Chapter Text
The museum is packed with a few hundred bodies draped in fine fabrics and well-tailored suits. Diamonds, sapphires, rubies all catch in the light of the chandelier, a large stained glass panel adjacent to it. Nothing separates the Anavrin Gala from any other extravagant party hosted by insufferable, affluent names. It's a night of celebration, theoretically; another year of New York’s wealthiest donating to a cause for they-don’t-know-what to support they-don’t-know-who in the fight against ask-my-accountant. In reality, it’s just another opportunity for the rich to mingle, schmoozing, and bragging, and complaining about god-knows-what to the only other people who could afford to relate.
Ilya glides around the obnoxious conversations, his head low and focused on the floor, the smell of alcohol, and the tensions of gossip already heavy in the atmosphere. He scans the room carefully, memorizing the patrons dressed in what he could only presume are the very best of the best– silhouettes he doesn’t know by designers he can’t pronounce. His pale blue eyes run over their bodies, silently scrutinizing every detail of their demeanor, from their intentional posture to the slight mannerisms they unknowingly commit.
He lurks in the scarce shadows the lighting offers, keeping his distance, intentionally painting his face in an unapproachable frown in an effort to discourage small talk. He’d rather not offend one of his client’s no doubt snobbish guests by declining conversation. In any other scenario, he wouldn’t; he’d suck it up and take social interaction like a champ– but not tonight. Tonight, he’s on the clock, determined to observe, report, then leave. Nothing more, nothing less, and no fuck-ups.
He shakes away the thought, forcing himself to sift through the crowd for the umpteenth time tonight. He doesn’t watch anyone in particular, his eyes still carding through the various guests in floor-length gowns and rented tuxes. As he starts to make yet another round, prepared to dodge any questions and ignore offended scoffs, a dapper dark-haired man catches his eye. His complete focus shifts to almost perfectly styled hair, beautiful constellations that spread across his cheeks, moving up to his temples and scattered around his eyes, broad shoulders that line a chocolate brown suit, tied with a silver bolo tie. Ilya feels his grip tighten around the glass, his pinky drumming anxiously; the familiar feeling of arousal crawls down his spine, evoking a shiver in his limbs. His jaw is as tight as his lungs.
Focus.
He blinks himself back to reality, quickly snapping his head left to wash over the crowd once more, considering everyone with suspicion:
‘The blonde lady dressed in hot pink – obviously been searching for someone the entire night, not engaged in conversations, just scanning the room
Ginger man in a pinstripe suit – has spoken to the same person the entire night, nursing the same drink from an hour ago
The brunette in a shimmering green dress – made eye contact with me three times, possibly flirting, probably caught on.’
He inhales slowly before slipping from the crowd, making his way upstairs to relay his observations. He nods at the security guard, whispering ‘metros’ as confirmation, before ascending the staircase. It’s a steep, beautiful oak wood that creaks faintly below his feet, hushed only by the party below.
He meets Dallas Kent sprawled out on a red leather couch, two ladies with miles for legs on either side of him. It’s darker than the soirée downstairs, the only light being a steady stream of dull orange the chandelier grants. Dallas inhales from a thick Cuban cigar, then blows the smoke at the woman on his right, laughing carelessly with his head thrown back. It’s no wonder someone wants his head. Dallas Kent is the douchiest motherfucker– and he uses that term literally– Ilya’s ever met. He has no regard for others, just doing and saying whatever he wants. It’s a life most wish for, one Ilya dreads.
He’s well acquainted with the fast life– the money, the drugs, the sex– if not from his line of work, then from personal experience alone. It seems glamorous; fast cars, expensive clothes, huge parties, such as this– but it gets old quickly, and dangerous even quicker. The thing about Dallas is that he hasn’t learned to accept that. He’s constantly chasing the next high, shuffling through vices like he’s playing cards. Ilya imagines that’s why he’s in the situation he is now: wracked with paranoia and avoiding it with substances. It’s a sad life, but it’s escapable. He knows from personal experience.
“Fuck!” Dallas jolts, finally waking from his daze. “When the fuck did you get here?”
Ilya glances casually at his 4-karat custom Daytona. “A minute and forty-five seconds ago.”
“Can we help you?” Dallas raises his brows expectantly, as if Ilya isn’t worth his time.
Ilya disregards his ungrateful tone and rolls his eyes at the clearly intoxicated man. He couldn’t possibly get offended by this drunk fool, stretched wildly over this hideous, expensive sofa; he’s in no position to receive instruction. Ilya steps out of the glow of the chandelier, into the corner, meeting a large man standing still as a statue in a black button-up and an earpiece.
‘A responsible adult. Finally,” he sighs, relieved.
“Watch out for a brunette in a green dress,” he whispers to him, cocking his head towards Dallas, still strewn casually as if his life isn’t under threat. “Get him out of here in the next fifteen.”
Ilya runs his eyes over Dallas one last time, assessing his state for a half-second. “Бог ему в помощьGod, help him.,” he prays, moving back into the light, opting for an Irish goodbye.
Before the sole of his shoe reaches the bright center, bullets cut through the open air in front of him, piercing through Dallas, painting penny-sized holes in the man’s body. As blood seeps out of his torso, the women on his sides scramble in terror–perfectly healthy, not a scratch on either’s face.
‘Good aim,’ Ilya notes from his crouched position.
The crowd below him erupts into chaos, guests moving quickly towards the exits, fearing for their lives. He shuffles quickly, still hiding behind the pillared railing of the balcony as he descends the staircase, stepping into the eye of the hurricane.
Fabric flies at him, mascara ruined and running down botched faces, as people lose their ever-loving minds over a few bullets. Ilya swiftly veers through the panic, dodging screaming tuxedos as he stumbles to the side of the building, avoiding the overpacked main entrance. He’s squinting, roughly pushing through bodies as he slams into the thick silver door, fumbling onto the concrete outside. He exhales roughly, doubled over in an effort to catch his breath. Large hands pat his pockets in search of a cigarette.
‘What a fucking day.’
He plucks a thin cylinder from the pack, holding it between his plump lips as he lifts the metal lighter. The moment the spark ignites, the flame flickering amber in front of his face, his eyes blur past the smoke of the Marlboro steady onto a car maybe ten away. The beautiful stranger, the one in the brown suit, sits behind the wheel of a sleek and slender Mercedes, glasses shielding his face and gloves cutting into the heel of his palms. Before Ilya could rub the disbelief from his eyes, brown met blue, holding intensely, then car peeled away.
‘What the fuck?’
–
Shane had spent the better half of a week familiarizing himself with the building, analyzing the blueprints, testing which doors jammed, which stairs creaked, all in preparation for his assignment. He’d mastered the routine: arrive early, note every weak spot, every opportunity for a fuck-up, and avoid it at all costs. His personal philosophy was to plan for the worst, hope for the best, and not get caught. But tonight wasn’t a typical case, not one designated by Rose, but rather a favor for a friend of a friend. Shane didn’t do freelance; he stuck to what he knew, what was clean and cut and dry. But everyone once in a while, he craved something out of the ordinary, something not as painfully obvious as every other case.
He was a smart man, far more intelligent than any average 24-year-old, but even so, it’s never be much of a challenge deciphering why a boss needed an employee gone or why a wife needed her husband poisoned. He’d done so many jobs practically identical to each other that each backstory was self-explanatory: distrust. It all boiled down to distrust. Someone did something or saw something they weren’t supposed to, and now they needed to be gone. It was as simple as it got. And while those cases were his bread and butter, he often craved the thrill of mystery. He needed a puzzle every now and again– something to challenge him, someone to sharpen his skills.
Shane slithered through the crowd, amiability painted falsely across his features, mingling with the guests ever so often in attempts to keep up appearances. The Anavrin Gala was the place to be for some, but not for Shane. As far as he was concerned, every soul in this building was full of shit, smiling and nodding politely as he riddled off lies about his ‘developing tech company' with ‘over a million in stock already’. He could say whatever he wanted in his well-tailored suit and slicked hair, and they’d nod in attention. Rich people made each other gods; what else would they worship if not the reflection of themselves?
He made habit of assigning numbers to people as he strolled by. ‘10 million,’ he thought, brushing past a geriatric man staggering to the bar. ‘600,000,’ he smiled at an almost criminally young blonde practically crawling up a man no younger than 45. He didn’t see the bodies moving swiftly under the faint gleam any differently than he saw cattle; everyone had a price tag invisibly tied to their toe. Everyone had a number they’d be willing to spend to save their life, or that they’d sacrific to take for someone else’s. No one was above his work, especially not the fucking rich.
Shane was bored by the fifth conversation, nursing a drink, as he half-listened to a silver bobbed petite lady, repeating after her every once in a while in mock confusion, as if he were engaged.
‘$500,’ he scoffed to himself.
He was stalling, waiting for 23:21 so he could cross the street, slip on gloves, and finish the job. It was nothing more than a tedious task to him, taking Dallas’ life. Though he often tried to separate feelings from work, he couldn’t deny how much he fucking hated Dallas Kent. He was the epitome of douchebags– smug, rich, and not to mention, homophobic. His trigger finger itched at the sound of his name.
Shane turned his attention back towards the small woman, offering a polite smile before excusing himself. As he stepped towards the bar, the unmistakable sinking of his gut told him eyes were following him. He tilted his head, watching the room through his peripheral. In the corner of his eye, a tall blonde man with bluish-green eyes burrowed a hole into the side of his face. He was dressed nicely, a grey suit with a burgundy floral tie– surely more stylish than any of the tacky dresses he’d seen tonight. He waited for the man’s head to snap away before watching him fully. He was undeniably gorgeous, his broad shoulders filling the double-breasted jacket, his gold hoops catching light just right as his pink tapped rhythmically against his glass, his ring shifting with every tap. Shane was intrigued by him, watching as he scanned the room, declining every conversation.
‘God, was he a douchebag too?’
Shane peeled his eyes away, forcing himself to check his wrist. ‘11:20.’ He gave the douchebag another glance, admiring the way his brows furrowed in concentration before exiting through the side door he’d disabled, imagining how his curls fell as he twisted his head left and right.
‘What a guy?’ he smiled to himself.
Shane crossed the street in quick strides, shucking off his jacket while slipping nylon gloves from his pants pocket, his jaw clenched in focus. He climbed the fire escape skillfully, avoiding the rusted steps he’d previously noted, moving to lie flat on the hard asphalt of the building’s hat, his thin button-up and dress pants the only barrier between the cold, wet roof. He crawled to MSR near the edge of the building, setting his cheek beside the cold upper as he aligned his eye with the scope. He adjusted his grip, fingers wiggling over polymer, his index ghosting the trigger as he watched the scene.
A familiar frame draped in grey with a head full of dirty blonde curls stepped directly in front of Dallas, blocking his shot; the grey suit, oddly familiar, was his admirer from across the room. He sighed in frustration, practically shaking with adrenaline and ready to take his shot. He could shoot anyway, but something deep in his stomach turned at the idea– call it intuition. And what if he blocked his shot completely and Shane missed– though he never did? That’d just be unintelligent. He chose patience, watching the blonde through the scope, admiring the way his suit pants hugged the curve of his ass, smiling to himself. He pictured the sharp features of his admirer; even in the buzz of the gala, Shane’s ears picked up the gentle clink of his ring against the glass, the melody eerily annoying like a song he couldn’t get out of his head. Shane tapped the grip impatiently, anxious to get the job done. As he let out a steadying breath, the tall figure moved to the side of the balcony, near but out of his line of fire.
“Finally,” he exhaled.
Shane refocused, adjusting his grip once more, holding the barrel steady as he squinted, zoning in on the large idiot on the red couch. He took his time, inhaling and exhaling, letting the cold air reinvigorate him, ensuring everything was right before he fired, nearly striking his beautiful stranger.
He pressed and pressed and pressed the trigger, reveling in the loud bang and the recoil of the gun, inhaling the acrid odor of his success. He angled the scope at the other man, ignoring the slaughter and instead watching for his admirer’s reaction, hoping for fear. It was gratifying to watch the aftershock of his precision, though he could never watch as long as he liked; it reminded him why he did what he did. He stared at the man, waiting for a look of horror to wash over his chiseled features, but the fear never came. Instead, something much more puzzling painted his expression: indifference.
‘What the fuck?’
Shane followed him through the lens of the gun, watching as he crawled against the staircase, not a hint of panic in his movements, as if each movement was practiced, like Shane’s. He rose quickly, clicking on the safety before rushing off the open roof, recalling every step to dodge. Questions swam through his head as he made his way down to the alley.
Why wasn’t he scared? Was it a poor shot? Why the fuck wasn’t he scared?
He swung the Mercedes open, throwing the artillery in the backseat before climbing behind the wheel.
Didn’t he know what it took? How dare he? How fucking dare he?
It was a flawless fucking shot; it’d send a wave of worry through any average person.
Maybe he isn’t average. Maybe he’s like me– intelligent, above average.
Shane veered out of the alley, stopping at the intersection, his features illuminated in red light.
Maybe he’s desensitized. Maybe he’s so smart that it all seemed predictable. Maybe he was waiting?
Then the unsettling sensation of eyes on him again. His head snapped to the side to witness wide blue eyes– the mystery man, his sharp features lit dimly by the orange of the lighter, a cigarette dangling– stood in a cold, wet alley staring at him. His face heated unnaturally, a bright pink moving across his cheeks, as he slammed the gas, speeding through the stoplight.
“Above average,” he whispered.
–
Nothing feels the same after the hit. Shane’s happy, he figures. He succeeded, took out his target, and was compensated handsomely for his efforts, as always. Yet he can’t ease back into routine the way he typically does, a certain grey-suited blonde haunting his memory. He fondly recalls that night, the way the man stared at him as if he were the only person in the room, the way he moved so stealthily behind the banister, the way he didn’t fucking flinch. Shane’s fists clench, the fury buzzing in his teeth.
He’s mortified at the lack of reaction. It took years to gain that level of precision; it took years to even learn how to hold a gun, shoot, and not care about the repercussions. He’d trained his whole life for the privilege, to fire and bask in the scent of gunpowder and enjoy it. He took countless lives, in countries he could barely pronounce, for reasons he was better off not knowing, to earn that accuracy; it was not not talent, it was skill, hard earned and deserved. Innate or not, it made no difference, no dent in the mind of the man who didn’t flinch. To him, Shane was just another faceless, nameless gunman following orders. It was embarrassingly frustrating, the kind of shame you felt young that stuck with you throughout life, the kind that sat on your chest for longer than necessary and convinced tears; This was the shame that taught resilience. Shane could prove the feeling false, prove that lesson was wrong and undeserved; he could prove the man wrong. He could show him true capability. He wanted the blonde to stand in awe as Shane looked a man in the eye before planting a bullet between his brows. Shane needed it, he needed blue-greens eyes on his dagger as he slit the soft skin over an esophagus. But want overpowered the need. A feeling so intrinsic, it could not be learned or developed like skin, it had to be instilled like love or hate. Shane wanted; he wanted to know him intricately, wanted to feel him in his intuition, know him better than a gun.
Finding anyone or anything wasn’t particularly hard, but the more he searched, the more this man seemed like a figment of his imagination, just another ship that’d cross him with no name or story. He spent hours scouring, combing through archives Rose had sent, looking for even the vague shape of a hint pointing him to who this man was. He didn’t need an end goal, a clear irrefutable truth he could point to in satisfaction. An exact answer wouldn’t satisfy the way learning did, mystery was enough, the joy of learning was enough. The small clues that revealed themselves as minutes passed and tabs opened were motivation.
By hour 12, something revealed itself. Shane sat at his kitchen island with a unacknowleged emptiness growing in his gut. No carb could give him the high of an epiphany. Information was more sustenance than food. His name, Ilya Rozanov– he was Russian. It was a good start, but not all Russians are big, scary men with no fear. ‘Private detective’– sure, he’d seen some stuff, but definitely nothing as impressive as Shane. Shane regarded himself perfect, both apparently and practically. No one on earth had his experience, his brilliance; it was an honor to watch his work firsthand. With each revelation, the mystery dwindled to his core.
Son of Grigory Rozanov, ex-KGB Colonel.
Shane recognized it in the simple sentence, just another fact but it held the answer like no other did. Any piece could be the solution, but this was it. Military royalty, no wonder he didn’t flinch; there was no instinct there. His gut reaction was stale and trained. Typical reactions were twisted into something cold and unfeeling to protect oneself. He knew the feeling thoroughly. Shane’s envisioned a small, fragile boy blinking back tears as his father’s yell echoed throughout the large, empty house, much like himself; his heart ached for this gorgeous stranger, that version of himself he could never heal– his Ilya, and his puzzle.
The once crisp lines separating Ilya from the ‘man in the greysuit’ burned. Ilya became something holy, something hallowed Shane was willing to devote himself to. He wanted to know everything: if he was right or left-handed, if he smoked menthols or milds, what his blood tasted like, what his tattoos meant. Shane wanted to experience Ilya. He wanted to memorize the things he’d try to hide, disgusting secrets kept between him and god. He wanted to know every scar, and mole, and freckle by name. He wanted to know every heartbreak, wanted a list of names to hunt. He was sure he could mend the broken boy that lived inside. If he could figure him out, he could fix him just as easily; Ilya was Shane’s puzzle to solve.
–
Ilya rose to a quiet, eerie house. It was his perfect symbiosis. The large sparse house was a perfect juxtaposition to his spiraling state of mind; the quietness almost inseparable from the stones drove away the mess of his mind; it reminded him of Russia, but somehow colder. These walls ached for something warm within, a certain smile that couldn’t cook in his kitchen, or sing in his hallways. But that ache was common, expected even; this morning’s felt foreign. Something, everything, felt off in the home, like the temperature turned up half a degree. He rolled off the king-sized, rubbing bleary eyes as he strolled to the en-suite. The house was large enough for a 5-person family, though still enough for it to remain a possibility. His life was just his, no obligation, no debt, no friends, except for Sveta who seemed more a sister.
He brushed his teeth in small circles, blinking himself awake, as he took in the large room. His eyes swept over the large tub— normal enough—past the two-person shower— seemingly cleaner than last night—to a small green light in the corner, near the door leading to the closet. He glanced away casually, focusing back on his reflection. He watched from his peripheral as the little green dot snapped to red, then blinked, blinked again, and kept on blinking, as if it were recording. Goosebumps coated the nape of his neck.
‘What the actual fuck was that?’
He spat out the remaining toothpaste, rushing out of the room, descending travertine stairs—spiraled and confusing so early in the morning. He flew, itching to get out. His body swiftly navigated the sharp corners of the stone, carefully observing for any danger planted; every step felt like the wrong decision. He slithered through tight hallways, seemingly shrinking in on him, into the kitchen, his eyes locked on the garage door just a stride away. As he crossed the island, swiping keys for whatever car, he froze. A pile of letters, he had not collected, sat dead center on the marble. An off-white envelope lay purposefully adjacent to the others, a small post-it note underneath it. It bore no sender name, no return address, and a red wax seal– the symbol of utmost importance. Ilya ran his dagger against the seam.
All sorted :) . Read mine first!
Ilya Rozanov
081 Centaur Dr.
New York, NY. 01221
Hello Ilya,
I have been watching you for a while now. I hope you don’t mind, given your line of work. I watch you sleep, watch you wake. I’ve seen you more than you’ve seen yourself this week. I like your car, it looks expensive.
I’m sure you could afford a few Porsches, haha. I like your friend, Sveta. She is funny, like you. She is very pretty. You two seem close. I have a friend like that. You should grow your hair like hers. You’d look pretty, too. I am also bilingual, mon énigme. I speak French and English.
I don’t know a lot of Russian. Maybe you could teach me? I can’t wait to see you, mon petit mystère. Can you wear grey today? It suits you better than black.
Until we meet again,
X
‘A fan,’ Ilya huffed in amusement.
He felt himself physically relax– his shoulders tensed at his ears, dropped, his jaw released, his fingers unfurled their tight grip on the page. He let out a long breath, a mix of disappointment and relief. There was no need to run, no need to fight. Something opposing his better judgment spread through his lungs. Just a minute ago, he was fully in his element, planning his escape, his new life, his fake obituary. It felt fulfilling in ways you could only know from experience.
He longed for the thrill of danger; he craved the adrenaline it offered him, the adventures, the purpose. Now he worked when he wanted to, cooking boring meals in an empty house and judging the obscenely wealthy wearing a house on his wrist. His life, once exciting beyond conceptualization, was unfamiliarly lackluster in all the wrong ways.
But this wasn’t that. This letter, sat neatly folded beside a cursive note, was neither boring nor lackluster. This was new, something he could believe in. This was a glimpse of purpose he’d been unknowingly searching for; this was chance. He’d met a kidnapper, he’d had an assailant, he even called a few murders friend, but this– this was uncharted. Ilya Rozanov had a stalker.