Page 5

4

Viktor

The pulsing bassline of the music hits me the moment I step inside DanceCheck. The dim lights cast shadows that flicker across the room, revealing glimpses of dancers twirling on polished poles and patrons leaning back with drinks in hand. The air is thick with the scent of perfume and alcohol, an intoxicating blend that clings to the fabric of this place.

I scan the room, my eyes adjusting to the smoky haze that lingers in the air. My presence is inconspicuous; a tailored suit and confident stride don’t draw attention in a place like this. But I’m here for a reason, and my focus sharpens as I move deeper into the club. My eyes roam the place, searching for my target, but land on her instead.

A glint of golden hair catches my attention, and my gaze zeroes in. She’s moving towards the podium like she owns the stage, and she is exquisitely beautiful. The contrast of her sun-kissed hair against the dark backdrop of the club is magnetic, drawing eyes like moths to a flame.

She takes the stage, and the crowd erupts in cheers. My gaze shifts to her, drawn against my will. Watching her now, my emotions war within me. She’s radiant, commanding the room with every calculated move, but it tears at something primal inside me. This life, this stage, isn’t meant for her. Yet who am I to dictate how she lives it? The realization burns like acid.

I settle into a corner booth, but my body tenses as Electra—takes her place on the dancing podium. The spotlight catches her curves, highlighting every inch of her. Her movements are fluid and hypnotic, and I can see her effect on the room. Men lean forward, captivated, their eyes following her every move. My jaw tightens as a sharp pang of something unbidden twists inside me. Anger? Jealousy? I’m not sure which is worse.

Her body arcs gracefully around the pole, her blonde hair cascading like silk as she spins and sways. The crowd is loud, a chorus of whistles and cheers, but my gaze never leaves her. She doesn’t notice me, but her every move seems to call to me, drawing me in like a moth to a flame.

I sip my whiskey, the burn doing little to steady me. My fingers twitch against the glass, the memory crashing into me like a wave—last week, the parking lot. Her body pressed against mine in the backseat of my car, the way her skin felt like fire against my hands, the way her soft gasps turned into a moan that still haunts me. My heart pounds as I remember how her eyes had met mine, wide and vulnerable, yet filled with a kind of determination that sent my pulse racing.

My hands itch to feel her again, to recreate the way she melted beneath my touch, the way she trembled as she surrendered something so intimate to me. The thought of how her nails scraped against my skin, the way her warm and juicy slit enveloped me—it’s maddening. My chest tightens, and I’m breathing harder now, the memory of her moans, her whispered pleas, consuming me.

She’d given me her first time, and I’m not sure I deserve the weight of it. But the way she made me feel—like the world had stopped turning like nothing else mattered but her—is burned into my mind. Even now, I can feel the echo of her touch, her lips against mine, her body arching under my hands.

Scarlett’s dance grows bolder, her body twisting in ways that make the men around me salivate. I can’t take it. The way they’re looking at her, the way she captivates them so effortlessly, fuels a fire I can’t control. Every sway of her hips, every graceful arc of her body, is mine to remember, not theirs to witness.

I shove the glass aside, rising to my feet and slipping into the shadows. The noise of the club fades as I retreat into the cool hallway. Leaning against the wall, I run a hand through my hair and exhale sharply. She’s dangerous—not because of what she does, but because of what she’s doing to me. And I can’t decide which scares me more: the thought of staying or the thought of leaving her here. Leaving her to the ravenous eyes of all these wolves.

The Next Night

I meld into the shadows outside the DanceCheck club, my presence unnoticed. Thanks to the club security hoodie I have on. It had taken me days to craft the badge on the left sleeve and it would be impossible to tell that it is fake. I move to a side door that I noticed days back. With a flick of my pin the door yields to me—a child's plaything masquerading as security. Inside, the thumping bass assaults my ears, but I'm a silent specter weaving through gyrating bodies drenched in strobe lights.

"Pathetic," I murmur under my breath, eyes scanning for the blind spots I've already memorized. Cameras blink their red eyes at the crowd, but they're blind to corners carved out by design. I know every inch of this place as a result of meticulous planning and an insatiable hunger for detail.

The air reeks of heavy perfume and sweat, a cocktail that makes my lip curl in disgust. But I push forward, invisible to the intoxicated fun seekers. They're sheep adorned in glitter and sequins; I'm the wolf cloaked in tailored darkness.

Damn fucking amateurs

I think as I bypass what they dare call security measures—a laughable attempt to filter the undesirable. A sidestep here, a pause there, and I'm through, unseen, unchallenged. It's almost insulting, the ease with which I operate within their midst.

My breath is inaudible, my feet, ghosts themselves as I glide into the locker room. The stench of sweat and cologne that clings to the room is now background noise; my focus narrows to one task alone.

"Electra," her name is not much more than a murmur on my lips as I find her locker. I know she dances under this alias, and I can easily find out her real name, but what’s the need?

I slip the envelope I have under my hoodie between sequins and leather costumes. No note, no clue, just the words that speak louder than any words I could offer. This is how I help, from the shadows, because anonymous is the identity for men like me.

Satisfied with myself, I slip out before anyone sees me, the door closing with a whisper of finality.

The night air hits me like a splash of cold water as I emerge into the VIP parking lot. My eyes scan the space—it's all high-end metals and tinted windows. Here, wealth whispers its sort of silence.

I find a dark corner to inhabit and wait. Patience is a weapon in itself—one I wield with precision. Marcus doesn't know it yet, but his time is a sand grain away from slipping through the hourglass.

My mind wanders to Thiago, the cartel leader who had ordered his own nephew’s execution. Well, his nephew by marriage. In the past year, Thiago has managed to escape government exposure twice. Thanks to his network of informants. But after the second attempt, he was sure that there was a ‘snake’ within his inner circle.

True to his word, weeks of meticulous investigation had shown that Marcus was selling his own auntie’s husband to the FBI.

Out of love for his wife, Thiago had kept his findings from her, and instead, he asked me to take care of him and make it look like an accident.

I don't fidget. I don't check my watch. Time is irrelevant; only the mission matters. My senses sharpen, attuned to every footstep, every drunken laugh that spills into the night from the club's entrance. The air hangs heavy with anticipation, but not a single rush of adrenaline. I’ve mastered this act so much that it has become second nature to me.

In the distance, a door slams shut. Footsteps approach—a rhythm I recognize. Marcus. Time seems to crawl, each second elongating into an eternity as I melt into the shadows beside Marcus's sleek sedan.

He stumbles slightly, his laughter cutting through the night like a knife. It's obnoxious, grating against my nerves, but I remain still, invisible—a predator awaiting the perfect moment to strike. He doesn't see me. He sees nothing beyond the haze of alcohol and the allure of his plush leather seats.

Come on.

I wish my target to hasten his steps as I feel the pressure of what's about to happen press against my chest. It's not excitement; it's a necessity. The world's balance requires these moments, these decisions.

And as a hitman tonight, I must maintain stability in my world.

Marcus arrives, his gait reeking of overconfidence. He always had more bravado than brains. I crouch low beside his car, my eyes narrowing to slits. My hand rests on the cold metal of the .9mm tucked in my waistband—a viper coiled and ready to strike.

I've studied his patterns for weeks—memorized them like the prayers of my youth. Marcus never checks his six and never walks around his car before opening it. That's how I know this will be easy. It's all about timing now, waiting for when the car's beeping sound signifies I can slip in.

Finally, I hear the beep and slightly open the back passenger door I’ve been crouching behind. I slide into Marcus's sleek sedan with the silence of a ghost. The scent of leather and cologne fills my nostrils as I slide into the back seat unnoticed.

He slumps into the driver's seat, half-dazed, and I feel even more justified to take him out. He is a disaster waiting to happen to other road users.

Taking a deep breath and summoning my strength, I shove three pills of pink cocaine into his mouth. In one fluid motion, my hand clamps over his nose and mouth. His eyes widen, a silent scream trapped behind my fingers, but it's too late. The drug, which does not mix well with alcohol, seeps into his system, rendering him unconscious.

"Off you go," I whisper, not out of compassion but out of professional courtesy. He crumples, his tall proud frame that was once arrogant now limp and slumped in his seat. His head lolls back, surrendering to the darkness that’s sweeping him away.

Marcus's head flops to one side, his heartbeat slowing under the grip of the drug. With gloved hands, I adjust his posture, tilting him back against the plush seat with a practiced hand. His chest rises and falls, shallow breaths that will soon cease. My movements are methodical, absent of haste or hesitation.

"Sorry, Marcus," I murmur, though he can no longer hear me. It's not an apology but a recognition of the game—we both knew the rules when we played. He never should have ratted his uncle out to the FBI.

I retrieve the syringe from my coat pocket, the needle glinting subtly in the dim light of the car. The measured plunger pulls back, drawing in just enough meth to stop a heart—no more, no less. Precision is a form of art, and I am Michelangelo with toxins.

"Good riddance," I say, a soft send-off into permanent slumber.

My hand steadies as I arrange the scene, every detail curated like a director framing his last shot. The syringe rests in his left hand, and a crumbled piece of paper containing residues of crack is beside him. A half-empty bottle tossed carelessly on the passenger seat—a narrative of loneliness and addiction crafted to perfection. I’m confident his death will be declared as self-overdose.

My work here is done.

I glide out of the car, ghost-like and unruffled, leaving behind the stillness that now envelops Marcus. The night air brushes against my skin as I walk away. I never look back; there's no need. My mind is already on my next job.

The parking lot is dark, save for the sporadic glow of streetlamps casting long shadows on the asphalt. My strides are measured, and purposeful, a silent drumbeat to the rhythm of my success. I slide behind the wheel of my car, the leather cool and familiar beneath my fingertips. The engine purrs to life, a soft growl that syncs with the steady beat of my heart. No rush, no hesitation—just the fluid motion of a plan executed with precision.

Driving through the quiet streets, the city's pulse feels like a distant echo. There’s a satisfaction that comes with knowing you've altered the course of things, unseen, unheard.

The neon sign of a 24-hour café cuts through the darkness, and the need for strong caffeine wins. The bell above the door announces my entrance, a jarring note in the otherwise muted atmosphere. I choose a booth near the window, a vantage point with a clear view of DanceCheck's pulsing lights in the distance.

"Coffee, strong and black," I tell the waiter, my voice low but firm. He nods, his movements automatic, and retreats to fulfill the simple request. I settle into the vinyl seat, the material sticking slightly to my skin. The cup arrives, steam rising in lazy swirls, the scent rich and earthy.

I wrap my hands around the warmth, a small comfort against the chill of the night. Outside, the world continues unabated, oblivious to the loss of one more person. But I know. And as I sit here, sipping slowly, there's an undercurrent of anticipation for what comes next. With Marcus out of the way, Thiago’s truckload of guns can come in without anyone tipping off the government.

The steady rhythm of sirens cuts through the hum of the early morning, and I watch red and blue lights splash against the club's facade. Police cars slide into view with a precision that speaks of urgency but lacks grace—a dance of function over form. They cordon off the scene with brisk efficiency, their movements a stark contrast to the chaos they've stepped into.

"Marcus won't be needing that VIP spot anymore," I muse under my breath, an invisible smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth.

I lean back, the vinyl squeaking softly beneath me. My heart beats steady, untroubled by the scene unfolding not too far from here. The coffee's bitterness lingers on my tongue, a fitting backdrop to the taste of victory—subtle, almost sweet in its complexity.

"Another?" The waiter's voice breaks through my reverie, his pen poised over the notepad.

"Check, please," I respond without looking up, my gaze still fixed on the scene.

He nods, dropping the bill onto the table and disappearing into the cafe's dim interior. I place a few crisp bills on the tray, enough to cover the coffee and then some. A generous tip for a night well spent.

Rising, I slide out of the booth, my movements honed by years of necessity—smooth, sure, a ghost passing through the world of men. The bell chimes once more as I depart, a soft farewell that barely registers above the murmur of conversations and clinking cutlery.

Outside, the air is cool, a gentle caress against my skin as I meld into the night. The police continue their dutiful charade, unaware of the puppet master in their midst. But their questions will lead them astray, chasing phantoms while the true architect of their play remains shrouded in shadow.

I walk away, the weight of the evening's work a comfortable presence in my mind. The city stretches before me, filled with secrets and stories yet to be told. And somewhere in this tangled web, my mind goes to Electra and I hope she will be alright.