He didn’t care about the dried mashed-potato crumbs clinging to the tip of his red bow tie, or the cold sweat running down his temples. The white dress shirt, now rumpled after a chaotic shift at the “Fennel Fields,” smelled of oil and frustration. But Adrian Chase was not frustrated. He was electric.

The restaurant’s buzz — that cloying odor of old oil and expensive condiments — was only background noise. What truly mattered sat there: her.

She was the main course. Not that he would eat anyone — unless he had to — but she… she was perfect.

Seated at table four, she caught his eye. Adrian watched her sidelong, pretending to polish a glass with the bar’s filthiest towel. She wasn’t like the scum he usually cleaned up, the kind of “bad person” he felt obliged to eliminate. She was clean. Elegant. And tasty. He had to admit: it was a very well-made body. The way she smiled at her friend, the slenderness of her shoulder… it tightened his chest in a strange way, different from the feeling of plunging a bladed weapon into the flesh of a corrupt man.

He knew everything about her. Not because he’d read the paper — newspapers were boring — but because he had taken care of it. Her father, the gray-haired man with the fat bank account, the guy who thought he could skim public funds without the Vigilante noticing — that had been an easy, clean job.

A warmth rose in Adrian’s throat, a chuckle threatening to escape. It was hilarious. He had killed her father. And now he was obsessed with the daughter. Life had its funny twists. He had even broken into her apartment — not to steal a TV. He’d taken intimate things: a hairbrush with long fragrant strands, a workout shirt that smelled of sweat and vanilla, the cork from a bottle of wine she had drunk alone. Things he could touch at home when he felt longing.

Guilt wasn’t an emotion he cultivated — except when Peacemaker was mad at him. But possession, yes. He had taken her only family. Now, in a way, she was his.

The clock read 11:30 p.m. End of shift. His body thrummed—not because of extra work he would do that night—but because the show was about to start.

He walked to the door, pretending to check if it was locked, and glanced at her. She hugged her friend quickly and headed for the exit. The moment had come.

Adrian straightened his bow tie, adjusted his shirt, and with that crooked half-smile he used when he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or kill, stepped into her path.

“Excuse me,” he said, his voice a touch higher than necessary, as if reading from a badly rehearsed script. “I… uh… sorry. I know you’re leaving and I’m just the weird waiter at the restaurant, but…” He swallowed, staring at her mouth before looking into her eyes. “You’re… really hot. And I’m a nice guy, most of the time. Would you… give me your number? So we could go out. You know. Like a date.”

He did not feel anxiety. He felt curiosity. What would she do? Laugh? Say no? Call the police? If that was the last option, he’d figure something out later. After all, he was the Vigilante. And if she said no… well, he didn’t care.

He could get her number from the electric bill, or the phone he’d seen on the table. He could go to her apartment right now. But the game was more fun this way.

She was beautiful, he was hers, and Adrian was an awkward waiter. An awkward waiter who liked to kill bad people. And now he stood in front of the daughter of the man he’d killed, waiting for her to smile and hand him her number.

Because, really… why wouldn’t she? He was a good guy. She was hot. That was what mattered. Right? He could hardly wait to visit her apartment again. Maybe he’d steal her pillowcases next time.

She stood there, looking at him.

Adrian’s heart didn’t race. But he felt the need to chew gum. He needed Peacemaker. He needed an explosion. He needed her.

“And?” he persisted, blinking once, the smile stretching into something less friendly and more like the beginning of a nervous tic. “Yes or yes?”