Jax shoved the disorientation aside. There was no time to get used to the voice in his head. He melted out of the deeper shadows of the alley, his movements fluid, economical. The years behind a stove hadn't completely erased the muscle memory of a lifetime spent in the dark. He moved across the cracked pavement with a predator's silence, his soft-soled boots making no sound.
He reached the rusted fire escape, its iron frame weeping orange stains down the brickwork. It groaned in protest as his weight settled onto the first rung.
Careful, Kazimir's voice echoed in his mind, sharp and focused. The third rung is loose. Shift your weight to your arms.
Jax adjusted instantly, his hands finding firm holds on the cold iron rails, his body moving with a coiled, powerful grace. He flowed upward, a shadow ascending the grimy spine of the building. His past life came back to him in tactile bursts—the rough texture of old brick under his fingertips, the specific balance needed to move silently on rickety structures, the way the city's ambient noise could swallow the sound of a carefully placed footstep.
He reached the fourth-floor landing, just as Kaz had described. The bolts holding the railing to the wall were loose, caked in rust but not seized. He pulled a small multi-tool from his pocket, the same one he used for minor kitchen repairs, and went to work.
The guard is on the second floor, listening to some true-crime drivel. The irony is delicious. You have three and a half minutes before he circles back to the ground-floor security station.
The bolts gave way with a low, metallic groan that sounded like a gunshot in the relative quiet. Jax froze, his heart hammering against his ribs, but no shouts followed. He carefully lifted the section of railing, slipped through the gap, and replaced it. He was in. He jimmied the window lock with two small picks, the tumblers giving way with a series of satisfyingly soft clicks. The window slid open with a faint hiss.
He slipped into a dark, deserted hallway. The air inside was stale, smelling of dust and old paper. The only light came from the grimy windows overlooking the street.
Straight ahead, thirty feet, Kazimir directed. You'll see the stairwell. Croft's office is one floor up, end of the hall on the right. And remember what I said about the floorboards.
Jax moved down the corridor, his senses on high alert. He was a ghost in this forgotten space, every nerve ending tingling. He reached the stairwell and took the steps two at a time, his boots barely whispering against the worn concrete. On the fifth floor, the Sin-Scent was a palpable force, a suffocating pressure in the air. The rust-colored aura he'd seen from the street now seemed to bleed from under Croft's office door, staining the faded carpet with its ethereal filth. He could almost taste the corruption, a flavor like spoiled meat and old coins.
He heard it then—a faint, rhythmic, paper-on-paper sound. Thump-thump-thump. The sound of bills being counted. Croft was in there.
Honestly, the security in this place is insulting, Kazimir commented, his mental voice dripping with disdain. I've seen more formidable locks on a teenager's diary. The man practically wants to be robbed.
Jax ignored the commentary. He crept the final few feet, remembering Kaz's warning. He could see the slight warp in the floorboards just before the door. He took a slightly wider stance, placing his weight carefully on the joists beneath, and arrived at the door without making a sound. He leaned in, peering through the old-fashioned keyhole.
Inside, the office was opulent in a tasteless, gaudy way. Mahogany desk, leather chair, walls cluttered with expensive but soulless art. And at the center of it all sat Silas Croft. He was a portly man in his late fifties, his bald head gleaming with sweat under the light of a desk lamp. His suit jacket was thrown over the back of his chair, his tie loosened. He was completely absorbed in his task, his thick fingers expertly flicking through stacks of hundred-dollar bills, his lips moving in a silent count.
Jax took a slow, deep breath, centering himself. This was the moment. He reached out, his hand hovering over the doorknob.
Ready, Chef? It's time to serve the main course.
Jax didn't need the prompt. He focused, not on the violence he was capable of, but on the information Kazimir had fed him. He pictured the little girl with asthma. He imagined the faces of the families Croft had terrorized, their fear and desperation. He let his own cold, righteous anger well up inside him, not as a raging fire, but as a core of absolute zero. He was no longer Jax Romano, the ex-enforcer or the failed chef. He was the bill, come due.
He turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Croft's head snapped up, his eyes widening in alarm. He saw Jax, a dark figure stepping out of the hallway's shadows, and his mouth opened to shout. But the sound caught in his throat.
As the Touch of Fear took hold, Croft's world began to unravel at the seams. He wasn't just looking at an intruder. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to lengthen, to writhe with accusatory shapes. The faint hum of the building's ventilation suddenly sounded like the strained, wheezing breath of a small child. The expensive seascape painting on the wall behind Jax seemed to ripple, the calm ocean turning into a churning, black abyss.
Jax's silhouette wavered, and for a terrifying second, Croft saw the furious, ghostly face of Mr. Martinez from 3B superimposed over the intruder's. He smelled gas, thick and cloying, and the stacks of money on his desk suddenly looked like neat little stacks of gravestones.
"Who—who are you?" Croft stammered, his face draining of all color. He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping loudly on the hardwood floor. "Who sent you? Was it the Martinezes? I'll pay you double! Triple!"
Jax said nothing. He took one slow, deliberate step into the room. Then another. He was an advancing, silent judgment.
He's getting desperate, Kazimir noted calmly in Jax's mind. He's thinking about the desk drawer. The gun.
Croft's eyes darted to the top-right drawer. His hand, slick with sweat, scrambled for the handle. But his mind, now a screaming vortex of terror and guilt, was betraying his body. His movements were clumsy, panicked. He fumbled with the smooth brass handle, his fingers refusing to grip.
He let out a choked sob of frustration and swiped a heavy crystal paperweight off the desk, as if to hurl it, but his arm snagged on his desk lamp. The lamp crashed to the floor. The distraction was all it took. He gave the drawer one last, desperate yank. He pulled too hard. The drawer came completely off its runners, spilling its contents—pens, paperclips, and the heavy, black .38 revolver—onto the floor.
Croft let out a strangled cry and pitched sideways out of his chair, scrambling for the weapon. His terror made him reckless. He tripped over his own feet, his body lurching forward with uncontrolled momentum. His head connected with the sharp, unforgiving corner of the mahogany desk.
The sound was sickening. A wet, hollow crack that echoed in the sudden, dead silence of the room.
Silas Croft collapsed to the floor in a heap and did not move.
Jax stood over the body, his breath coming in ragged bursts, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He hadn't laid a single finger on him.
A moment of profound silence stretched on. Then, Kazimir's voice, smooth and laced with deep satisfaction, echoed in his mind.
See? Elegant. A consequence of his own making.
As Jax watched, a shimmering, foul mote of rust-colored light began to rise from the center of Croft's chest. It was the color of his aura, condensed into a single, ugly point of malevolent energy.
Well done, Chef. That's your payment. Now, collect it. Absorb it.