Lucas said his goodbyes and picked himself of the immensly comfortable armchair. Few minutes more and he would probably meld with the leather coverings, to him, it was almost magical how enticing the seat was.

He really needed some rest, he must really be getting older, he used to consider being unconcious as some decent rest.

As he exited the office, Sebastian followed him like a grumpy duckling. He walked through the floor, and reached the quarters he was given. Sebastina fumbled in his pockets for a moment, and with a quiet clang, he pulled out a bundle of keys.

Working through them one by one, he finally found the correct one, and opened the door for him.

While Lukas was watching this debacle he could only think to himself:

*Wow, he really is incompetent.* he inhaled as he crossed the threshold into the resting space.

Sebastian wanted to follow, but Luke turned around on his heel and made the man walk into his chest and stumble backwards suprised. Before he could start mouthing off, Lukas blew smoke from the cigar directly into his face. The man, being mid inhale before his another spastic tantrum cought all of the smoke directly into his lungs and started coughing up madly, hacking and cursing as he beat his chest like a drum.

„Easy there, cowboy, I don't need anyone to share the bed with for tonight. Let's make this short, I need to eat...” He looked at the man, and noticed his short cut hair, almost at the length of his scalp. Lukas just noticed that, but the man had huge widows peaks, you could park a car in them, they resembled the logo of a well-known burger joint. Thinking about it, Luke's stomach rumbled.

„.... Burgers, get me some burgers, double patty, Farmer style and cheeseburgers, ten of fifteen of them, and few liters of soda, high in sugar.”

„What?!” He asked baffled.

„I'm a big guy, I eat big portions, don't argue and remember what I ask for. I need a burner phone, an old model with only buttons and call and SMS options, nothing produced after 2009. Get me some new, untouched brass knuckles, a pair, black if possible. Few grams of Speed and double that of Mef. A 6-pack of still water, and some pens and notebooks, also, as you emptied my wallet, you will give all of the cash back and double it.”

„I did no such...” he was about to argue but Luke's raised eyebrow, and a fist clenching so loudly it echoed in the walls shut him up. He could still feel the grip on his neck, and that fear was stronger than his stupidity.

„Lastly, try to get me some of that Blitz and some clothes. XXL size, and some sneakers. All black, the less flashy the better. No well known brands. And a balaklava. You got 8 hours. Now fuck off and let me rest.” Without waiting for rebutal, Luke turned around and shut the doors behind him with a loud clang. Leaving the man speachless and confused.

As the doors closed, he allowed himself to fall on his back and rest on them. He took another inhale of the cigar and allowed himself a moment to ponder. With his head resting on his chest, he exhaled through his nose. Noticing, how even in mortal form, his wounds were aching at each breath and how the smoke escaped through his still patchy throat beyond the Veil.

All of this acting tough was not easy, he was objectively still a total wreck, the totality of pain he was expieriencing was becoming worringly normal to him.

He bounced off the doors and made his ways into the room. It was a neat, clean place. Not exactly spartan, but not lavish. A big, queen sized bed, some drawers, a painting on the wall, a metal desk and a comfy looking office chair. The walls were barren, just pure concrete. Grey, and somehow, to Luke, relaxing, just what he needed. Their coldess permeated through him and he welcomed the respite.

He was happy the shutters on the windows were closed, his eyes were stinging like a bitch.

He noticed a small fridge behind the desk and he smiled softly.

Walking to it, he threw his ass on the chair and was pleasently suprised how quiet it was, no squeeking, no noise at all, no matter how he shifted and bent.

As he rode on the chair closer to the fridge he noticed how quiet it was overall. The room was soundproofed. Nothing came in, nothing came out. Exactly what he needed to focus for what he had planned.

Before he could begin, he still had some things to do. First, he cracked open a beer from the fridge, and very unwillingly, stood up from the chair to walk around the room. It almost scarred him when he noticed the ceiling moved with him, and laughed out loud when he understood it was covered in mirrors.

„You kinky, bald fuck.” he said to himself.

He stood on the bed and methodically ran his hand along each centimeter of the mirrors surface. The palm connected in each spot, *Good * he thought to himself, not a two way mirror, no spots for cameras.

He walked around and checked the trinkets sprawled around the furniture, the plugs in the walls, and handles in the furniture and in the doors himself. He almost gave up, but as he was crossing next to the what he thought was either a shit photography or an abstract painting hanging off the wall, right opposite from the bed, he stopped in his tracks.

Turning to it, he analized it, not the contents ,but the frame. It was in perfect position, but the wood was solid and unicolored. He moved it, and the handle it hung on flashed in the light.

He smiled, he wasn't as rusty as he thought. He took one last drag of the cigar, and exhtinguished it on the end of the handle. The ash covered the dark glass thuroughly and Lukas was shure, the camera lens wouldn't pick up anything. He put the rest of the cigar on the metal desk and backed off to lay on the bed.

He allowed himself to fall and the covers swallowed him like the oceans depths. With his arms spread wide, palms hanging of the side of the bed, and legs still placed on the floor, he just stared into the mirror. A storm of thought raging in his skull.

He felt bad, and he felt that way because he felt good. He felt in control again, he felt respected, capable. As if this was how it was supposed to be, and this brought him shame. He tried so hard to escape this life, so much violence it took for his life to turn peaceful. And within a span of a night, he dove head first right back into it.

He really didn't want to revisit the place where the trials of life forged him into the tool he became, a tool rented out to bring pain, to do the unspeakable. Yes, the respect that those times proved became useful, even with his powers it made things easy. But he knew.

He knew.

Baldie wasn't so friendly with him because they were friends. They haven't really spoken outside of work assignments years ago. He feared him, he treated Luke like a dynamite stick with a lit fuse. Dangerous and capable of great destruction, as long as Baldie was far away from the blast zone. But no matter how useful the tool is, you will always be weary of it blowing in your face.

He knew he owed him, and he must give it to Baldie, he was quick on his feet when it came to concocting new plans, Lukas wondered if he always possesed such wisdom or was it earned when his group split and fell to infighting.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

„Dosn't matter.” He whispered to himself.

The Deal was Done. Some things, some traditions should remain sacred. They only hold any weight because of the people willing to brace their burden.

His mind reeled from the memories of when the Deals were executed in his youth. When he started, he was already almost a year into his fathers training. He was already broken, without will. He just did as he was commanded. Some doubt, morality still accompanied him in his early trecks into white stone but that was a burden he quickly had to cast away if he wanted to remain unbeaten by his father. Or even alive. Mercy quickly became something forgotten by him in these times.

No mercy was offered to him, so no mercy could he offer to others.

The only thing that mattered were the orders. The Deals. To get it done.

Unable to escape from the images, he finally allowed the memories to replay in his head. His first job.

A milk run, some would say. Pick up some drugs, run them across the district, drop them off, grab the cash, bring it back. Easy peasy, even for a snot nosed brat that he was. Luke struggled to remember his age.

„What was I? 12 or 13 years old.?” he pondered out loud. His own voice raspy, almost unrecognizable to him, the deep rumble it usually carried became muffeld. Trapped within the walls, trapped in his chest.

His father dropped him off, filthy and stinking of sweat, in a track suit that was tattered and unwashed. After a year of his fathers treatment shame about such trivialities was long forgotten.

He remembered the adress as they entered the post soviet concrete tower. He was quiet, yet obsessivly watching his surrounding. Trying not to miss any details. Any question from his father he couldn't answer would result in more pain. Where the stair case was? On the left of the lift. How many doors until the staircase? Five, one with boards nailed to it.

They rode in the elevator, 15th floor. Then, they went to the attic floor, young Luke walking in his fathers shadow.

They entered some rundown storage room that reeked of piss.

Amonia.

The stinging aroma of freshly produced amphetamine. Three people were in the room, two were at work, one talked with his father. They all wore medical masks, Luke could only see their eyes. Two sets of brown and one set of grey. In the span of the minute, Lukas was stripped of his clothes to his undies and plastered with bags of speed all over his body, secured with isolation tape. They didn't even blink at the sight of bruises and stitches covering him. No questions asked.

He quickly dressed. His clothes baggy were big enough to cover the additions spread over his body.

He was weighed down, at least 15 kilograms were strapped to him.

His father made him run quarter or half maratons almost every day wearing over 30kg, this seemed almost too easy for him.

Without a word, he listened to the adress where he had to go, and as his instructions ended, he set off.

Early in the morning, he trecked with steady step, crossing over 6 kilometers. Just another filthy rut walking across the neighborhood. Just another moving blob in the gray, concrete jungle. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to alarm the police or anyone at all. He passed some groups of people either drinking their life away or smoking in the corners of buldings, or doing graffiti on the walls.

He made sure not to make any eye contact. Not to initiate any contact. He wanted to seem timid, but at place, just making his way home.

He reached the adress without any issues. Walked into the cellar of the building and met with a guy there. In a small hallway lined with cellars he striped again and without making a sound ripped off the tape of his body and passed the packages.

In exchange, he got a backpack full of cash. It was unsorted, just a pile of wrinkled banknotes cramemd in there.

He raised his head.

„They were supposed to be packed in stacks and wrapped in celifane.”

„Well, they aren't. No time for that shit. Everything is in there, now fuck off.”

„...fine” Luke answered. He was on a schedule. He had to make do. He left the packing tape he brought with him there. No more need for it. And the less his pockets sticked out the better for him.

He threw the backpack on his back, tightened the straps and with a shrug of his shoulders checked how well it fit.

His shoulders ached. From the belt of his father and from carrying the logs, they were scraped of skin almost to bare flesh. He gritted his teeth and set off on his way back.

He chose another route. Closer to where one of the schools were located. It added two more kilometers to his journey but he figured he could rush it, the time was appropiate enough for him to seem like he was rushing to school, late for class.

He made sure to pass the school without walking anywhere near it. No sense risking being picked on by some random kids, this place was a zoo and they behaved like animals. Picking on those without a pack.

The sun was starting to blaze down his neck. He was keeping close to the shadows of the tall buildings, inhabited by tens of thousands of people in such scarce space. They seemed to reach the sky itself, overbearing, suffocating.

As he was passing though a tunnel in one of such buildings, suddenly, a man, a hobo entered the tunnel from the other side and walked towards Luke.

„Hey, kid, wait up.” He said.

Luke did not stop, he tried to quicken his step and walk past the man.

„I said stop you little shit!” he raised his voice and pushed Luke to the side, he lost his balance and hit the metal sheet covering the wall.

„I said stop, you got any smokes? And a phone, give me your phone! Come on!”

„I don't have anything sir, please...” he patted his pants pockets, showing that they were empty.

The man stepped closer to him and pushed him against the wall again, Luke hit his back against the graffiti covering it.

„Don't you fucking lie to me! Show me the backpack. There must be something I can sell there! I need a drink!” He started screaming into his face, the stench of rotten teeth and alcohol mixed with tabacco almost made Lule puke on the spot.

The hobo grabbed the strap of his backpack and started pulling on it.

„No! HELP! HELP!” Luke screamed trying to squeel and sound as high pitched as possible.

The man backhanded him across the face and started thrashing the boy. Luke could only think about the reprecussions of failure his father would bring on him and started shaking unconciously.

The hobo interpreted it as his doing and smiled. Started threatening the boy even more, shaking his whole body while screaming into his face.

Luke's mind shut off. His emotions turned off. He reached with his hand into his hoodies pocket on the stomach and ripped on the handle of the knife that was stuck to the inside using tape. With a click, the blade unfurled.

Using the movement as the man was shaking him, he turned to the side to hide the blade being pulled out, and as another pull dragged his body, he swung low and slashed under the knee of the hobo, material parted as easily as did skin, flesh and tendons. The knife scraped against the bone and cartlige.

His leg buckled and his face turned from anger to suprise, it was slowly transforming into a scream of pain, but before that could happen Luke slashed the blade across the mans wrist that was clutching the backpack strap. The tendons popped like torn strings of a guitar.

Blood cascaded like a waterfall. The man, now kneeling and grasping at his bleeding arm looked at him with shock. Each heartbeat, more of his vitality drained.

Luke qickly bent down and slid the blade under the other arms armpit, and twisted. As the blade left the body, a stream of blood followed. Luke kicked the man onto his back and set off in a sprint, not looking behind him even for a moment.

He kept his pace quick but steady, allowing his breath to even out and the adrenaline to flush from his veins.

His head was throbbing, but the lazer like focus on coming back with the package staved off any thoughts about what happened.

He reached the buidling without any further issues and rode the lift to the top.

He entered the attic and found his father doing lines and drinking vodka with the others.

The backpack hit the ground and one of the man came closer to search it. The man scowled at the sight of crumpled bills but that was more out from annoyence than anger. Turning his body towards Luke's father, he nodded his head in approval. They exchanged some simple words and after some money was passed into his fathers hands, they left the place and drove back home in their shitbox of a car.

No questions were asked about the blood that was covering him, his father must have noticed the fresh splashes covering his sons clothes, but he didn't care. The job was done.

The Deal was Done.

Luke was still forced to train that evening, and thankfully, the physical exhaustion and repetitions cleared his mind away from any thoughts. He learned to dissociate, to just follow the orders, follow the movements, stay in the rhythm.

That night, it was in his dreams that his concience rang loudly like a bell. He had nightmares. On repetition, he was entering the small tunnel. No matter what he did, he couldn't escape. The hobo would pummel on him, steal from him if he had not defended himself and the dream would repeat, he would try to fight back, stab him again or try to escape, no matter what he would end up in the same place and repeat the process, the only moment of respite was when after he stabbed the man, he was forced to stay in the tunnel next to the body out of which a pool of blood was spreading out.

Even that time was limited, as the pool of blood was spreading further and further. The young Luke was frantically trying not to get touched by the blood that seemed to seek him out as it covered the tunnel, when there was no room left he would escape the tunnel.

Only to repeat the same scenario again and again.

Finally, he was too tired, too numb and exhausted. After another series of stabbing he sat in the opposite corner of the body and curled his legs close to his chest.

The blood pool spread. The floor turned crimson as the ichor of the slain bubbled and boiled. It spread like an infection, onto the walls, the ceiling, and a curtain of it blocked off any exits of the tunnel.

The child sat there and shivered.

The ceiling started dripping, heavy, viscious drops hit against his body, it was raining blood.

The fluid covered him, each drop cold and heavy. It coated his hair, clothes, his whole body. It dug into his ears, into his nose, into his eyes, blocked his airways. The metalic taste was making him gag, he was choking, he couldn't breathe.

He opened his eyes but he could only see dark red.

The blood he spilled.

He screamed.

Suddenly, Luke jumped out of the bed. He heard someone knocking on the doors. His heart was beating loudly, and he was confused, unsure of where he was.

It took him a moment to understand. He was in the club, in the room rented out to him.

As he was breathing heavily, he could hear the knocking on the door getting louder and louder.

That was what must have woken him up.

He was covered in sweat, breathing heavily and his arms shaking. His blood was raging in his ears, making every other sound muffled.

The face of that hobo, he couldn't get it out of his head. How shocked he was as the knife slid against his flesh, how terrified his screams were as the boy left him there to bleed out.

Luke never found out if the man survived, if someone found him and called for help, or found him cold and lifeless and called for a gravedigger.

He didn't want to be sure, but he knew.

He knew.

SMACK

A closed fist hit his face, and few more followed. Lukas was pounding on his skull like a drumset untill his head cleared out. His nose was bleeding but that would stop quickly. His thoughts were murky but stopped with the onslought of guilt.

Wobbling, he walked closer to the door which were shaking from the pounding.

He opened them, and Sebastian missed with his fist and stumbled.

Looking up, he was about to make a ruckus but something he saw in Luke's eyes told him to remain calm.

„You hungry?” he asked raising a paper bag filled to the brim with burgers.