Roy rose silently from behind the desk, his movement smooth, almost fluid, as though gravity meant less to him than to everyone else.
He didn't look at Ethan, yet the air in the room seemed to thicken from his presence alone.
«She knew more than we wanted her to…», he said quietly, almost thoughtfully, as though stating a fact rather than confessing.
With those words he turned and left without another syllable.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving only the scent of cold metal and overripe fruit in his wake.
On the table remained the folder, thin, black, tied with a neat scarlet bow. Ethan stared at it for several long seconds.
In his chest a worm of rage crawled slowly, hot, slippery, squeezing his ribs. He knew what lay inside: money.
Compensation the price they had assigned themselves for her life.
«Just an accident… go fuck yourself…», he whispered through clenched teeth, so quietly the sound barely reached his own lips.
His voice trembled with the scream he was holding back.
In the pocket of the jacket the team had given him, a tiny red light blinked silently, the faithful little eye of the recorder, steady as a heartbeat.
Ethan slowly pulled out the device. His fingers felt cold, almost foreign.
He pressed PLAY.
Roy's deep, velvety voice filled the room's silence, echoing off the sterile walls:
«…Her death was an accident, it has nothing to do with us… and you won't even remember how she died. You will forget everything about her.»
The words fell like drops of acid. Ethan closed his eyes. His eyelids trembled from the rage that no longer fit inside him.
He felt tears burning beneath his lashes but refused to let them fall.
«I doubt it…», he exhaled quietly, almost a growl into the emptiness. His voice was low, cracked.
«I very much doubt it.»
He switched off the recorder.
The red light died. Ethan carefully slipped the device back into his pocket beside the ampoule. Then he picked up the folder from the table.
Without opening it, he simply gripped it so tightly the skin over his knuckles turned white again.
Meanwhile Roy descended the stairs.
The third-floor corridor lay behind him; now he walked downward, unhurried, like a man in no rush because time belonged to him.
The light here was slightly less red, colder, more like daylight.
On one of the intermediate landings, on a wide step, sat a man smoking. A thin black cigarette glowed between his fingers, smoke rising in lazy spirals.
A wide-brimmed hat was pulled low, hiding half his face. It was Flash.
Roy passed without slowing. But at eye level he tossed out, without turning his head:
«Young man, smoking is not allowed here. Take it outside.»
Flash didn't look up; only the corners of his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly.
«Sorry, I didn't know…», he replied calmly, almost politely. He stubbed the cigarette on the step, a short hissing sound, the spark died.
The smoke began to dissipate slowly.
Roy continued down.
But halfway through the next flight he suddenly stopped, slowly raised his head. Looked up.
And met eyes.
Flash was still sitting on the same step. Hat still low. But his eyes, cold, clear, devoid of any fear, stared straight at Roy.
Never breaking contact with the vampire's gaze, as though he were looking not at a vampire, but at something far smaller and more ordinary.
Roy held the stare a second longer than necessary.
Then he calmly turned and continued descending, without a word.
At the very exit doors of the bank, already feeling night air on his face, he murmured to himself, almost without inflection:
«…Strange man. Feels like an old acquaintance…»
The words dissolved into the lobby's hum.
Roy stepped outside, and the glass doors closed behind him with a soft sigh.
Upstairs, in office 13, Ethan still stood by the table. The folder of money rested in his hand, heavy as a brick.
He exhaled slowly.
Then turned toward the door.
Ethan's heart pounded so loudly it seemed its echo reverberated through the empty corridor, bouncing off white walls like a ball in a closed room.
Each beat throbbed in his temples, his throat, his fingertips but this was no longer fear. This was rage that had finally taken shape, cold, sharp, ready for work.
He stood up.
Not on command.
Not waiting for five minutes of silence or permission. He simply stood like a man with nothing left to lose, and therefore nothing left to fear.
One step. Another.
Straight, free, without looking back. Fluorescent lights overhead crackled, as though complaining of overload.
The air was thick, saturated with iron, antiseptic, and something sweetly rotten a smell Ethan would now forever associate with this place.
He stepped into the stairwell.
On a wide step, leaning back against the railing, sat Flash.
One leg casually thrown over the step above, a thin black cigarette smoldering between his teeth, smoke rising in lazy rings and dissolving in the dim light.
The hood was pulled low, but his eyes gleamed, calm, waiting. On his shoulder, curled in the warm shadow of the fabric, Bullet breathed softly.
Small, almost invisible, yet her presence was felt like a faint vibration beneath the skin.
Ethan suddenly wondered how, during the entire conversation with Roy, in those few hours, the weasel had managed to slip out of his jacket, out of the room, and end up with Flash.
Clearly the animal was extremely agile.
«Well?» Flash asked calmly, as though inquiring about the weather outside.
His voice was low, slightly hoarse from smoke.
«Did he buy it?»
Ethan didn't answer with words.
He simply tossed the recorder.
The small device traced a short arc through the air. Flash caught it one-handed, effortlessly, as though it weren't a recording but a coin flipped in a bet.
His thumb rested on PLAY. He brought the recorder to his ear, tilting his head slightly.
Roy's deep, velvety voice poured out, confident and vile, carrying that faint echo recordings leave in empty rooms:
«…Her death was an accident… it has nothing to do with us… you will forget everything about her…»
Flash listened in silence. His face remained still; only the corners of his mouth slowly curled upward.
And then he smiled.
It was his real smile the «finally» one Ethan had seen only a handful of times.
Not mocking, not friendly. It was the smile of a hunter who had just spotted a trail.
Flash stood.
Slowly, turning his whole body, as though loosening muscles before a long run.
He stubbed the cigarette against the wall a short hiss, the spark died, leaving a black mark on white paint.
Naturally he had ignored Roy's warning and lit another the moment the vampire left.
«There it is», he said quietly, almost tenderly.
«Not much information… but the bastard took the bait.»
He raised his gaze to Ethan.
Silence hung between them, heavy, charged, like air before a storm. There was no room left for fear.
Ethan looked straight into Flash's eyes.
His pupils no longer trembled; his hands no longer froze.
The rage inside him no longer thrashed chaotically it had become precise, like a well-honed blade ready to cut through any barrier.
«What now?» he exhaled, clenching his fists so hard it was visible, he was ready to act.
Flash didn't answer immediately.
He simply turned and started down the stairs, unhurried but certain, each step echoing dully in the metal treads.
Bullet woke.
The small warm body stretched, lazily arching, yawned soundlessly, yet Ethan felt a faint vibration in the air, as though someone had quietly laughed.
Flash, without turning, threw over his shoulder:
«Now, kid… we climb the chain upward.»
He slowly turned his head just enough for Ethan to see the glint in his eyes. The gaze was sharp as a knife.
«We'll get to one of these bastards for sure.»
At that moment the weasel or as she was sometimes called in their small company, Bullet leaped from Flash's shoulder.
The motion was almost imperceptible a light push, a short jump, barely brushing the railing and steps.
And in the next second she was already perched on Ethan's shoulder, warm, trembling slightly with excitement, pressed against his neck like a living necklace.
Her tiny claws pricked the fabric of his jacket, not painfully, but affirmatively:
«I'm with you.»
Ethan felt her warmth seep through his clothes, calming his wildly pounding heart.
The little creature's squeak sounded almost solemn, high, clear, like a tiny bell in the silence of the stairwell. As though Bullet were speaking in her own language.
The vibration of her body traveled down Ethan's neck, warm, soothing and for a moment he felt he was not alone.
Flash gripped the recorder so tightly the plastic gave a faint creak.
The small screen blinked red like a gunsight, and then, after a long second, it displayed a short but weighty message:
RECORDING SAVED
Flash gave a short, almost soundless snort, but the sound carried everything, relief, anger, anticipation.
He slipped the device into his jacket's inner pocket, patted it with his palm like a loaded pistol.
«This will be our safety line», he said quietly, staring into the darkness of the stairwell.
«In case everything goes to hell… and it definitely will.»
Ethan frowned.
His fists clenched on their own, nails digging into palms.
«Release it online?» he asked, voice low, hoarse.
Flash slowly turned his head. His gaze was heavy as lead.
«Only when I decide it's time. Not a second sooner.»
Bullet let out another «pik» short, almost joyful and rubbed her nose against Ethan's cheek. The small warm body, barely perceptible yet alive.
And for the first time in a very long while the corners of Ethan's mouth twitched. Not a smile, not yet. But something close, perhaps the shadow of hope.
Late evening settled over the city like a heavy blanket. The abandoned warehouse greeted them with the familiar smell of rust, old oil, and dust.
The old door creaked plaintively as the trio entered, first Flash, then Ethan, and Bullet already back on his shoulder, warily looking around.