It was Friday night and Grayson moved like he belonged behind the bar. The sleeves of his black shirt were rolled to the elbows, exposing the lean lines of muscle and the fine freckling of skin that only showed when the light hit right. His hands worked fast, clean — no showmanship, just precision. Pour, stir, slide. The bottles caught the low amber lighting overhead, each movement fluid, unconscious, practised.
He wasn't smiling. He rarely did. But there was a calm to him tonight. A steadiness. He hit every order, every pour, every garnish. No mistakes. No wasted motion. No room for thought.
He stayed behind the bar as the crowd thinned, wiping glasses clean and racking bottles. The rhythm eased but didn't vanish. He could already feel the fatigue setting in: dull ache in his lower back, slight tension in his wrists.
"Boss wants a word."
Grayson turned.
Connor stood at the other end of the bar. He looked every inch the calm before the storm — blonde hair pushed back, green eyes gleaming with mischief, tattoos snaking up both arms like inked warnings.
Grayson blinked. "Now?"
Connor's mouth curved into a slow grin. "You planning on getting prettier the longer I wait?"
Grayson didn't answer. He just tossed his towel aside and followed.
Upstairs, the hallway was cooler, quieter. Kane's office door was ajar, the strip of light inside sharp. Connor didn't bother knocking. He walked in like he owned the floorboards.
Grayson hesitated — then stepped through.
Kane was behind his desk. He glanced up. "Close the door."
Grayson obeyed. The click of the latch sounded louder than it should've.
Connor was already at ease — one hip resting against the edge of the desk, arms folded, watching the space like it bored him.
"You did well tonight, Hale."
Kane let the pause hang.
"Clean hands. Closed mouth. Not bad for someone who only makes drinks."
Grayson raised a brow. "Thanks for the performance review. Can I go now?"
He pulled a thin folder from the desk drawer and slid it toward himself, but didn't open it. His gaze was already locked on Grayson.
"There's a container in the east lot," he said.
Grayson's stomach dropped.
Connor cracked his knuckles idly. "Cold night for a field trip."
Kane continued, calm and controlled. "Inside the container is a body. Your job is to make sure it doesn't exist anymore by morning."
Grayson stared. "That's not a job. That's a felony."
Connor's mouth curved at the corner. "Told you he'd say no."
"You won't be alone," Kane said, nodding to Connor. "He'll drive. You dig."
Grayson's eyes narrowed. "Dig where?"
"There's a location," Kane said, ignoring the challenge in his voice. "Private. Quiet. Remote enough not to matter."
"And what, you want me to just—what, hop in a car with body disposal Barbie and pretend this is normal?"
Connor laughed softly, hands still folded. "You wound me."
"I'm not doing this," Grayson said flatly. "Whatever this is, it's not me. I make drinks. I wipe down countertops. Stack glassware. I don't-" He gestured toward the air, frustrated. "I don't do whatever the hell this is."
Kane didn't move. "You do now."
The words cut like they'd already been decided hours ago.
Grayson folded his arms. "Why me?"
Kane finally turned to face him. His pale eyes were unreadable. "Because you're already in it, Hale. And I want to see how deep you'll go."
Connor tilted his head. "I can bring a shovel for you, if that helps."
Grayson's jaw tightened. "You think I'm going to bury a body for you?"
"I think," Kane said, "that if I told you to go home, pack a bag, and disappear-you'd ask me why first. You'd want to understand before you ran. That's why it's you."
Connor gave a soft, breathy laugh. "He's not wrong."
Grayson shot him a glare. "Do you ever shut up?"
"Do you ever loosen up?" Connor fired back.
Kane stepped around the desk, close enough that Grayson could smell the trace of smoke on his skin. Not from cigarettes — from the room, from the memory of violence that clung like cologne. His sleeves were rolled to the forearm, veins visible, ink black under his skin.
"There are a hundred men who'd do this without asking why," Kane said softly. "But I asked you. Because I want to see what you'll do."
Grayson stared at him. His pulse was loud in his ears. "I won't kill for you."
"You're not killing anyone," Kane said. "You're just burying what's already dead."
Connor reached for the door handle. "Truck's running. Pickaxe's in the back."
Grayson didn't move.
Kane's voice dropped. "You're not walking away from this, Gray. We both know that."
Grayson's jaw clenched.
His eyes flicked between them — Kane, still and watching; Connor, halfway through the doorway, waiting like he already knew how this ended.
No permission had been given.
No freedom offered.
This wasn't a test. It was a sentence being carried out.
Grayson felt it — heavy and inevitable, wrapping tight around his ribs.
His breath shook.
He didn't say yes. But he didn't leave either.
"…Fuck," Grayson muttered.
He followed Connor out into the dark.
*******************
Grayson's fingers shook, not visibly, not to the naked eye but enough that he noticed. He said nothing as Connor led him outside, boots striking the concrete with unhurried certainty. The door thunked shut behind them, and the bite of the cold came sharp, mean, a jolt that almost cleared the fog from Grayson's head. Almost.
Connor's pace was loose-limbed but focused. The way a man walked when nothing scared him enough to rush. He led them across the lot toward a black SUV idling beneath a yellow streetlamp, the glow bleaching out all warmth from its surface. The engine purred, not loud, just steady. Waiting. Predator patience.
Connor drew the keys from his pocket and glanced at Grayson, amusement flickering at the corners of his mouth. His face was sharply cut, handsome in a way that made people forget he was dangerous. Blond hair damp from the mist, green eyes bright and disarming, like something wild had slipped behind them and hadn't left.
"You sure you're good with directions?" he asked, voice dry as sandpaper. "Kane didn't exactly include a GPS."
Grayson gave him a flat look. "I know where not to go."
Connor chuckled and tossed the keys into the air before catching them one handed. "Then you're already ahead of most people he sends on jobs like this."
They climbed in.
Grayson sank into the passenger seat, leather creaking beneath him. The SUV smelled of polish and oil and something faintly chemical, like metal left in the sun too long. He adjusted his seatbelt with a sharp tug. The silence between them didn't feel tense, just waiting. Like air before lightning.
Connor flicked on the radio. A crackle. Then a slow, syrupy song buzzed through the speakers, a woman's voice, all echo and static.
Grayson turned it off after a beat.
They drove east.
Out of the familiar streets and into dead zones where buildings slumped against one another like tired old men. Where everything smelled like rust and diesel and decades of quiet crimes. Warehouses loomed behind broken fences, their lights either dead or flickering with bored menace. Grayson tried not to think. But his thoughts were already ahead of him.
Who was he? Why him? Why now?
The SUV eased to a stop beside a graffitied, teal container. Half buried behind pallets and old fence wire, it didn't look like anything worth noticing, which, of course, meant it was exactly what Kane had intended.
Connor killed the lights. Then the engine.
Silence fell. Heavy.
Grayson's hand flexed against his thigh.
Connor popped the back hatch. "Suits and gloves are in the box."
The rear opened with a quiet click. Grayson followed him to the trunk, watching the mist coil around the vehicle's silhouette like smoke around a confession. Inside the box, two zip-front biohazard suits, a roll of industrial garbage bags, latex gloves, a fold-out shovel. A headlamp. Zip ties.
Everything efficient. Nothing emotional.
Grayson didn't move at first.
Connor held out a yellow suit to him. "They're roomy. You'll still sweat through it."
Grayson stared at it. "How often do you do this?"
Connor paused. "Often enough."
"Why me?" He asked, more quietly this time.
Connor shrugged. "You pissed Kane off. Or turned him on. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference."
Grayson looked away, throat tight. "Fuck."
"Better to say that now." Connor said, stepping into his own suit. "Before he's under your skin and halfway down your throat."
Grayson shot him a look. "Thanks for the poetry, Connor. Really sets the mood."
Grayson dressed. Gloves. Hood. Zip. He didn't rush, but he didn't stall either. There was something in the motion that numbed his nerves, until it didn't.
Connor handed him a headlamp. "Light low. Keep it tight."
They moved to the container.
The lock clicked open with a groan. The metal door creaked like it didn't want to reveal what was inside. Presence. Like something sacred had been violated in there. Inside, it was colder.
And it stank, not of rot, not yet. But of mildew, plastic and skin. A stale, contained death. The tarp was just a tarp, blue, creased, unremarkable. But the shape beneath it was unmistakable.
Grayson knelt slowly. He peeled the tarp back once corner at a time. Not because he wanted to, but because he couldn't not.
And then, he saw him. Not blood. Not gore. Just a face. Familiar. Unmoving. The man from the alley. The man Grayson had struck. Once. Hard. Desperate. Unthinking. The man who'd hit the pavement and hadn't gotten up. Pale. Silent. As if sleeping. As if still waiting to be woken.
Grayson's world went tight and narrow, like the air thinned with the realization.
Connor steadied him. "You okay?"
Grayson didn't answer. He nodded, but it wasn't real. His throat locked tight. His vision swam at the edges. The body slipped — heavy and wrong in the garbage bag. His gloved hands curled around it, the zipper dragged through the silence like a wound opening backwards. Stitched tight. Sealed.
It felt like betrayal.
No words.
His breath came harsh and ragged. "That's the man I—"
"I know," Connor said.
"I didn't mean to," he whispered, like the dirt could hear him. "I didn't mean to—"
Connor looked up from the pit. His voice was level, but quieter than before. "No one does."
They carried the man step by step — the bag swaying between them like a secret that didn't want to stay buried. Each footfall on cold earth echoed louder than it should have. The pit yawned before them, cut deep into the earth, just wide enough, just careful enough. A grave measured by practice, not reverence.
Grayson hesitated at the edge.
Connor didn't.
Together, they heaved the bag over. The thud was thick. Dull. Final. The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was dense. Saturated. Like the ground itself was holding its breath.
Connor climbed down first, boots landing with a crunch. He moved with quiet precision, adjusting the body's position inside the pit, making sure it lay flat. No curling. No angles. No face. Just a shape under plastic in a rectangle of dirt.
Grayson stood above, eyes locked on the dark patch that used to be a man.
"Shovel," Connor said.
Grayson handed it down. His hands were shaking.
Then it began.
One scoop. Then another.
Soil slid through latex fingers as Grayson followed. They worked in rhythm — not fast, not slow — the weight of earth filling in what conscience couldn't.
Thump.
Rustle.
Breath.
The plastic bag crinkled each time the soil landed on it, until it didn't anymore. Until it was smothered in silence.
Grayson knelt at the edge, pushing soil with his gloved hands when the shovel felt too violent. The dirt clung to the plastic of his sleeves, smudged up to the elbows, up to his soul. The final layer was packed with the shovel — Connor slicing the blade across the top, flattening it like nothing had ever happened.
No marker. No cross. Just earth.
Connor climbed out and unhooked his headlamp. He clicked it off with a small snap. They stood over the grave, two figures blurred by cold air and conscience.
Three objects in the dark:
The soil.
The silence.
And the weight of knowing.
Grayson stared down at the grave. His fingers twitched. He peeled the gloves off one at a time, slow, like the act itself was exposing something raw beneath the skin.
His hands were shaking again.
"Still think you're just a bartender?" Connor asked, voice low, almost kind.
Grayson didn't answer. He turned toward the SUV, stripped out of the suit, and climbed back in without warning. Connor joined him a minute later, starting the engine without a word. The tires rolled slow over gravel and blacktop.
No music. No talking. Just the weight of what they'd buried. And the knowledge that the city above it would keep moving, uncaring.