Page 24 of Drawn to Death
It isn’t fear that comes up as I hold it. Fear doesn’t happen to me, not really. But this? This is different. Something possessive, something greedy, curling up inside. Rage. Not the cool, professional kind I use on the job. This is personal. Messy. Real.
Picking this knife is a choice, not an accident. It fits the vision. It is a message to fate: don’t even try me. I don’t just know what is coming, but I am meeting it head-on.
I wrap the knife in the cloth again and slip it into my pocket. The weight settles against my thigh, both familiar and weird, like finding an old jacket I have almost forgotten.
Then, a crash from the living room snaps the quiet in half. Glass breaking, something heavy hitting the floor. I’m on my feet before I even register the sound, knife already in my grip.
Time slows down as I take in the scene. Mickey stands in the middle of the living room, back to me. A smashed vase lies at his feet, water spreading across the hardwood. He has a gun aimed right at Quell, who is frozen by the kitchen doorway, face so pale it almost glows.
“Is this what he means by ‘taken care of’?” Mickey’s voice is tight, almost shaking. “Keeping you like a pet? What the hell is Talon thinking?”
He hasn’t noticed me. All his attention is on Quell, who looks about ready to break if Mickey so much as flinches. Quell’s eyes dart to me and away again, quick enough that Mickey didn't catch it.
The tension is thick, like the air has turned to syrup. It isn’t a sudden explosion, just a long, slow stretch of nerves. My heartbeat stays steady, calm, even as my brain runs through every possible outcome.
But Mickey’s grip is all wrong for someone about to shoot. Shoulders locked, arm too stiff. He is pissed off, not ready to kill. Not yet. But that could flip in a heartbeat if he thinks Quell is dangerous, or if he realizes I am standing behind him.
“I don’t understand,” Quell says. His voice is surprisingly steady, considering the gun aimed at him. “Who are you?”
“Someone who knows what you are,” Mickey says. “What you’ve seen. And what he’s supposed to have done about it.”
Quell doesn’t move. But I see it, the tiniest tremor in his hand, right at his side, fingers twitching like he is about to reach for a pencil, even now. Like maybe if he just draws fast enough, he can sketch himself out of this.
I step forward. Quiet. The knife cold in my palm, grounding me. Three steps, that is all it takes. Three steps, and the future Quell has drawn for us will finally stop hanging over our heads. It will be real.
Mickey must feel something. Maybe just the way the air shifts, or how my presence suddenly presses in. He turns, but he is too slow.
I move smoothly, smooth, no wasted motion. My arm comes up, blade first. I aim for the soft spot under his jaw, the place where the pulse beats, and I pull. One clean, practiced motion.
The knife slides in. His skin splits, and blood follows.
Mickey doesn’t even manage to turn all the way around. His body jerks once, then again. The gun slips from his hand,clattering to the floor. I catch him before he can fall hard, lowering him down as gently as I can, trying not to make more of a mess than necessary. His eyes lock on mine, huge and shocked, and I can see the understanding settle in. He tries to say something, but all that comes out is a thick spill of blood.
It doesn’t take long. I’ve seen it enough times to know the exact second it happens, the moment Mickey stops being Mickey and becomes just a body, cooling on my floor.
I don’t linger on the gore. That part never matters, not to me. What matters is the reason, the intent, the thing behind the motion. This isn’t a job. Not a mark. This is me, doing what I do best, but for something I’ve decided is mine. The moment I choose not to kill Quell, but to keep him, the rest is inevitable.
I didn't kill Mickey because I had to; there were other options I could have tried to negotiate for Quell’s life. I did it because his drawing told me to. It was a message; a warning. The drawing told me this was the only way to keep Quell alive. To keep him safe. Mickey wasn't the best killer on Vincenzo’s payroll, but he was the most likely to get around me. Vincenzo had set me up with his comment about Mickey being worried, then sent him around, banking on the fact familiarity would slow me down enough for him to complete the job. But Mickey was sloppy, too slow, and the drawing told me the rest.
I wipe the blade clean on Mickey’s shirt. The motion is easy, practiced, no more thought than breathing. When I look at Quell, he hasn’t moved. He hasn’t even breathed, not really, the whole time.
“He saw something that wasn’t his,” I mutter. My voice is steady, almost soft. “You know I had to kill him. You drew it as the only option.” My friend was literally drawn to death. Not by a morbid pull or curiosity, but by graphite and paper.
Quell just stares at me. Eyes wide, breathing too fast. His face is so pale it is almost funny, but he doesn’t look away. Doesn’trun. Doesn’t even flinch. He just watches me, like he always does, cataloging everything, seeing all the parts of me I usually keep hidden.
The knife hangs at my side. Its job is done. It only came out of the box for this moment. Mickey’s drawing has come true, just like Quell says it would.
But the other drawing, the one of us, closer, tangled up together, that one is still waiting. Still possible.
I step over Mickey’s body, toward Quell. The air feels different now, sharp and bright and full of possibility. Full of choices and futures that haven’t happened yet.
Quell watches me come closer, his breath catching. But he doesn’t move away, even with the blood on my hands, even with death right there on the floor. He stays right where he is.
And in that moment, I know exactly which future I want.
Chapter twelve
Quell
