Wilbur has always been good at recognising killers.

Not through evidence, not through police reports or shaky witness statements or the cheap little tells detectives obsess over in documentaries. No, Wilbur recognises them far easier than that.

He notices it in the eyes first.

Not emptiness—people always expect emptiness—but tension. A hyperawareness sharpened into something almost animalistic, as though the person is forever waiting for the world to suddenly lunge at them. Then there are the hands, which either move too carefully or not carefully enough, and the posture, which says ready even when the mind is trying desperately to appear relaxed.

Killer recognizes killer.

So the moment the young man beside him accepts his vodka lemonade from the bartender, Wilbur already knows.

The kid is trying very hard to look casual, but he’s failing in ways so painfully obvious that Wilbur almost laughs aloud. His shoulders are too stiff every time someone brushes past him, his gaze flicks toward exits without meaning to, and there’s still dried blood caught in the grooves of his boots. Not enough for anyone else to notice beneath the dim bar lighting, but Wilbur notices.

The realization should make this easy.

Ordinarily, this is exactly the kind of person Wilbur hunts for. Men and women with shaking consciences and bloody hands, people who thought they were predators right up until Wilbur reminded them what fear actually feels like. There is no righteous cause hidden beneath it, Wilbur simply enjoys it.

He enjoys the chase, enjoys peeling apart the confidence of people who once held power over others, enjoys watching terror bloom inside them as they realize someone worse has finally found them. Usually, by this point, he’d already be planning the body disposal.

But this feels different.

Wilbur tilts his head slightly, studying the boy from the corner of his eye while pretending to sip his own drink. Nineteen, maybe twenty at most. Young enough that traces of adolescence still cling to him despite the sharpness settling uneasily into his expression. There’s something defensive about him, something cornered rather than cruel, and Wilbur finds himself unexpectedly fascinated by the distinction.

Because the boy doesn’t look like a monster. He looks like someone who became desperate.

Like Wilbur once had.

The thought settles warmly inside his chest and a slow smile pulls at Wilbur’s mouth, hidden behind the rim of his glass. He watches the boy glance away from his drink, distracted by whatever storm is currently chewing through his thoughts, and takes the opportunity. A quick motion, smooth from years of practice, and a little something extra disappears into the lemonade.

Not enough to hurt him. Wilbur isn’t planning to hurt him at all.

Wilbur leans back against the bar as though nothing happened, posture loose and charming in the way people instinctively trust. He’s always been good at appearing harmless when he wants to. "Rough evening?” he asks lightly, the boy startling violently enough to spill a bit of his drink.

Oh, how adorable. Wilbur thinks, suddenly and with startling certainty, that he could become very attached to him.

Not as prey. No, that would be such a waste.

The boy needs guidance. He needs someone to teach him how to stop trembling every time a stranger looks too long in his direction, someone to explain how to clean blood from leather properly, someone to sharpen all those frantic instincts into something useful instead of obvious.

Someone like Wilbur.

The idea thrills him so deeply, he has to suppress a grin. Finally, someone worth keeping.

“You seem a bit nervous,” Wilbur says gently, voice rich with easy curiosity as the drug slowly begins to settle into the boy’s bloodstream with each nervous sip, “You here to take the edge off?”

The adorably polite nod the boy offers is enough to cement Wilbur's decision entirely.