Noah pushed himself to his feet with effortless ease, rolling his wrist before reaching into his back pocket. When he pulled out a pair of gloves—leather gloves—Vivian’s stomach clenched.

He had come prepared.

She should have been horrified, should have questioned why he had them at all, but her brain was still struggling to process the chaos around her. She watched, numb, as he slid the gloves on, stretching his fingers before crouching beside the corpse—the one she had made.

The wet sound of movement snapped something in her chest.

Vivian looked away, pressing her fingers against her temples, trying to drown out the noise. But Noah wasn’t making it easy for her.

“Don’t just sit there,” he said, his voice calm, almost bored. “We don’t have all night.”

Vivian swallowed hard. “I—I can’t.”

Noah sighed, clearly unimpressed. “Fine. Be useless.”

She flinched.

She wanted to argue, to snap back, but her tongue felt thick, heavy. Her body was still locked in place, frozen in the aftermath of what she had done.

She could hear him.

The quiet rustle of fabric. The subtle shift of skin against skin.

A small click.

Vivian forced herself to glance over.

Noah’s gloved fingers were running a cloth over the dead man’s hands.

Not just the fingers. The nails.

A slow, deliberate motion—pressing, rubbing, smearing, removing something she couldn’t see.

Vivian’s stomach twisted.

She didn’t know why.

Not yet.

But she knew it mattered.

Noah’s movements were too methodical, too intentional.

She wanted to ask what he was doing. Wanted to force the words out. But her tongue felt heavy, like it didn’t belong in her own mouth.

She just sat there, frozen, watching as he wiped at the man’s knuckles with the edge of his sleeve before finally rising to his feet.

He sighed, rolling his shoulders, stretching like he had just finished an errand.

“Better get used to the smell,” he murmured, glancing at her. “It’s going to be with you for a while.”

Vivian’s fingers curled against her knees, nails biting into her skin.

She hated that he was right.

She already knew she’d never get it out of her nose.

Vivian forced herself to breathe evenly.

Vivian’s pulse thudded painfully. “W-What do we do with the bodies?”

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Noah’s lips twitched.

“Oh, they stay.”

Something sharp twisted in her chest.

“That doesn’t—” Her voice cracked. “That doesn’t make sense. If we’re covering this up—”

Noah cut her off with a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Vivian,” he said, slow, deliberate, like she was missing something obvious. “We can’t cover this up. Not completely.”

She swallowed, nausea crawling up her throat again.

“We can make sure there’s no trail leading back to us,” he continued, rolling up his sleeves again, “but the bodies? They were going to be found either way. There’s no getting rid of them. And we don’t need to.”

She felt like she couldn’t breathe. “What does that mean?”

Noah’s gaze flickered to the floor, to the smear of blood where the attacker had fallen.

“Whoever sent him is going to know exactly what happened when they hear about this,” he murmured. “We don’t need to tell them a thing.”

A chill ran down her spine. “You think someone sent him?”

Noah didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he crouched beside the dead man’s discarded jacket, rifling through the pockets until he pulled out a phone.

Vivian stiffened.

He examined the screen briefly before slipping it into his own pocket. “Might be useful.”

Her head was spinning.

She barely noticed when Noah sighed.

Not tired. Not irritated. Just bored.

Then he crouched again, this time not over the body, but over the floor.

Vivian’s gaze flickered toward him in confusion, watching as he lifted his own foot slightly, inspecting the bottom of his shoe like he was checking for gum.

Except—

Her breath caught.

The floor was carpeted, and the blood, still fresh enough to cling to fibers, still thick enough to leave dark, uneven marks where they had stepped through it was everywhere.

She hadn’t noticed.

Noah had.

Without a word, he reached for a cloth near the bar—a rag, maybe, or an old hand towel that had been left behind. He wiped the soles of his shoes first, quick and efficient, before turning toward her.

She tensed as he reached for her ankle.

“Relax,” he muttered, gripping her by the heel and dragging her foot forward before she could process it enough to protest.

His touch was impersonal, but the way he did it—so easily, so casually, like she wasn’t even part of the equation—made her stomach twist.

He wiped the blood from her shoes without looking up, rubbing away the evidence in smooth, methodical strokes.

Vivian couldn’t breathe.

She had killed a man.

And Noah was cleaning up after her, just like that.

Like this was normal.

Like she was normal.

He released her foot just as carelessly as he had taken it, tossing the now-bloodied cloth aside like it didn’t matter.

Then, with that same unsettling ease, he stood and surveyed the room.

Vivian followed his gaze, her pulse skipping violently as she realized—

The blood wouldn’t just disappear.

The carpet would hold it.

Noah knew that too.

His eyes flickered toward the bottles on the table. A few remained upright, some already knocked over during the fight, but there were enough untouched for it to look like an accident.

Without hesitation, he grabbed a nearly full bottle of whiskey, flicked the cap off, and tipped it directly onto the bloodstained carpet.

Vivian flinched as the liquid splashed down, the sharp scent of alcohol filling the air, diluting the blood, distorting the stains.

Then he knocked the empty glass tumbler from the table. It shattered instantly.

Vivian swallowed hard.

Noah didn’t react. Just grabbed another bottle—vodka this time—and let it slip from his fingers. It hit the edge of the table and tumbled to the ground, smashing against the carpet, shards scattering in all directions.

The stain spread, masking everything beneath it.

To anyone who walked in, it would just look like a drunken brawl gone too far.

Vivian’s breath shuddered out.

Noah sighed, finally satisfied. He rolled his shoulders, brushing off his sleeves, before finally looking at her.

His gaze swept over her slowly, taking in the blood smeared across her arms, her neck, the dark patches soaking into her sweater, the tremor still visible in her hands.

Then he sighed again.

Shrugged off his jacket.

And draped it over her shoulders.

The warmth of it was wrong, sinking into her skin like something heavy, something she couldn’t pull away from.

She looked up at him, helpless, her lips parting like she wanted to ask something—what is happening, what are you doing, what do I do now—

“It’s to hide the blood,” Noah said, easily, lightly, like it was obvious.

Her stomach lurched.

He leaned in slightly, just enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her ear.

“Right now,” he murmured, “you look like you just killed a man.”

A violent shudder rolled through her as the realization hit her like a truck.

She had.

Noah watched, letting the silence stretch, watching her reaction, waiting for it, enjoying it.

Then, finally, he pressed a hand against the small of her back.

The touch was firm, steady, unshakable.

Like she had already made her choice.

Like he had made it for her.

“Come on,” he said, voice quieter now, more amused than anything. “We’re leaving.”

Vivian wanted to resist, wanted to pull away, wanted to scream.

But she didn’t.

Her legs moved before she could tell them not to.

And then they stepped out, into the empty hallway, into the world that was still moving, still breathing, still normal.

Unlike her.