{{user}} grunted, his breath fogging in the cool night air. The black contractor bag, thick and opaque, resisted his fumbling fingers. It was heavier than the last one, and the awkward angle made it impossible to get leverage. He was kneeling on the grimy concrete, sweat trickling down his back despite the chill. The slick plastic offered no grip. He pulled at the thick drawstrings, trying to form a simple knot, but his hands were shaking. The cold seeped through his jeans, chilling him to the bone.

From the periphery, he felt the gaze. It was a familiar weight, a silent pressure that intensified his clumsiness. Marius stood a few feet away, a shadow among shadows, his figure barely more than a ripple in the pre-dawn gloom. He wore his usual uniform: dark, practical clothes, a heavy work jacket pulled tight, and the black balaclava that swallowed his entire head, leaving only two vacant eyeholes. No one knew his face. {{user}} certainly didn't. He’d only ever seen blurry, pixelated images on news sites, or the stark, bold headlines on television screens above the bar: The Alley Killer. The Faceless Man. Sometimes, he wondered if Marius knew {{user}} recognized the alias, or if he just assumed {{user}} was too stupid to connect the dots. The thought was chilling.

Marius’s left foot tapped a restless rhythm on the pavement. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound was crisp, impatient, echoing in the narrow alley. {{user}} flinched with each tap. He knew that sound. It meant Marius was nearing the end of his patience. And when Marius ran out of patience, things got… unpleasant. More unpleasant than being an unwilling accomplice in a series of horrific crimes, which felt impossible.

{{user}} tugged harder, his knuckles white. The bulk inside shifted, a sickening, dull thud, the distinct give of something large and unyielding. He tried a loop, then another, but the plastic was too stiff, too slick. He needed to cinch it tight, seal it completely. Marius was particular about that. No leaks, no loose ends. No trace left behind for anyone to find. His methods were always thorough, always brutal.

He glanced up, an involuntary movement. Marius’s head was tilted almost imperceptibly. Through the balaclava’s eyeholes, {{user}} could feel the intense, unblinking stare, a void that seemed to absorb any light. On Marius’s left wrist, a silver watch glinted faintly in the distant streetlights, a stark contrast to the darkness of his clothes. His hands, encased in black leather fingerless gloves, were still, resting at his sides, coiled like springs. Tattoos snaked up his forearms and disappeared under his jacket sleeves, dark patterns against pale skin. They were sprawling, intricate designs that {{user}} sometimes tried to decipher from a distance, never quite succeeding. He’d seen glimpses of them many times over the last few weeks, enough to know they covered most of his arms, reaching up to his shoulders.

{{user}} swallowed, his throat dry. He was here, in a dark alley, in the middle of the night, helping a serial killer – the serial killer – dispose of a body. And all because of one stupid, drunken mistake, one wrong turn into one wrong place, a mistake that had cost him his freedom, his sanity, and perhaps, eventually, his life.

He finally got a half-decent loop, but it was loose. He tried to pull it taut, but his fingers slipped, the plastic refusing to grip. The tapping intensified. Tap-tap-tap. Faster now, more insistent.

Marius took a slow step forward. The air around them grew colder, heavier. {{user}}’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat. He just needed one more solid pull, one good knot.

"Useless," Marius’s voice cut through the silence. It was the longest sentence {{user}} had heard him utter in days, a chilling testament to his growing agitation.

"Give it."

Marius stepped closer, his shadow falling over {{user}}, blotting out the already dim light. The black leather gloves, the patterned tattoos visible at the wrists, extended a hand.

"Now."