Chapter 17: THE GYM — Part 3
The elderly woman across the aisle noticed first.
"Young man? Are you all right?"
I opened my eyes. She was maybe seventy, gray hair pulled back in a neat bun, wearing the sensible clothes of someone who'd raised children and outlived a husband. Her shopping bag sat between her feet. Her eyes held the particular concern of people who'd seen too much to ignore suffering.
"Fine," I said. The word came out rough. "Low blood sugar."
She studied my face. The shaking hands. The pallor that I could feel in my own cheeks. Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a candy bar—a Snickers, half-melted from the day's warmth.
"Here. My grandson doesn't visit as often as he should. I always bring these hoping he'll stop by." She pressed the chocolate into my hand. "You look like you could use it more than my freezer."
This is what normal people do. They see someone in distress and they help. They don't calculate whether the stranger is worth the resources.
"Thank you." I unwrapped the candy bar with trembling fingers. The chocolate was soft, the caramel sticky, the peanuts providing a satisfying crunch. Calories. Sugar. The fuel my body desperately needed after burning through adrenaline reserves.
The woman smiled and returned to her crossword puzzle.
I ate the Snickers slowly, letting the sugar absorb, feeling the shakes gradually subside. Outside the window, Brooklyn scrolled past—brownstones and bodegas and people going about their lives without any idea that I'd just killed a man in a gym three miles away.
Volkov is dead. The contract is complete. Two hundred twenty-five Blood Coins now. Need two seventy-five more for Tier 2.
The math was comforting. Concrete. Something to focus on besides the bruised throat and aching ribs and the memory of Volkov's eyes when he realized what I was.
He'd known. In that last instant before the bullets hit, he'd recognized a fellow predator. A threat. Someone just like him.
We were the same, in the end. Trained killers doing what trained killers do.
The difference was that I'd been faster. More desperate. Fighting for more than just my life—fighting against the System's punishment, fighting to keep my senses, fighting to stay human in a world that seemed determined to strip away my humanity piece by piece.
[KILL WINDOW: COMPLETE.]
The notification had come mid-fight, but I hadn't processed it then. Now it sat in my peripheral vision like a completed checkbox. Another job done. Another name crossed off the list.
Another step deeper into the underworld that would eventually swallow me whole.
The subway reached my station. I stood, nodded to the elderly woman, and stepped onto the platform. My legs felt steadier now. The sugar was doing its work.
Queens in late afternoon was different from Brooklyn. More residential. Fewer obvious criminals on every corner. The kind of neighborhood where people minded their own business because they had their own problems to worry about.
I walked to my apartment building, checking for tails out of habit. Nobody followed. The photo kid's picture might be circulating through Volkov's organization, but Volkov's organization no longer had a leader. In a few hours, they'd be too busy fighting over succession to care about avenging him.
That's the theory, anyway. Reality might disagree.
My apartment was exactly as I'd left it—tourist map on the table, empty lo mein cartons in the trash, the smell of old Chinese food lingering in the air. I locked the door, checked the windows, and finally let myself collapse onto the bed.
[NEXT MARKER ISSUANCE: 6 DAYS, 23 HOURS.]
Almost a full week before the System demanded another kill. Time to rest. Time to resupply. Time to figure out how to operate in this world without getting killed.
Resupply. That's the priority.
I checked my pockets. Three hundred fifty-nine dollars in cash. One gold coin—the last of Chen's payment after I'd spent one on whiskey at the Continental. The Glock with... how many rounds remaining?
I ejected the magazine. Counted.
Two.
Started with seven. Fired five at Volkov and the bodyguard. Two left.
Two rounds wouldn't get me through another contract. Wouldn't get me through a random street encounter. Wouldn't even get me through a disagreement that turned ugly.
I needed ammunition. More importantly, I needed a backup weapon. A second Glock, maybe, or something smaller for concealment. Redundancy saved lives.
All of which required gold coins. Which required either completing more work for Chen or accessing the Continental's services.
Chen's offer still stands. "Occasional need for outside contractors." But every job for him puts me deeper in debt to the Tong.
The Continental was the cleaner option. Professional services. Clear pricing. No hidden obligations beyond the transaction itself.
But one gold coin wouldn't cover ammunition and a backup weapon. The brochure Charon had given me listed prices that made my remaining resources look pathetic.
Unless someone extends credit. Unless someone sees potential worth investing in.
I stared at the ceiling, running through options. The elderly woman's candy bar sat half-eaten on the nightstand, chocolate melting onto the wrapper.
Clean up first. Then figure out the money problem.
The shower was barely warm—the building's hot water heater struggled to serve all the units—but it was enough to wash Volkov's blood from my skin. I watched the rust-colored water swirl down the drain and felt nothing.
That's new. That's different.
After Petrov, I'd vomited. After the Triad enforcers, I'd felt hollow. Now, after Volkov, I felt... efficient. Like I'd completed a necessary task and moved on to the next item on the list.
Is that progress or is that damage?
The question didn't have an easy answer. I toweled off, dressed in clean clothes, and made my decision.
The Continental. Tonight. See what options were available for someone in my situation.
And if there are no options? If one gold coin isn't enough?
Then I'd improvise. I'd adapted so far. I'd keep adapting until the System finally killed me or set me free.
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