Only “bad boys” from now on.
I snort, shoving my phone into my pocket as I turn and exit the building.Fucking Dorian.
After loading up my Sanctum allotted “disposal” van, I head to the address Dorian sent me, hoping that the job is a small one so I can get back to my favorite hobby—stalking Grace.
My GPS takes me to an abandoned factory warehouse on the outskirts of the city limits, miles away from any signs of life or civilization. The main entrance has been boarded up, and there are no windows to speak of—though, someone has been nice enough to cut a human-sized hole through the wall at the back of the building.
Lovely.
Being careful not to snag my clothing on the jagged metal, I climb through the opening into the darkened warehouse. The smell of cat piss and decay settles around me in a thick cloud, burning my throat every time I take a breath and turning my stomach. The only positive thing is it's too dark in here to see the bodies, but soon, I won’t be able to escape even that.
“Fucking fantastic,” I grumble, reaching through the hole to grab my kit. “Ilovemy job. It’s just the best.”
“Talking to yourself now, are you? That’s encouraging to see.”
“Tits on a stick!” I whip around, dropping my kit to the ground in my haste. As soon as it hits the concrete, the latch pops open, and dozens of different tools and hardware go clattering into the dark. “Fuck, Viktor! Look what you’ve done!”
There’s a click, and a few overhead lights sputter to life, illuminating Viktor’s bulky form standing in the center of the room, his arms crossed and jaw ticking. His eyes move to the floor, briefly taking in my scattered tools before settling on my face.
“It’s not my fault you’ve gotten lazy and clumsy.”
“Lazyandclumsy?”
“And oblivious.”
