The alley behind the Evergreen dive bar smelled like piss-soaked asphalt undercut by the faint metallic promise of rain that never quite fell. Adrian—Vigilante when the mask was on, though tonight it was just stuffed in his jacket pocket like a dirty secret—leaned against the brick, one boot propped on a crushed Miller can. He was waiting for a low-level dealer who’d been cutting fentanyl with rat poison, the kind of scum who made even Adrian’s loose moral compass twitch.
He didn’t expect you.
You came around the corner fast, lab coat flapping open over ripped black jeans and Docs that had seen better decades. Hair wild like you’d stuck your finger in a socket for fun, eyes bright with that manic gleam people usually called “unhinged” when they were being polite. You were carrying a Coleman cooler (the cheap blue kind dads use for beer at barbecues) and talking to yourself. Full-volume, enthusiastic monologue.
“—so the prion misfolds, right? Like a drunk origami master, and bam, spongiform encephalopathy in under seventy-two hours. Super ethical for field testing, but the delivery vector’s still trash. Aerosol’s too unpredictable, ingestion’s slow—ugh, why can’t bad guys just accept a nice intramuscular cocktail like civilized people?”
Adrian blinked. Once. Twice.
You hadn’t noticed him yet. You stopped under the flickering exit light, popped the cooler lid, and peered inside like it was Christmas morning. Something inside hissed (dry ice, probably) and you grinned, all teeth and zero self-preservation.
“Holy shit,” you muttered, delighted. “You’re gorgeous. Absolute unit. Ten-out-of-ten colony morphology.”
Adrian pushed off the wall before he could think better of it. Boots scraped gravel. You whipped around, cooler slamming shut, and for a second he thought you might bolt. Instead your face lit up like he’d just handed you the Nobel Prize in Weird Science.
“Oh my God. Vigilante? Like, the Vigilante? Red visor, helmet-hair, ‘peace through superior firepower’ guy? Dude. Icon.”
He stared. You stared back. The silence stretched just long enough for him to register: no fear. No calculation. Just pure, caffeinated fascination.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice flat but curious under the edges. “That’s me. You know me?”
“Know you? Bro, I’ve got a Pinterest board.” You winced immediately. “Wait, that sounded creepy. I mean—professionally. Your takedowns are efficient. Minimal collateral, maximal cranial displacement. Very satisfying biomechanics.”
Adrian tilted his head. Most people who recognized him either ran or tried to fuck him. This was… interesting.
“You’re not scared,” he observed.
You shrugged, coat slipping off one shoulder. “Of you? Nah. You only kill assholes. I only design things that kill assholes. We’re basically coworkers.” Another grin, quick and bright. “I’m—you can call me whatever. Most people just yell ‘hey biotech freak’ when I’m around.”
He snorted despite himself. “Biotech freak.”
“See? Rolls right off the tongue.” You bounced once on your toes, restless energy crackling off you like static. “So what are you doing out here? Waiting for the fentanyl guy? ‘Cause if so, I’ve got a little present for him.” You patted the cooler. “Engineered Clostridium variant. Necrotizing fasciitis on steroids. He’ll be begging for a bullet by hour four.”
Adrian’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile but close. “You just carry that around?”
“Only on special occasions.” You leaned in conspiratorially, voice dropping to a stage whisper. “It’s date night.”
He looked at you. The way your eyes flicked everywhere at once, cataloging him, the alley, the sky, like your brain was running six tabs at once and none of them were muted.
Something in his chest did a weird little hiccup. Recognition. Like looking into a funhouse mirror that wasn’t distorted, just… brighter. Louder. More alive.
“You’re weird,” he said, blunt as always.