Whenever Elias Valenz pictured his own death, he had never imagined quite so much concrete.

It was infuriating, how much of it surrounded him. Clean gray floor, walls, and ceiling. No chair, no window. Not even any graffiti, rust, or blood from previous victims to personalize the place—though he should have expected no less from someone like Beake.

The sound of footsteps outside the windowless metal door made Eli scrabble for any other kind of identifier in the room. A defining scent, a hint of where he was beyond the sound of the lights buzzing above him.

Nothing. The criminal had already sent him to purgatory, it seemed.

“Is he awake?” a cool voice asked behind the door. Though the voice received no response, the door swung open a second later, letting in one man and one guard. Eli glared at them from his position on the floor, lying on his side with his hands bound behind him.

“What?” Eli muttered, the pounding in his head slowing down his tongue. “Am I not worth two guards?”

His captor didn’t crack a smile. Just stared at him blankly. The moment gave Eli a hurried opportunity to memorize everything he could about the man. The black leather gloves, the empty gun harness, the crisp white shirt stained red at the neck. The way he held himself perfectly straight, blue eyes and blue hair making him look like an iceberg, with an expression and reputation to match.

Eli almost laughed to himself. Why bother with the details? It’s not like he was going to make it out of here alive, much less see the mastermind wandering about Central Park later.

“I apologize for my appearance,” Beake said, his eyes following Eli’s gaze to the blood at his neck. “My last excursion was messier than I would have liked. I usually appear better for guests. Speaking of which…”

Ambrose Beake held out a gloved hand towards the guard, who placed Eli’s wallet in his palm. Beake flipped it open and slid out his card with his thumb.

“Elias Valenz, if that is your real name,” he glanced down at Eli, “working for…ah. My favorite. The agency.”

Eli tried to analyze the man’s face for any hint of his fate, while carefully rubbing against the bonds at his wrists. The throbbing injury at his temple was making it difficult to do both.

“Why am I alive?” he asked. That was it—get the stupid blue man talking, and give himself more time to sever the bonds. Even though it was a blow to his ego, only having one guard in the room would give him a better chance at escape, if he could just get his hands free.

Beake handed the wallet back to the guard. Eli noticed fresh blood at his neck, betraying a thin cut that had narrowly missed his artery. If the injury bothered him at all, he made no sign of it.

“That is a fair question,” Beake said. The guard traded the wallet for a small vial of green liquid. Beake unstoppered it and held it out towards Eli, who quickly settled his wrists and maintained his glare.

After a moment, Beake gave a tiny shrug. “It’s not poison.” He downed the vial in one go. The wound at his neck sizzled, then evaporated, blood disappearing in a puff of steam. Beake set his shoulders and cracked his neck. “To answer your question, you’re alive because you incapacitated my external guards.” He walked towards Eli. “You successfully circumvented my security system, and you made it not ten, not twenty, but sixty paces further than any other fool who’s tried to hunt me down.”

Eli gritted his teeth. Despite his work on the bonds, they were only getting tighter around his wrists. “Thanks for rubbing it in.”

“On the contrary, I was going to congratulate you.” Beake’s voice was soft and even. Given what Eli knew about him, he couldn’t decide whether it was more or less terrifying than what he had expected. “But I suppose I don’t have to, if you’d prefer.”

“Never thought assholes like you actually monologued,” Eli said, biting back a curse. Whatever rope they had used now cut deep into his skin. “You practice often?”

“I apologize. I am taking up too much of your remaining time, aren’t I?” Beake crouched, his perfectly polished shoes reflecting ugly fluorescent light back into Eli’s eyes. He pointed a gloved finger at Eli’s wrists. “Have you noticed the counter-action built into the threads there? Surely you have by now.”

Eli stopped moving his wrists, wanting nothing more than to take the bonds at his skin and loop them around the man’s neck.

“Now to truly answer your question,” Beake continued, “you’re alive because I want you to be.”

Eli snorted—not very dignified, particularly lying on the ground, but it was all he had. “What’re you gonna do? Bribe me? Torture me? Try to turn me?” He nodded towards the guard in the back, who betrayed no trace of emotion. His boss had taught him well.

“I’m rather offended. Bribery and torture are hardly my forte.” Beake pulled a white cloth and another green vial out of his pocket. “Turning, however…”

He opened the bottle, dropped a pinprick of the liquid onto the cloth, and watched a pale green tint expand into the fibers. Eli watched as well, trying to sort out what it meant. Was this another step in Beake’s healing process, or was it a poison meant for him?

“You’re a fool, Elias,” Beake said, “but a good one. A clever one, if my observations are correct, and, let’s be honest, they always are.” His gaze flicked from the cloth to Eli. “I want you to follow the money.”

Eli met his gaze in surprise. “What?”

Beake reached towards him. Eli flinched backwards, bumping into the concrete wall—but before he could consider biting, kicking, anything to fend off the poison, he felt the cloth in Beake’s hand lightly brush his temple.

“You hunt me because I hunt others. Is that not the case?” Beake murmured. The longer he held the cloth in place, the less pain Eli felt. But the healing only freed his mind to go in faster, more frantic circles. Why heal someone before killing them?

He had to drag his focus back to Beake’s words as he continued.

“Try following my prey for once,” Beake said, pulling away the cloth. The green spot had disappeared, along with the last of Eli’s headache. “Follow the money. If you walk in their tracks and find that you still want to hunt me, I will cut you down without a second thought.” He stood. “Are we clear?”

Eli spat. “I’m not helping you.”

“I’m not asking you to.” Beake stepped away and gave one nod to the guard. “Have a good day, Mr. Valenz.”

The guard strode forward and pulled a bottle from his pocket. Eli recoiled on instinct as he felt a cool mist spray his face.

The concrete walls around him quickly faded into nothing.

#

Eli didn’t need to open his eyes to know where he was next, and the thought terrified him.

He was in his bed. In his room. In his apartment. Of which Ambrose Beake now knew the exact location.

Every muscle pulled taut, he kept his eyes closed for another moment, listening carefully to ensure no one was walking around in the room or in the hall. When he did finally loosen and sit up, he found all his belongings neatly arranged on his nightstand. His keys, his pocketknife, his wallet. Everything he had been caught with.

He opened his wallet and found everything there untouched as well, even the cash. He briefly considered dusting his ID card for prints before remembering that both men had worn gloves the entire time.

He was about to close the wallet when he saw something else stuck in it. Frowning, he pulled on the corner of the card until he could read the writing, all narrow gold lettering and gilded geometric lines.

It was a ticket to a museum gala—no, not a museum gala. The museum gala. The gala that would clog next week’s airways with private jets, next week’s streets with limos and press vans and red carpets.

He turned the ticket around to find a note taped to the back, written in precise black ink.

Don’t be late.

Eli grinned at the paper, his hands shaking. This is where he would catch him. This is where he would catch Ambrose Beake.