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"Rule number one," I said, dabbing at a particularly nasty gash on my forehead as we parked in the underground garage. "No psychology bullshit while we're on the run."

Vincent's eyes narrowed, that unexpected backbone I'd glimpsed earlier making a reappearance. "You kidnapped me, Luka. You don't get to make rules."

I grinned despite the sting of the antiseptic wipe he'd found in the glove compartment. The garage lights flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows across his face as he examined my injuries.

"Your psychoanalyzing makes my trigger finger itchy. And my dick hard. Psychoanalyze that."

"Your coping mechanisms are fascinating," he said, deliberately ignoring my request as he rummaged through the first aid kit. "Deflection through humor, sexualization of tense situations, aggression thinly veiled as playfulness. Classic responses to childhood trauma. "

I snatched his wrist mid-reach, my fingers easily closing around the bones. "What did I just say about psychology bullshit?"

He didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Instead, his pupils dilated slightly, his pulse quickening under my thumb. "If you're going to invade my life, I'm going to invade yours. Seems fair."

Interesting. Terror had sharpened rather than dulled his edges. I released him, fingers lingering longer than necessary.

"Careful, doc. I'm not one of your patients."

"No," he agreed, voice steady despite the slight tremor in his hands. "My patients don't typically break into my apartment covered in someone else's blood."

"Your patients are missing out." I winked, then hissed as he pressed an alcohol wipe against my split lip without warning.

"Oops," he said innocently. "Did that sting?"

I laughed, the sound surprising us both. "You've got teeth, Vincent Matthews. Good to know."

Something shifted between us. It wasn't quite trust, but a mutual respect, maybe.

"Where exactly are you taking me?" he asked, closing the first aid kit.

"The Acropolis. It's... neutral ground for people in my profession. No killing allowed. House rules."

"So it's an assassin sanctuary? How charmingly civilized."

"We prefer 'professional dispute-free zone,' but yeah. Sanctuary works."

I led him toward an unmarked door in the parking garage, withdrawing one of my special pennies as we approached.

The attendant barely glanced at us until I handed over the copper coin.

Her eyes widened slightly, suddenly much more alert.

Where Lincoln's profile should have been, the hooded ferryman stared back.

She pocketed the penny with a nod.

We crossed to a service elevator tucked in the corner of the garage. Vincent stood with arms crossed over the too-large clothes I'd given him, looking simultaneously vulnerable and defiant. The elevator lights cast harsh shadows beneath his cheekbones, highlighting the stubble darkening his jaw.

"When we get inside," I said quietly, "stay close. Don't stare. And if anyone asks, you're my asset."

"Asset?" His eyebrow arched. "Like property?"

"Like under my protection. One of the few statuses that grants a civilian entry."

The elevator jolted to a stop, doors sliding open to reveal what even I had to admit was an impressive sight.

"Holy shit," Vincent breathed, momentarily forgetting his composure.

The Acropolis sprawled before us, a hidden underground city bathed in artificial Mediterranean light.

Soaring columns supported vaulted ceilings painted with mythological scenes.

Marble pathways wound between azure water channels.

Market stalls reminiscent of ancient Greek agoras lined walkways where assassins, fixers, and information brokers lounged and shopped and ate.

Somewhere distant, metal rang against metal in rhythmic percussion, blending with the gentle burble of water and the low murmur of dozens of hushed conversations. Despite being underground, the temperature remained perfectly cool without being cold.

"Welcome to my world," I said, unable to suppress a smirk at his gobsmacked expression .

Vincent recovered quickly. "Fascinating. A parallel society with its own economy, architecture, presumably governance... hidden directly beneath the everyday world."

I guided him forward, my hand instinctively settling at the small of his back. He tensed, but didn't pull away.

"More importantly, it's the one place we can't be touched. The rules here predate America itself. No contracts fulfilled on Acropolis grounds."

"Rules enforced by whom?" Vincent asked.

"By the Judges," I said. "Break sanctuary, and you're fair game for anyone with a weapon. Even I still have protected status here, despite everything."

Vincent nodded slowly, processing. "So there's a hierarchy. A system of justice even among assassins."

"We're not animals, doc," I said with a half-smile. "Just very specialized professionals. Even Prometheus has to follow the rules."

"Prometheus," Vincent repeated, the name clearly filing itself away in his mental database. "Your boss?"

"My creator," I corrected, not really meaning to reveal so much. Something about Vincent loosened my tongue in dangerous ways. "Director of North American operations."

His steps faltered. "Why would someone want a therapist dead? What could I possibly know that's worth killing for?"

"Good fucking question. One we need to answer if we want to stay alive."

I steered him toward the central registry, where Charon, the Acropolis' concierge, stood sentinel behind an onyx desk. Tall, elegant, with close-cropped silver hair and skin the color of aged mahogany, Charon wore his perfectly tailored suit like armor .

"Mr. Aleksandar," he greeted me, voice a cultured baritone. "It has been some time."

"Charon," I replied with a nod. "I need accommodations. For two."

His obsidian eyes flicked to Vincent, assessing and dismissing in a single glance. "This is not a hotel for civilians, as you well know."

"He's my asset," I said firmly.

Charon's eyebrow rose fractionally. That was the equivalent of shocked disbelief from anyone else. "And does he understand what that entails?"

"I'm working on the orientation pamphlet," I replied dryly. "In the meantime, we need somewhere secure."

"You should know that your status has been... updated in our system as of forty-three minutes ago."

My stomach twisted into a frigid knot. "How updated?"

"Priority red," Charon replied, watching me carefully. "Along with your... asset."

Fuck. Priority red meant Prometheus had already discovered Hector's body and connected the dots. This wasn't just a standard contract violation; this was personal.

"I see," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Then it's fortunate we're here, isn't it? Given the rules of sanctuary."

"Indeed," Charon agreed. "Although I should remind you that sanctuary has its limitations. You are safe within these walls, but only within these walls."

Translation: we were trapped. The moment we set foot outside The Acropolis, we'd have a target on our backs that would make JFK's final drive through Dallas look like a relaxing sightseeing tour.

"We understand the constraints," I said, though Vincent clearly didn't. "Accommodations? "

Charon tapped something into a tablet, then removed a small copper key from a drawer. "Suite forty-two, East Wing," he said, sliding the key across. "Your biometrics have been updated in the system. Your... asset will need to be registered before accessing secured areas."

"We'll take care of it," I promised, pocketing the key.

"Luka." Charon's voice stopped me. His eyes darted to the security cameras before he leaned slightly forward. "Rhadamanthys has reserved his suite starting tomorrow afternoon."

My blood ran cold at the Judge's name. For Charon to actually volunteer that information meant the situation was far worse than I'd thought. "Understood. Thank you."

I nudged Vincent away from the desk, guiding him toward one of the smaller bridges leading to the East Wing. He stayed silent until we were halfway across, water flowing gently beneath us.

"What was that about? Priority red?"

"It means we're thoroughly fucked. The highest level of contract has been placed on both of us. Every professional in the northern hemisphere will be looking for us with shoot-to-kill authorization."

Vincent stopped walking, face paling. "Both of us? Why you?"

"Because I killed Hector instead of you," I explained with a shrug, like it was nothing more serious than a parking ticket. "And because Prometheus doesn't tolerate failure. Especially not from me."

"Why especially you?" Vincent asked, eyes narrowing. "What makes you different?"

The question hit something raw and tender inside me, a wound I hadn't realized was still bleeding.

Images flashed. A bombed-out building in Bosnia, a little boy with a homemade knife, Prometheus pressing a special penny into my palm.

Milan, when I was eighteen. Champagne I couldn't remember drinking. Hotel sheets against bare skin .

I swallowed hard, shoving those particular memories back into their box.

"I was his prize specimen," I said flatly.

"His perfect little experiment in creating the ideal assassin.

Twenty-six years of conditioning, training, and psychological manipulation, all undone because I couldn't put a bullet in your brain. "

Vincent studied me. "What did he do to you, Luka?"

My stomach churned. "Nothing worth talking about. What matters is what he'll do to us both if we step outside these walls."

We reached our suite, located up a wrought iron staircase that clung to brick walls like industrial ivy. I unlocked the door, revealing a surprisingly spacious apartment finished in classic Cycladic style with curved white walls, azure accents, and terracotta floors.

"Home sweet home," I announced, tossing the key onto a stone side table. "At least until we figure out how to get out of this mess without getting our heads blown off."