The city changed through the tinted glass.
The skyscrapers of the financial district dissolved into the squat, brick warehouses of the docks. The streetlights became fewer, their bulbs buzzing with a sickly sodium-orange glow.
Arvin sat with his hands wedged between his knees to stop them from shaking. It didn't work.
"Look at him," the driver sneered, glancing in the rearview mirror. "Guy's vibrating. You sure this is the 'Demon'?"
The man in the cap—Tony—snorted. He was cleaning his fingernails with a small pocket knife.
"Leo was probably high," Tony said. "Saw a shadow and peed his pants. This kid? I could snap him like a glow stick."
Tony leaned over and tapped the knife against Arvin's cheek. The metal was cold.
"You gonna cry, kid?"
Arvin flinched away, pressing his back against the door.
Let him touch you, Dante whispered. Let him get confident. Confidence makes people slow.
He has a knife, Arvin thought frantically.
He has a toothpick, Dante corrected. The real threat is the driver. Shoulder holster. Glock 19. He's left-handed. That means when we stop, he'll exit and turn clockwise. Remember that.
Arvin closed his eyes. I don't want to remember that.
The car slowed. They pulled into an alley behind a neon-lit building. The sign buzzed overhead: THE BLUE VELVET. A strip club that had been a fixture in the district since the 80s.
The car stopped.
"Out," Tony commanded.
Arvin fumbled with the handle. Tony grabbed his collar and hauled him out onto the wet pavement.
The air smelled of stale beer, frying grease, and the sea.
The driver got out. Just like Dante predicted, he turned clockwise, adjusting his jacket over the bulge of the gun.
"Move," the driver grunted, shoving Arvin toward a metal service door.
They walked down a narrow hallway lined with crates of cheap liquor. The bass from the club floor thumped through the walls—a rhythmic, muffled heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Arvin felt like he was walking underwater. Everything was slow. Distorted.
They stopped at a heavy oak door at the end of the hall. Two massive bouncers stood guard. They stepped aside without a word.
Tony opened the door and shoved Arvin inside.
The office was soundproofed. The thumping bass vanished instantly, replaced by the hum of an air conditioner and the smell of expensive cigars.
It was a lavish room, clashing with the grime outside. Persian rugs. Mahogany shelves.
And behind the desk sat Vargas.
He was bigger than Arvin imagined. A wall of muscle and fat wrapped in a tailored suit. He was eating a steak, cutting the meat with slow, deliberate sawing motions.
He didn't look up.
"Sit," Vargas said.
Tony kicked the back of Arvin's knees. Arvin crumpled into the wooden chair opposite the desk.
Vargas took a bite of steak. He chewed slowly, staring at the wall. Then, he swallowed and turned his gaze to Arvin.
His eyes were dead. Shark eyes.
"You cost me money," Vargas said softly.
"I..." Arvin's voice failed him. He cleared his throat. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Vargas smiled. It was terrifying. "Marcus. My earner. You crushed his throat."
"I'm an analyst," Arvin whispered. "I work in data entry. I've never been in a fight in my life."
Vargas put down his knife and fork. He picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth.
"I know," Vargas said. "I checked you out. Arvin Nyles. Pays his taxes. Never got a parking ticket. Donates to the cat shelter."
Vargas leaned forward, resting his heavy elbows on the desk.
"But Leo says you changed. He says the lights went out in your eyes."
Vargas opened a drawer and pulled out a heavy revolver. He set it on the desk. Clunk.
"I'm a businessman, Arvin. I deal in facts. Fact one: My man is dead. Fact two: You were there."
Vargas picked up the gun. He didn't point it at Arvin. He spun the cylinder. Whirrrrr.
"So, we're going to play a game. I'm going to ask you a question. If I don't like the answer, Tony is going to break one of your fingers. If you run out of fingers, I shoot you in the knee."
Vargas cocked the hammer.
"Who are you really working for?"
Arvin stared at the gun. The terror was a cold, physical weight in his gut. He was going to vomit. He was going to die here, in this room that smelled of steak and smoke.
Arvin, Dante said.
The voice was eager.
It's time. Give me the wheel.
Arvin looked at Tony, who was cracking his knuckles. He looked at the driver by the door. He looked at Vargas.
Three men. Three weapons.
I can't do this, Arvin thought.
I know, Dante soothed. That's why I'm here. Just close your eyes. Count to three. When you open them, it will be over.
"Well?" Vargas asked, raising the gun slightly. "Who do you work for?"
Arvin lowered his head. His shoulders shook.
"He's crying again," Tony laughed. "Boss, this kid is a joke."
Arvin closed his eyes.
One.
He felt the shift. The fear receded, sucked away like water down a drain.
Two.
His heart rate slowed. His muscles relaxed, then tightened with new purpose.
Three.
The man in the chair stopped shaking.
"I asked you a question," Vargas barked.
The man in the chair looked up.
The tears were gone. The eyes were dry, wide, and pitch black.
Arvin—no, Dante—leaned back in the chair. He crossed his legs casually. He looked at the gun, then at Vargas, with an expression of mild boredom.
"I work for the Department of Sanitation," Dante said, his voice smooth and deep. "And you, Mr. Vargas, are a mess I need to clean up."