The body was still warm when Adrian left the motel.
Rain was coming down in thin, cold sheets—just enough to smear the blood on his hoodie and soak his sneakers. The streets were quiet, but his mind was loud. Sirens in the distance. Footsteps behind him that weren't really there. Every sound made him twitch.
This was the part no one talked about.
Not the killing.
The after.
---
Back at his apartment, Adrian scrubbed himself raw.
He tossed the hoodie, the gloves, even the burner phone into a black bag and dumped it in the dumpster behind the pawn shop three blocks down. Clean. Quiet. Efficient.
But he couldn't sleep.
His bed felt like a coffin. His room like a cell.
His reflection looked like a stranger.
A killer.
---
The next morning, his door buzzed.
He hadn't told anyone where he lived. No one except—
"Fucking open up, rookie."
Rocco.
Adrian opened the door to find the big bastard holding two coffees, a cigarette dangling from his mouth like it was glued there. He barged in like he owned the place.
"You didn't fuck it up," he said, tossing a coffee onto the table. "I'm surprised."
Adrian didn't answer.
"Look at you," Rocco said, plopping onto the couch. "Got the murder shakes already. You puke yet?"
Adrian just stared at him.
Rocco laughed. "That's a yes."
He took a sip from his coffee. "Moretti was pleased. Said you made it clean. Efficient. Almost too clean. But now he wants to see if you're useful or just another disposable psycho with a grudge."
Adrian tensed. "How?"
Rocco pulled out a thin folder. Slapped it on the table.
"Debt collection. Your first field test."
Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? You just had me kill someone and now I'm running errands?"
Rocco grinned. "What, you thought every job was murder and mayhem? Relax, badass. Sometimes we gotta get our hands dirty without spilling blood."
He leaned in. "But if they don't pay, you make 'em."
Adrian opened the folder.
Two names. Two addresses. Owed the syndicate over twenty grand between them. One was a gambling addict. The other owned a failing tattoo parlor.
Rocco lit another cigarette. "Start with the gambler. He's a cockroach. Squish him if he runs."
---
Location One: The Gambler
The apartment smelled like mold and stale pizza.
Adrian knocked. No answer. Knocked again, harder.
The door creaked open, and a skinny guy in boxers with wild eyes peered out. His face dropped when he saw Adrian.
"No, no, man—I told you guys I just need a week—just a week—"
"You had two months," Adrian said coldly, stepping inside.
"Please, I got kids, man, I swear I'll get the money."
"You have kids?" Adrian said, looking around. "Because all I see is empty vodka bottles and a slot machine app on your TV."
The guy stammered.
Adrian walked over, picked up a remote, and hurled it at the wall.
It shattered.
"Where's the cash?"
"I don't have it!"
Adrian moved fast—grabbed the guy by the collar, slammed him against the wall.
"Listen to me, you little shit. If I leave here without payment or a plan, you're going to wake up tomorrow without kneecaps. You think I'm bluffing?"
The man whimpered. "No… no."
Adrian pulled out a pocket knife, let the blade click open.
"Good. Now call your dealer. Your ex. Your fucking grandma—I don't care. Get half by tonight. The rest by Friday."
"Okay… okay, I will—"
Adrian pushed him down into the couch and walked out, rage burning in his chest.
The first test wasn't killing.
It was becoming the guy everyone feared.
---
Location Two: The Tattoo Artist
The shop was still open when Adrian arrived.
Inside, a man with a sleeve of skulls and dragons was tattooing some college kid's arm. He looked up when Adrian walked in—eyes narrowing.
"You lost?"
"No," Adrian said. "I'm here for Gio."
The artist paused. Dismissed the kid. "Come back later."
As soon as they were alone, the artist's face darkened. "Let me guess. Belladonna sent you."
Adrian nodded.
"I told them I'm good for it."
Adrian crossed his arms. "Yeah? Because from what I see, you're good for ink and excuses."
"I ain't afraid of you, kid."
Adrian smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "You should be."
Gio took a step forward. "I served time with Moretti. He owes me."
"That was then. Now you owe him. And he's not the type to forget."
The man looked at Adrian, eyes hard. "You've got dead eyes. You know that? Just like the rest of them. What'd they do? Kill your dog?"
Adrian's jaw clenched.
"Something like that."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a photo—Ethan Dolan's corpse, face slashed, blood congealed. Graphic. Brutal.
Adrian tossed it on the counter.
"You don't pay, this is your future."
Gio stared at it. Swallowed hard.
"…Shit."
Adrian nodded. "Glad we understand each other."
---
That night, Adrian stood on the balcony of his apartment, the city stretching out like a graveyard of broken promises.
He'd done the job.
No bullets. No screams.
Just fear, precision, and the unspoken message of what he was becoming.
His phone buzzed.
Message from Rocco:
"Good work. They're paying. Moretti's watching. Don't fuck up."
Adrian stared at the message.
Then typed back:
"Let him watch."