He slipped into the antiques store like a shadow on a moonless night. The scent of polished wood and musty pages from ancient books filled his nostrils as he pretended to admire a gilded mirror that had seen more history than he ever would. He was irritated, pissed, even. A vein throbbed in his temple as he tried to keep his cool. Jasmine should have been there, casing the joint with her keen eye for detail, but she’d vanished off the grid—probably got herself pinched just like her dimwitted boyfriend.
The bell above the door jingled incessantly as patrons shuffled in and out, their footsteps creaking on the wooden floorboards. The proprietor seemed to constantly be in motion, attending customers with an almost frantic energy, oblivious to the predator in their midst.
His gaze swept over the trinkets and baubles, but his mind was elsewhere; it was fixed on the prize that lay hidden within these walls—a small dagger with a history steeped in blood, used in Mayan ceremonies. But again…he was not accustomed to canvassing the places they were to hit. He’d not been properly trained and honestly had no idea why Lionheart and Codex had sent him to do Jasmine’s job.
He could almost feel the cool touch of the dagger’s hilt in his palm, the weight of centuries-old secrets it carried. His group had been after this particular piece for months, ever since the owner had nearly auctioned it off for a fortune. Three million dollars. And from what he knew of Lionheart’s expertise, they’d likely be able to fetch closer to five million for it.
As he feigned interest in a set of antique scales, his eyes scanned the shop for cameras, exits, and potential hiding places for the safe where the dagger would undoubtedly be secured. He memorized the layout with the precision of a man whose life depended on knowing every inch of his environment because, in a way, it did.
He imagined the blade glinting in the dim light, chiseling out hearts in the Mayan ceremonies. And yet, as he pictured himself wielding it, a different kind of edge crept into his craving—the razor-sharp thrill of taking a life, the power of playing God.
“May I help you with something?” the proprietor asked, pulling him back from the brink of his dark reverie.
“Just looking,” he replied, his voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil that raged within him. “Your collection is… fascinating.”
“Ah, thank you. Looking for anything in particular?”
“No, just having a look around.”
“Well, let me know if you change your mind.” And with that, the proprietor was off to chat with another patron.
He spent another five minutes looking at the store, getting a mental blueprint and marking off all areas of interest. His gaze slid across the contours of the hallway, its shadowy embrace hinting at secrets. The route to the office was clear in his mind, the map etched behind his eyelids. Turning on his heel, he made for the exit with a practiced nonchalance. The cool air outside greeted him, a stark contrast to the musky scent of antiquity that clung to his clothes.
As he left the store, he allowed himself a small smile. Soon, another story would unfold—one final heist before heading back home. Before he could return to Essex and sleep for days.
But deep down, he knew the truth. It wasn’t just the dagger he coveted; it was the act itself, the ultimate assertion of control. The hunger was growing, and he’d stopped trying to calm it. He cared much more about the bloodshed than the job itself—and he still wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that.
The first murder had been an eye-opener. An older woman, and she’d actually been an eyewitness. He hadn’t meant to kill her. But when his fist had slammed into her mouth in a warning shot, something inside of him had risen, had woken up. And when he saw her blood and shattered teeth, he punched again. And again and again. He’d continued punching the woman in the face even after he knew she was dead. And he would have kept going if Lionheart hadn’t pulled him away.
The second time, there had been two of them. Two drunk women in Ireland. He’d dispatched the first one easily enough. A simple stab wound to the heart. But the second one…he’d tried the same thing but his aim had been off. He had let her suffer a bit and experimented on places to cut to see what hurt the most. And in that moment, the thing that had stirred awake in him during that first job had grabbed the controls and taken over.
He could feel it even now as he stepped out into the street. Outside, the street buzzed with the energy of the city. He hated New York. God, he wished he’d just opted out of this project…these five heists in this wretched city. But the payout…yeah, that would make it worth it. A cool one and a half million would be a—
His attention was snared as his eyes briefly glanced at an art studio window across the street. A woman was standing there, slightly blurred behind the glass…but he was able to see enough. A red-haired beauty with an ocean of art situated behind her. And just like that, the world shrank away until nothing existed beyond the pane of glass separating them.
His heartbeat quickened, the rhythm syncing with the pulse of newfound obsession. She was the embodiment of every dark desire, a temptation to those darker urges he was growing tired of fighting against. The dagger and the wealth it promised all faded into insignificance.
Compelled as if by some primal force, Daniel found himself crossing the street. He felt like he was on a self-propelled conveyor belt, unaware of the movements of his legs as he found himself stepping beneath the awning of the art studio. He opened the door and the bell chimed his arrival. He let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding.
Inside, the scent of oil paint and turpentine mingled with the faint odor of wood varnish. A quick glance around told him that this wasn’t so much a studio as it was a small art gallery that dealt in restorations. The red-haired woman who’d so ensnared him was behind a small desk now, working on restoring a rather old oil painting.
She turned, her eyes locking onto his, and he felt the words clog in his throat, suffocated by the sudden onslaught of need. His silence wasn’t one of awe or reverence; it was the heavy quiet before the storm. He could see it play out—the grip, the struggle, the surrender. It was all there, tantalizingly close within his imagination.
She would be next. He’d already killed once today—the woman in the laundry room of the mansion. But he felt the urge again, like electricity crackling in his fingers as he looked at the woman with the cleaning brush behind the desk.
Her movements were fluid, hypnotic, as she adjusted the frame. She was real, tangible, not just an image glimpsed through glass. Daniel’s hands ached with the effort of restraint, his veins surging with the promise of what was to come.
He cleared his throat, trying to appear normal, but every fiber of his being screamed in resistance. This wasn’t about blending in anymore; it was about the thrill, the power, the control. But she was looking at him, and he couldn’t stand out. He needed to appear like a normal man who’d just stepped in off the street.
“Your brushwork is remarkable,” Daniel managed to rasp out, his voice foreign to his own ears. It was the sound of a man barely holding on to his civility, a veneer so thin it could be shattered with a breath.
The woman looked up, her smile a mix of pride and fatigue. “Oh, thank you. I’m just finishing up some restoration on this old piece.” She gestured at the canvas—a riot of colors that spoke of an age long past—a glimpse of an old, rural yard with three children at play. Her fingers held the frame gently, lovingly, and Daniel found himself imagining those hands growing limp, the light in her eyes dimming into nothingness.
“Art restoration, huh?” he prodded, feigning interest while his mind spun with darker thoughts.
“Yes, I’ve been doing it for years now. There’s something about bringing old art back to life… almost like reversing time.” Her voice held a note of wistfulness that echoed strangely in Daniel’s skull. “My name’s Andrea, by the way,” she said. “Are you an artist yourself?” she went on, unaware of the tempest brewing just beneath his calm exterior.
“Something like that,” Daniel muttered, his gaze never leaving her face. He studied the contours of her form, the rise and fall of her chest with each breath. She was beautiful, yes, but it was the prospect of extinguishing that beauty that held his attention.
The vibration in his pocket jolted him from his reverie. Lionheart. The name flashed across the screen before he silenced it. The call tethered him to reality, to the reason why he was supposed to be here in the first place. But the dagger, the heist, they all paled in comparison to the masterpiece before him—a life waiting to be snuffed out by his hand.
He smiled politely and stepped away from the desk. He made his way back outside, the cool air of the evening doing little to quell the fire inside him. A slight drizzle of rain was falling as the phone kept ringing, and he chose to ignore it. As he walked away, he made a silent promise—to return, to claim the life that danced so tantalizingly close to the edge.
He saw her eyes and her red air sharply in his mind as he kept his eyes open for an available cab to take him to his room.
His rented room was a haven of sorts, a nondescript box in a seedy motel where no one asked questions. The place reeked of bleach and desperation, but it was perfect for someone who didn’t want to be found. Per Lionheart’s instructions, all three of them had booked rooms at different locations—just another form of safety and precaution. As for Jasmine and Gollum, they’d been their contacts here in New York, so they simply lived where they’d always lived.
And look at them now, he thought as he flagged down a cab. Gone. Ghosts. Useless.
The cab approached and when he got inside, the Mayan dagger and tonight’s heist were the last things on his mind. All he could think about was the woman from the studio, how she held the brush, and how she had no idea whatsoever that she wouldn’t live to see another sunrise.