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 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. 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 attention. 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 frequency that slices through the hum of my servers. She’s a soprano. I can tell by the effortless clarity of her tone as she speaks to the reporter—bright, ringing, and cutting straight through the cheap studio monitor speakers. 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. Clean. Pure.

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. Though she’s dressed casually, I am drawn to the way her promotional shirt and jeans hug her gentle curves. 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 force myself to look away, to return back to the work I was doing. I’m editing the footage from another traffic camera while the TV continues in the background.

My attention is drawn again when the interviewer asks her to perform a number. 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.

This is ridiculous. I don’t even like musicals. I sit back in my chair, looking at the screen, showing the dates of the show run, starting in two weeks.

This girl is a distraction. I don’t do distractions. I go to turn off the screen, to get her out of my mind, but I can’t bring myself to press the button.

Instead, I purchase 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 District of Columbia Drug Tracking and Enforcement. 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 coded 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 dig through the briefing file, tracking the blood feud. Twelve years ago, Arthur Morris put Mendoza away and refused the plea deal that could have saved Mendoza's teenage son. The boy died in prison. Mendoza never forgot, and with his recent transfer to a local detention center, he finally has the window he's waited a decade for.

An eye for an eye.

They want me to bypass the soft federal detail her father assigned to her, pull her from her show, and take her to a drop point in the desert, where they will hold her for seventy-two hours while they live-stream her to Arthur. When the clock runs out, she dies on camera.

Two million dollars to deliver her to a slaughterhouse. Her only crime was being born to the wrong father.

I sit there. Contemplating.

I don’t get attached. I do my job.

Could I take the job? I’ve done worse things than kidnapping a girl. I dismiss that thought immediately–I could never take this girl to her death.

I could walk away.

I force myself to pick up the other contracts. I glance over them, but I can’t focus. I keep coming back to her.

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.