Page 4 of Death, Interrupted

And then, he screamed.

Not just any scream, but a full-on, glass-shattering, high-pitched wail that sounded more like a horror movie final girl than a grown man.

“AAAAAHHHHH!”

I instinctively raised my hands like I was about to say, “don’t shoot,” which was dumb because he sure as hell didn’t own a gun, and then I realized I looked stupid, so I dropped my hands, dropped the knife again, and swore. “Fuck.”

Bending down, I scooped it back up and gave him a casual little wave with it, as if that would help. “Hey there, Gary. How’s it going?”

“What the fuck! Who are you and why are you in my apartment?”

“Ah, the usual questions,” I said lightly, preparing to launch into the dramatic speech I’d been crafting for years. “Let me start by saying—”

“What the fuck!” he yelled again, cutting me off.

I narrowed my eyes. He was staring right into mine, and that’s when I realized my visor was still up. Shit! Rookie mistake. I snapped it back down, dimming my view and cutting off the connection. Ah, that’s way better.

“Can I speak now?” I asked. “I had this whole speech prepared.”

“Get the fuck out or I’llcall the cops!”

“No can do.” I tilted my head, lips pursed. “Sit down, Gary.”

“What the fuck!”

I groaned. “Christ, man, is that all you know how to say? Expand the vocabulary a little.” I pointed my knife at the paused TV. “Look, I get that you’re freaked out, but frankly, I’m more disturbed by your kill-to-death ratio.”

“What—”

“Say those three words again and I’ll cut your tongue out,” I snapped, jabbing the knife toward him for emphasis.

That shut him up. His chest heaved, eyes wide, shoulders stiff, but at least he was listening.

“Good,” I said cheerfully. “Now, deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Yeah, like that. Relax, Gary. Sit down.”

“How do you know my name?” he stammered, his legs trembling like jelly, knees threatening to buckle.

I smirked under the helmet. “Let’s just say I know way more than your name.”

“Like what? Who are you?”

Oh, here it was. My big moment. The one I’d rehearsed. The big line.

I smirked wider, reaching for the chin strap of my helmet, my heart pounding with so much excitement it was about to burst in my chest. “Who am I? I’m—ah, fuck.”

The strap was stuck. Of course it was. Of course, this was the moment it chose to fight me. I wrestled with it, muttering curses until it finally gave way, and then, with as much seriousness as I could summon after that debacle, I whipped the helmet off and let it fall. It bounced off my boot and smacked the polished floor with a dull thud, and I groaned again, straightening my shoulders.

“Who am I?” I repeated, voice low and menacing. “I’m your biggest nightmare.”

Garrett stared at me, blinking rapidly, and then his jaw dropped.

“Sylvester Webb?”

Don’t.

Don’t you dare laugh.

My parents loved Rocky. That’s why they named me Sylvester. Therefore, the nickname Sly. They died when I was four, hence why I grew up in foster care, which led to me being bullied endlessly by Garrett and his little gang of assholes, who were also living there. And now here we were. Full circle.