Eva stands over him. The air is thick with the metallic tang of blood and something else, something cloying, like stale sweat and cheap aftershave. The man, heavy-set and pale, sprawls across the stained bedsheets. His chest glistens under the single bare bulb, a canvas of coarse hair and a faint sheen of grease. The chef’s utility knife feels heavy in her hand. A precise, brutal thrust.
She pulls it out, a soft, sickening squelch. His eyes are wide, fixed on the ceiling. No light there. Just the dull glow. She watches the last tremor leave his body, a shiver that ripples through his gut before settling into stillness. The silence that follows is immense, pressing in on her ears. It’s never truly silent, not with her own heart hammering against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the quiet hum of the apartment building.
A drop of blood, viscous and dark, clings to the blade's tip. She stares at it, not recoiling. Her fingers are steady. They always are. This is a job. A necessity. The man had a name, she thinks, but it's already forgotten. He was a piece of information, a threat, now just a problem to be cleaned.
She moves methodically. The plastic sheet she laid down earlier, a cheap painter’s drop cloth, has done its job. Most of the splash is contained. Still, a few droplets spiderweb across the worn laminate floor, small crimson jewels. She needs to be thorough. Every trace. Every single one.
Her eyes scan the small, cramped bedroom. Faded wallpaper, a dresser with peeling veneer, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand. There’s a faint smell of cigarettes embedded in the fabric of the room, years of stale smoke clinging to everything. She breathes shallowly, not wanting to inhale too deeply.
The man’s body is heavy. Dragging him off the bed, onto the plastic, takes effort. Her muscles strain, a dull ache blooming in her shoulders. He’s surprisingly warm, even in death. She avoids looking at his face, keeping her gaze focused on the task, on the logistics. The chest, indeed, is ugly. Patches of dark hair matted with sweat and a faint, oily sheen. She almost gags, but pushes it down. Professionalism.
She bundles him roughly. The plastic crinkles loudly in the stillness. Each sound is amplified, a sudden gunshot in the quiet apartment. She freezes, listening. Nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, a distant siren wailing somewhere far off. The city continues, oblivious to the small, contained act of violence unfolding within its walls.
The knife. She wipes it clean on a corner of the drop cloth, then wraps it in a paper towel from the kitchen. It needs to disappear, along with everything else. The gloves come off last, carefully, inside out, to avoid leaving prints. She tucks them into a small, black plastic bag she pulled from her pocket.
She retrieves her phone, a burner, from the pocket of her jeans. No calls, no messages. Good. Her contact had been clear. Get in, get it done, get out. No complications. She double-checks the apartment door, making sure the deadbolt is still engaged. It is. No one saw her enter. No one will see her leave.
She takes a moment, a single, sharp breath, to centre herself. The adrenaline is still coursing, a buzzing beneath her skin. It feels like static electricity, prickling at her nerve endings. The urge to flee is strong, a primal scream echoing in her mind. But she ignores it. This isn't over until the last trace is gone.
She grabs the bundled body. It’s bulky, awkward. The plastic makes it slippery. She steadies her grip, her jaw tight. She plans to take him out the back way, through the alley, to the waiting van. A quick, silent transfer. The night is dark, moonless, a blessing. The alley will be deserted, as always.
The floorboards creak as she moves towards the door. Each step is deliberate, measured. The weight of the man, the weight of her actions, presses down on her. But she carries it. She always carries it. The cold, hard logic of survival. The job. Her purpose.
She reaches the back door, her hand already on the latch. A faint noise from outside. A scrape. Her heart leaps, a sudden, violent thud against her ribs. She freezes, straining her ears. The alley. Someone is out there. It can't be. Not now. Not when she’s so close. She presses her ear against the cold metal of the door, holding her breath, listening. The scrape again, closer this time. A loose garbage can lid? A stray cat? Or something worse? The knife, though cleaned and wrapped, suddenly feels far away, tucked deep in the plastic bag. Her hand instinctively goes to her waistband, where a smaller, secondary blade is usually kept. It isn't there.
---
The alley is empty, or appears to be. The sound was just a phantom, born of stress. Eva exhales slowly, a long, controlled release of tension. Her grip on the bundled body tightens. She twists the latch, a soft click, and pulls the door inward just enough to peer out. Darkness. The smell of damp concrete and overflowing bins. No movement. The faint glow of a distant streetlamp barely penetrates the gloom.
She pushes the door open fully, easing the heavy package through first. The plastic rustles against the door frame. She slips out, closing the door behind her with a quiet thud. The van. It should be waiting. It always is. The designated pick-up point is fifty feet down, next to the overflowing dumpster, half-hidden by a sprawling, untrimmed bush.
Her eyes adjust to the low light. The alley stretches, a narrow canyon between brick buildings. She can make out the vague outline of the Ford Transit, its dark panels blending into the shadows. Relief washes over her, cold and brief. Too early for relief. The transfer still needs to happen. No room for error.
She drags the bundle, the dead weight resisting her every step. Her arms ache, muscles burning. Each shuffle of the plastic against the rough asphalt sounds deafening in the stillness. She imagines eyes watching from every darkened window, every crack in the brickwork. Paranoia, she tells herself. Just the adrenaline playing tricks.
Reaching the van, she doesn’t hesitate. The back doors are unlatched, slightly ajar. She yanks them open, revealing a sparse, windowless interior. Another plastic sheet covers the floor of the cargo area. Efficiency. Her contact thinks of everything. She heaves the body into the back, pushing it deep into the dark space. It lands with a muted thud.
She closes the doors, securing them with a firm push. The click of the latch is final. Done. The first part, anyway. She glances around the alley one last time, checking for anything she might have missed, any stray piece of plastic, any droplet of blood. Nothing. The alley looks exactly as it did before she arrived, dirty and forgotten.
Her own clothes. She wears dark, non-descript jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, both easily disposable. She pulls the hood up, even though there’s no rain. It’s a habit, a form of concealment, a way to disappear. Her heart rate slowly begins to descend from its frantic peak, a gradual deceleration. The static beneath her skin subsides.
She pulls out her burner phone again. One pre-programmed number. A single text message: “Done.” No reply. None expected. Just confirmation. She pockets the phone, then walks briskly towards the mouth of the alley, towards the street where she left her own vehicle. A grey Honda Civic, blending in perfectly with the anonymity of the city.
The street is quiet. A lone taxi passes, its yellow light cutting through the pre-dawn gloom. She slides into the driver's seat, the worn fabric cool beneath her touch. The engine turns over on the first try, a reassuring rumble. She pulls away from the curb, merging into the sparse traffic, another anonymous car in a city of millions.
The destination is already set in her mind. A safe house, miles away, where she can shed her clothes, shower, and finally, truly breathe. But even there, the image of the man's chest, slick with sweat and blood, will linger. The memory of the knife. The silence. It’s never truly gone.
---
The morning air in the museum feels crisp, a stark contrast to the stale, metallic air of the apartment. Haj Sadegh adjusts the knot of his silk tie, the material smooth against his fingers. He moves through the hushed halls of the National Museum of Antiquities with a practiced solemnity, his footsteps barely disturbing the polished marble floors. The faint scent of old paper and dust motes dances in the shafts of sunlight filtering through the high, arched windows.
He stops before a display case, his gaze fixed on a collection of ancient pottery shards. They are unremarkable, faded ochre and charcoal, yet each fragment holds a story. A lifetime of history, compressed into a broken piece of clay. He appreciates the quiet permanence of these objects, a stark counterpoint to the fleeting, violent world he usually inhabits.
His phone vibrates subtly in his jacket pocket. He pulls it out, a sleek, modern device that looks almost alien against the backdrop of millennia-old artifacts. The screen displays a single, encrypted message. He reads it, his expression remaining neutral, his eyes betraying nothing. The name “Eva Green” appears, followed by a series of coordinates and a timestamp: last night. The message is brief, almost cryptic. “Package delivered. Clean.”
“Clean.” Haj Sadegh allows a faint, almost imperceptible curl of his lip. Nothing is ever truly clean. Not in their line of work. There are always echoes, always ripples. He pockets the phone, his gaze returning to the pottery shards. He wonders what kind of hands shaped them, what kind of lives they witnessed. Did they ever know such a thing as “clean” actions?
A young woman, no older than thirty, walks past him, her quick steps echoing slightly. She wears a simple grey dress and carries a small, well-worn leather bag. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her eyes, though, are what catch his attention. They dart, restless, taking in everything and nothing, a hyper-vigilance that speaks of something beyond casual interest in ancient history. She pauses before a display of Sasanian silver, but her focus seems elsewhere, her body language coiled, ready to spring.
He watches her for a moment, a flicker of professional curiosity. She is too aware, too tense, for a casual visitor. The description of her movements, her gaze, reminds him of certain profiles he has studied. He files her away, an interesting anomaly in the tranquil museum setting. His thoughts, however, are still on the message. “Package delivered.” A life taken. A problem solved. At what cost?
He continues his walk, moving into the Hall of Islamic Art. Here, intricate calligraphy and vibrant mosaics adorn the walls. Beauty and precision, a testament to human ingenuity. He finds himself drawn to a particular exhibit: a meticulously restored astrolabe, its brass gears and delicate engravings glinting under the display lights. A device to measure the stars, to navigate the unknown.
The young woman from earlier reappears, walking quickly, almost purposefully, towards the exit. Her pace has quickened, a slight urgency now evident in her stride. She glances over her shoulder, a quick, almost imperceptible movement, as if checking for something, or someone. Haj Sadegh notes the detail. It is too much. His professional instinct, honed over decades, begins to prickle.
He decides to follow, subtly. His steps are light, blending into the ambient sounds of the museum. He keeps a respectful distance, observing her without seeming to. She moves through the final hall, towards the main entrance. Her hand clutches the strap of her leather bag. Her jaw is set, a subtle tension in her profile. He watches as she reaches the large, ornate main doors. Just as she pushes one open, a sudden, sharp alarm blares through the museum, a piercing electronic shriek that rips through the solemn silence and makes every visitor jump, including Haj Sadegh himself. The woman freezes, her hand still on the door, her head snapping around, her eyes wide with undisguised panic, searching, knowing.