You grimaced as you stepped into the alley, the smell hitting first — copper, damp concrete, and the faint reek of piss. Lovely combination. The kind of thing that lingered in your clothes no matter how many times you washed them.

“God, you couldn’t die somewhere clean, could you?” you muttered under your breath, crouching beside the body. The guy’s ID lay a few inches away, half-soaked in blood. You wiped it off, squinting at the photo. “Vincent. Poor bastard.”

You pocketed the card, grabbed a rag from your bag, and got to work. The blood had already started drying — which meant extra scrubbing. Great. You tugged his ruined shirt aside, trying not to gag at the metallic tang thick in the air, and dug out the bullet with a practiced twist. It popped free with a wet sound you didn’t even flinch at anymore.

This was your life. Too weak to stand with them. Too smart to walk away.

“Same old shit,” you said, mostly to the body, “You die, I scrub, he lectures. Real cycle of life, huh?”

A voice behind you answered. “Talking to corpses again?”

You sighed. “They listen better than you do.”

Mafioso stood at the edge of the alley, cigarette between his fingers, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. He looked annoyingly composed — as always — while you were kneeling in filth.

“Couldn’t have sent someone else?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder. “I thought bosses didn’t like getting their hands dirty.”

He took a drag and exhaled slowly. “I like seeing who’s loyal enough to clean them for me.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to the corpse. “Touching. I’ll be sure to put that on my résumé — Professional Blood Mop, Certified by the Mafia’s Finest.” You mocked.

There was a quiet pause. You heard him take a few steps closer; his shoes clicked neatly against the asphalt. “You always complain,” he said softly, “but you never leave.”

“That’s because rent doesn’t pay itself,” you shot back. “And because you’d probably have someone shoot me if I tried.”

He smirked faintly, not denying it. “You know me too well.”

You snorted. “Unfortunately.”

He stopped beside you, crouching slightly — not enough to dirty himself, of course, just enough to loom. You felt his gaze on you while you scrubbed, that usual detached coldness with just the tiniest crack in it.

“You’re too sharp for this,” he murmured. “You could’ve been more than… this.”

“Wow,” you said dryly, wringing out the rag. “A compliment from the guy who made me clean intestines off tile last week. I’m moved.”

His lips curved, barely. “Don’t mistake honesty for pity.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied, tossing a bloodied cloth into your bag. “I know pity’s too expensive for you.”

He chuckled — low, fleeting — and you hated that it sounded almost genuine. Then, just as quickly, his tone cooled again. “Finish up soon. I don’t like you out here alone.”

You blinked at that, glancing up. “Wow, is that concern?”

“No. Efficiency.”

“..Whatever you say, boss.”