Dance of the Cursed

Alister

The sun climbed higher in the sky, casting long shadows against the cracked concrete of the alley, warming the mid-morning air. I'm so used to wearing jackets, regardless of the weather, that even if I'm sweating profusely inside, I know I'm safer with it on.

In front of me are roads stretching through empty lots, lined with rusting fences and old warehouses left to decay. Billboards peeled under the sun, advertising businesses that had shut down years ago. The noise of traffic from the main roads was barely audible here, where nothing moved but gusts of wind kicking up dust.

I leaned against an old white van parked at the far end of the street, just out of sight of the abandoned apartment building. The van's rusted frame was solid enough to shield me from anyone who might be watching. From here, I could see the back entrance of the building clearly. I kept my eyes trained on the road, waiting for the car he'd promised would arrive. He said he'd come alone, but I wasn't foolish enough to believe that without confirmation.

Just then, I noticed a car appear in the distance, rolling down the cracked road toward the building. It wasn't anything special-an old sedan. The engine idled for a moment near the back entrance before the driver's side door opened.

A man stepped out. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Short-cropped black hair streaked with gray. Broad shoulders, thick frame-like he used to be in shape but had let it slip over the years. His face was sharp, weathered, with deep lines around his mouth and eyes, the kind that didn't come from laughter.

He scanned the area as soon as his boots hit the ground, eyes darting from side to side, checking every doorway, every alley, every car parked too long on the curb.

I watched as he reached behind his back, pulling out a handgun from under his belt. He checked the magazine, thumbed the slide, then nodded to himself before tucking it away again. Taking a deep breath, he pulled out his phone.

A second later, mine buzzed.

Where are you?

I let it sit for a beat before responding.

Inside.

Third room on the left.

He hesitated for a moment, looking around again, checking the lot as though expecting someone else to show up. His gaze swept across the building, over the broken windows and peeling paint, before he started walking toward the back entrance.

I waited until he was inside, then moved quickly to my phone, pulling up the feed from the hidden camera I'd set up in the room.

I checked the time on the screen. Ten seconds after he entered.

He slowly moved through the room, but there was no sign of him doing anything suspicious-no planting of anything, no hidden movements, no aiming the gun at the entrance.

I set the phone back in my pocket, cracked my fingers one by one through the black latex gloves, and rolled my shoulders. Then I rose from my spot and moved in after him.

I stepped into the dimly lit hallway, covered in peeling light brown wallpaper that, upon closer inspection, used to be white with diamond-shaped patterns. The sound of my footsteps was muffled by the dusty carpet. The building was eerily quiet. The only noise was the occasional creak from the wooden beams overhead, as if the whole place was slowly giving up on itself.

I checked my phone again. No new messages. The camera feed was still clear.

Third room on the left.

The hinges creaked as I pushed the door open, but I didn't stop. The room was sparse-just an old wooden dresser with drawers half hanging out, a chipped mirror on the wall, and a sagging couch pushed up against the corner. Nothing worth stealing. Nothing worth noticing.

He turned the moment I stepped inside, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and recognition. His hand twitched toward his waist, where the gun was, but I could see the hesitation in his eyes.

"You came," I say.

His eyes narrow. "Like I had a choice."

"You didn't," I answer as I take another step.

He lets out a short breath, then crosses his arms. "Alright. We're here. Talk. Where did you get them?"

"You mean these?" I say innocently, tilting my head as I take my time pulling my phone from my pocket, flipping through the images one by one. I'd sent them to him already, but seeing them in person, displayed right in front of him, was different. His throat bobbed as I stopped on the clearest one-the shot of him handing over fake rental paperwork to an unsuspecting tenant, knowing very well they'd never legally live in that apartment. A perfect little piece of fraud, caught in high definition.

He was sloppy. I started looking into him after a fellow tenant mentioned a guy who could "get an apartment no matter what." At first, I thought it was just some under-the-table landlord deal, but then I kept digging. Turns out, he's been running this scam for a while-renting out properties he doesn't own, collecting cash, then vanishing before anyone realizes what happened.

I could see the calculation in his eyes, running through every angle, searching for a way out.

He knows that with one push of a button, I can make sure his face is plastered all over the news-fraud, theft. Heck, I'm sure there are a few other charges they can slap on him.

His gaze darkened. "What do you want?"

I slid my phone back into my pocket, leaving my hand there. "It's simple. Check the drawer. Over there." I nodded toward the broken dresser in the corner of the room, its wood warped and rotting.

His eyes flicked to it, then back to me. "What is it?"

"See for yourself."

Another pause. Then, slowly, he turned, his boots scuffing against the floor as he crossed the room. I kept my stance relaxed and casual, watching every movement while slowly gripping the knife in my pocket as he reached the dresser. His hand hovered over the handle for just a second before he yanked it open.

Nothing.

His body tensed as he turned back to me, his mouth opening to say something-

But it's too late.

In one swift motion, I hurled the knife. The blade sliced through the air, embedding itself deep into his neck just as the first syllable left his lips. A strangled, wet gasp followed as he staggered, hands flying up to the wound. His mouth opened and closed, eyes bulging, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the handle as if he could somehow undo what had just happened.

His hand reaches for the gun tucked in his belt. But before he can even touch it, I hurl another one of my knives at him, striking him right in the wrist. He watches in horror as he collapses against the dresser, knocking it sideways.

I step forward, watching as he twitches, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. His eyes meet mine, wide with panic. Pulling out his gun, I toss it across the room.

He gasps for air, fingers trembling over the wound but too afraid to pull the blade free. Blood seeps between his fingers, dark and endless.

This is always the moment. The moment when they realize.

Not when they first see the blade. Not when they feel the cold steel tear through flesh and muscle. But now. When their body fails them. When their hands, so used to taking, scamming, ruining, can no longer hold onto life.

I crouch beside him as his body shudders violently, drowning in it.

"You know," I say calmly, like we're discussing the weather, "I could've handled this differently."

His wild, frantic gaze locks onto mine. He wants me to fix this. To undo it.

"I could've sent those pictures to the police. Could've let them drag you through court, ruin your finances, take away every last bit of comfort you have." I give a small, almost thoughtful nod.

His hand twitches toward me. A plea. A prayer.

"But then I thought..." I tilt my head, voice lowering. "What kind of lesson would that be? See, people like you don't learn. You con your way out, you cut a deal, you crawl your way back up and start all over again." I let that sink in. I watch as the flicker of hope in his eyes begins to drain just as fast as his blood.

He makes a sound-wet, broken. Maybe a denial. Maybe an apology.

I don't care.

I grip the knife still buried in his neck. Leaning in slightly, just close enough for him to see how steady my hands are.

"You never deserved a second chance," I murmur. And then I twist the blade.

A violent shudder ripples through him. He lets out one final, pitiful gurgle before the light in his eyes goes out.

Some people believe every life has worth. That everyone can change.

I yank the knives free, wiping the blade against his sleeve before standing.

But for men like him? This is justice. And I'm going to gladly do the honor of carrying it out.

The sharp trill of my ringtone suddenly cuts through the silence. Without missing a beat.

"Lily, why are you calling me this early?" I ask as soon as I answer.

"Alister," she greets. "Just a quick update. After breakfast, the father went straight to his study and made a call. He was in there for about 20 minutes."

I tap a finger against my thigh, my gaze drifting to the body slumped against the dresser. Blood pools beneath him, soaking into the rotting wood. "Let me guess-door locked, voice low, didn't want anyone listening in?"

"Exactly. I couldn't hear much, but it sounded like he was frustrated. And when he came out, he looked... tense. More than usual."

Hmm...I'll have to listen to the audio recording to see what it could be about. Might be nothing, might be something.

I walk over to the camera I had hidden. "What about the rest of the Austin family? Anyone acting strange?"

Lily hesitates. "Not really. But... Clara seemed different."

That makes me pause. "Different how?"

"Like something was on her mind. She barely ate, kept zoning out. I don't think it had anything to do with her father, though-she barely looked at him."

I click my tongue. "Irrelevant then. Just-"

A soft creak reaches my ears.

I freeze.

My head snaps to the room's entrance, where I had left the door open when I entered. My fingers tighten around the phone, my other hand already slipping to my knife.

"Alister?" Lily's voice comes through the speaker. "What's wrong?"

I don't answer. Slowly, carefully, I walk towards the door, my footsteps silent as I move. The hallway beyond stretches empty, dim light filtering through the cracks in the boarded-up windows.

My grip on the knife firms as I move closer to the doorway, every muscle coiled, ready. Then, in a single motion, I lunge out-

Empty.

The hall is barren. No movement. No shadows shifting in the corners. Just silence.

I stand there for a second longer, pulse steady, eyes scanning for anything out of place.

I exhale slowly, lowering my knife just a fraction.

"Alister?" Lily's voice again.

I glance down at the phone in my hand before finally bringing it back to my ear. "It's nothing," I murmur, though my gaze lingers on the hallway a moment longer. "Just keep an eye out. Let me know if he does anything out of the ordinary."

I end the call. Then, shaking my head, I push the thought aside for now. I have work to do and I don't have much time. I have to focus. There are still loose ends to take care of and I have to get rid of any potential evidence.

My grip loosens on the knife, but I still can't quite shake the nagging feeling that something is off. That faint, lingering sense that I have missed something.

The air feels thicker now, but it isn't just the silence-it's something else. A faint smell. A delicate sweetness that feels foreign in the ruined space. It isn't overpowering, not enough to drown out the stench of the blood in the room, but it's there-lingering, just beneath the surface of the other scents. Just enough to stir my senses.

At first, I can't place it. But as I breathe in again, it becomes clearer, sharper.

Jasmines.