Beauty in the Dark

People pay me millions because I don't have a conscience, I don't have a code, and I never, ever get attached. It’s been this way for over a decade. I’m a bad man who works for bad men, covering up their worst impulses, and it doesn’t cost me a single night of sleep. I’m surgical at what I do—scrubbing digital paper trails, altering traffic feeds to turn a targeted hit into a "tragic mechanical failure," or ensuring a witness forgets how to speak. I know where the bodies are buried because I’ve dug the holes. Sometimes I skip the shovel entirely. A vat of industrial acid leaves fewer questions.

I’m managing a clean-up for a female client right now—a tech CEO with enough blood on her hands to paint a gallery, and the cold ambition to match. I always appreciate a woman breaking the glass ceiling, even the criminal one. Equal opportunity corruption. She wanted her rival’s lead engineer out of the picture before their product launch, and while I didn't clip his brake lines, I’m currently editing the city’s intersection cameras to ensure the police call it an accident.

A fresh stack of multi-million-dollar contracts sits to the left of my keyboard, waiting for my signature. The world is full of mess, and I am the undisputed king of clean.

Behind me, the white noise of a cable news broadcast keeps the room from feeling like a tomb. It’s a necessary distraction while I multi-task, a background hum while I bring home the bacon for Poe—my twenty-five-pound tuxedo Maine Coon. I’m a ghost to the rest of the world, but to Poe, I’m just the guy who rubs his face in his soft, fluffy belly after a twelve-hour shift of erasing sins. Usually, we decompress to The Great British Baking Show or Chef's Table. Watching world-class pastry chefs obsess over the exact lamination of dough satisfies my need for precision, and frankly, I’ve developed the ability to cook for kings vicariously through the screen.

But the culinary channel isn't on tonight. The ticker is scrolling through the usual chaos—foreign wars, the upcoming election, a local heatwave—and I’m preparing to shut it down when I hear… her.

It isn't just a voice; it’s a sudden, soaring frequency that slices straight through the hum of my servers. She’s a soprano. I can tell by the effortless, bell-like clarity of her tone as she speaks to the reporter—a voice with a natural, bright resonance that sounds like crystal hitting marble. Even through the cheap speakers of the studio monitor, her speech has a breathless, melodic lift to it, moving with a fast, rhythmic cadence that tells me her mind runs twice as fast as the person interviewing her. It’s clean. Pure. An instrument of perfect pitch in a world full of sloppy, stuttering white noise.

My fingers freeze over the keyboard. I don't look up immediately—control is my religion, and I don't let distractions dictate my movement. But the voice keeps climbing, light and impossibly vibrant, filling the dark corners of my room until the silence I love so much suddenly feels entirely too empty. There is a cold, possessive spike of interest drilling into my spine, a sudden, sharp instinct that tells me this voice already belongs in my quiet world.

I finally lift my gaze to the center monitor.

The caption at the bottom of the screen reads Ella Morris. She’s talking about her upcoming production of Legally Blonde at The Lyceum. Ella. The name rolls through my mind like a quiet command. She’s stunning—dark honey-blonde hair framing a vibrant face, dark brown eyes sparkling with an explosive, theatrical energy as she handles the interviewer. She’s dressed casually in jeans and a promotional t-shirt, but it does absolutely nothing to hide the soft curves of a smoking hot body. She’s not even trying, and a sudden, heavy ache hits me low in the gut. A dark, protective instinct wraps around my chest, instantly demanding to lock her away where no other eyes can touch her. I’m utterly transfixed.

The interviewer asks her to perform a number, and she stands up, completely taking over the small studio stage. The song is called “So Much Better.” I watch her expression shift, the brightness vanishing as she completely embodies a fiercely determined character. She belts out the notes with an effortless power that leaves me spellbound, grinning like a lunatic in the dark. She hits the final high note perfectly, holding it until it vibrates straight through my chest.

Incredible.

I lean back in my leather seat, idly slow-clapping for the empty room. When the interviewer displays the ticket website on screen, my fingers are already moving. In a breath, I’ve purchased a ticket in the back row, aisle seat, for every single performance.

But as the screen cuts to commercial, a cold, familiar gnawing settles into my mind. Ella Morris. Why do I know that name?

I pull up a fresh secure window and type it into my private database. Up come the theater reviews, the headshots, the college production videos. Then, I hit the family tree.

Arthur Morris.

My blood turns to ice. Her father is the Senior Federal Prosecutor for the DCDTE. The legal world calls him “The Ghost Hunter” because he doesn't waste time on low-level street thugs; he spends years building iron-clad RICO cases that completely dismantle entire syndicates from the top down.

Oh, fuck. It hits me why her name is burning a hole in my memory.

My gaze drops to the fresh stack of contracts sitting to the left of my keyboard. I grab the pile, flipping through the encrypted physical pages, praying to whatever god or devil is listening that I’m wrong.

I'm not. There she is.

It’s a contract from Alfonzo Mendoza. El Verdugo.

No. Not this girl. Not her.

I lean in, digging rapidly through Mendoza's briefing file to understand the logistics. Twelve years ago, Arthur Morris put Mendoza away, seizing over $400 million in cartel assets and burying the kingpin in a supermax. But thanks to a recent FBI misconduct scandal, Mendoza was just transferred to a local detention center to await an evidentiary hearing—leaving a security window open.

It’s a blood feud. Mendoza’s nineteen-year-old son, Damian, was arrested in that same sting. Arthur refused a plea deal, sending the boy to a violent penitentiary where he was killed in a yard riot three years later. Mendoza’s only child, wiped off the earth.

Now, Mendoza wants an eye for an eye. Arthur only has one child, too, and she’s currently rehearsing at The Lyceum. The file notes that Arthur knows he's targeted; he has a soft federal security detail watching Ella from a distance at all times.

Which is exactly why Mendoza sent the contract to me. They need a ghost who can slip past federal marshals without tripping a single wire. They want me to kidnap her.

I look at the execution logistics. The cartel wants her delivered to a desert drop point. They plan to hold her for 72 hours, live-streaming her captivity directly to her father via untraceable, encrypted links. When the clock runs out, they execute her on camera. They want Arthur to watch his daughter die in real-time.

Two million dollars to take this vibrant, beautiful girl and deliver her to a slaughterhouse.

Dear God, Ella. What has he gotten you into?

If I turn down this contract, Mendoza will just give it to someone else. Someone brutal. Someone who will actually deliver her to the desert. I can't let that happen. The thought of another man laying a hand on her, of anyone else tracking her movements or stepping into her space, makes a cold, dangerous wave of violence rise in my throat. I am the only one allowed to take her. I will lock her in my fortress, keep her absolutely safe, and ensure she never has to sing for anyone but me.

I stare up at the frozen image of her smiling face on my center monitor, then slowly cover my face with my hands.

Fuck.

I click the link, send the encrypted confirmation code, and accept the job.