The Cleaner's Secret

The zip of my hazmat suit was the only sound in the room, a harsh whisper against the penthouse's cathedral silence. I'd seen blood before—gallons of it, in every shade of drying red—but this scene was wrong from the first sweep of my flashlight.

The body lay crumpled near the floor-to-ceiling windows, a dark stain spreading across the pristine white marble. Manhattan glittered a thousand feet below, indifferent. I knelt, gloved fingers reaching for the wrist to check for a pulse—routine, even when the client swore the job was simple.

The skin was warm.

Then the chest hitched. A breath, ragged and shallow, rattled through the stillness.

My hand froze. The "body" was alive.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway—deliberate, unhurried. Adrian Croft stepped into the light, his smile a polished blade. "Ah, you've noticed. Good. That actually simplifies things." He tilted his head, studying me like a variable in an equation. "Finish the job, or I'll make sure the police find your prints on the weapon. Your choice."

The survivor's fingers twitched, reaching blindly toward my ankle.