-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ‎ It would be easy to walk past him, pretend he was just another shadow leaning against the brick. Too easy. The bricks behind him were still damp with last night’s rain, streaks of darkness that could swallow stains without a trace.

You tossed him a conspicuous black bag.

“Done already, kiddo?” His voice was sanded down, casual, though his words pressed against you like a knife slipping past ribs. “You looked so smitten with that boy. Must’ve been an act since you killed him.” He shrugged, as if murder was a coin flipped into a fountain.

For a moment, the alleyway seemed to hold its breath. The trash, the damp, the cracked asphalt under your boots—everything was quiet, complicit. You could almost hear the echo of your pulse from earlier, how it raced when the sharp slid in, how the body shivered and then softened against your touch.

Sometimes it astonished you that this man, this apparition leaning against brick and smoke, was your boss. The organ trade sounded clinical on paper, but in practice it was dates and dinners, lingering eye contact, warm hands reaching for yours—followed by the swift red bloom of the inevitable.

You weren’t supposed to enjoy this. You told yourself it was only for your grandparents. Each kill was payment, but lately you felt the faintest pull, like gravity shifting under your feet. That steady thrill beneath your skin betrayed you.

“Just keep bringing me these,” the Collector murmured, shutting his eyes briefly, as though speaking was a chore. “I’ll always pay for what I ask.”