The apartment filled with the smell of garlic and butter.
Samantha sat on a stool at the counter, watching Corbin move around the stove with an efficiency that seemed excessive for dinner.
"You really do this a lot, don't you? The cooking, I mean — and everything lined up like it's waiting for inspection." She nodded at the counter — the centered cutting board, the knife parallel to the edge, the ingredients in a row. "You cook exactly the way you organize everything else."
"Sometimes. Order helps."
"You've known me for twenty-five minutes, Corbin. That's long enough to form several unfair opinions."
He glanced at her. "You answer questions like you're in court."
"I've never been in court, and I intend to keep it that way, thanks."
She laughed softly.
It was strange. Nobody ever filled his apartment with conversation. Silence was what he wanted — room to think, observe, plan.
But her voice didn't bother him. That surprised him more than anything else.
He plated the food and set a dish in front of her.
She stared. "Okay, this is unbelievable. If this is what you call not complicated, I'm a little afraid of what complicated looks like in your kitchen."
"It isn't complicated. I'll try not to let it go to my head."
She took a bite and her expression softened. "Was that a joke? It sounded dangerously like one."
"No."
"That's unfortunate. Most people manage a plain 'you're welcome' at this point in a meal."
"I'm not most people."
She laughed, and Corbin sat across from her.
She set her fork down. "So. What do you actually do? And don't just give me a title — I mean what do you do all day, in actual human activities."
The question he'd been expecting.
"I'm an efficiency consultant. Organizations that aren't running smoothly hire me to find where they're losing time, money, or people. Then I fix it, if it can be fixed."
She blinked. "That sounds remarkably boring, and also like something you practiced exactly once and decided was enough."
"You asked."
"I know. I'm sorry — well, I'm not, but I feel like I should say it."
A twitch touched the corner of his mouth. She caught it.
"You smiled. Don't deny it — I saw it, it was right there, and it makes you look about eighty years old. A well-preserved eighty, but still."
"I was hoping for seventy-nine. And I don't eat like an old man. I eat efficiently."
"That's what I said."
She laughed.
He hadn't meant to make her laugh. That was the problem — he liked hearing it.
"What kind of organizations? And please don't say 'various.' I've known you long enough now to recognize a locked door when I hear one."
"Various," he said. "Some clients pay for discretion, and answering without answering is a skill. Mostly it's for surviving dinner with you."
She shook her head. "You really don't like talking about yourself, do you? There's a difference between private and acting like your own life is classified."
"Not particularly, no."
"Why?"
Information was leverage. People remembered details. Attachments created targets. Survival depended on staying invisible.
Instead he said, "I've never been much for small talk."
"Neither am I, actually," she said softly. "I'm just trying to convince myself you're not a complete stranger. The jury's still out, if you're wondering."
"Fair. You did ask me for crackers at eleven."
"It's a good story. And I made an impression, apparently."
"You asked me for crackers."
"That's not romantic, Corbin."
"I wasn't aware we were aiming for romantic."
She nearly choked.
"I'm fine," she said, coughing and laughing at once. "You really do just say whatever comes into your head, don't you?"
"Not usually."
They talked for nearly an hour. Movies. Restaurants. The laundry machines downstairs.
"You've never seen it? Not once? The poster doesn't count, Corbin — that's like saying you've been to Paris because you saw a postcard. You are impossible."
"I've seen the poster. It counts as most of it. And I have evidence about the laundry machines, since you have opinions: number two took my quarters and half a shirt. The tag doesn't mention shrinking. I checked."
"You checked the tag. Of course you checked the tag."
"I check everything."
Then it turned personal. She'd moved to the city for a fresh start. A job she hated. Bills that multiplied faster than her paycheck. Plans she kept putting off.
"What did you do before?" he asked.
"Admin. Temp work. Whatever paid."
"And now?"
"Same." She smiled. "But hopeful."
Corbin just listened. Entirely out of character.
She leaned back. "You know something? You're not what I expected. I don't know exactly what I expected — someone normal, maybe. Or, honestly? A serial killer."
For the first time that evening, Corbin let out a genuine laugh — quiet, brief, completely unexpected.
She stared. "Oh my God. You do laugh. I was starting to think it required a permit. Although, in my defense, you have the whole mysterious-neighbor thing working for you — you barely talk to anyone, which does not qualify as social interaction, whatever you tell yourself."
"I wasn't aware I was mysterious."
"Don't fix it," she said. "It's working."
She glanced at the clock. 11:53 p.m.
"I should let you get some sleep. Not that you sleep much, which is terrible for you, but still."
"Probably."
She walked to the door, then paused. "Thank you — for dinner, and for opening the door last night when I was standing in your hallway trying not to fall apart."
"You were hungry."
She lingered on the threshold. "Still. Thank you."
He pulled the door open. She stepped into the corridor.
"Goodnight, Corbin."
"Goodnight, Sam."
She headed to her apartment. He watched until her deadbolt clicked before closing his own door.
Two plates. Two glasses. The apartment looked less empty.
His phone vibrated. Once. Twice. Three times.
The warmth drained out of him. His eyes sharpened. He picked it up.
NEW ENGAGEMENT.
No greeting. No name. Only an encrypted package: a photograph, a name, an address, a schedule, a deadline, a payment authorization.
He read it twice, memorizing every detail. The payment was generous. Generous payments made him suspicious. Generous payments with bad photographs made him certain.
A second message appeared: CONFIRM ACCEPTANCE.
He deleted it. He never accepted immediately. One of his rules: never rush, never react, never let someone else dictate the timeline.
He studied the primary photograph — the target outside a high-security complex, surrounded by guards. Something caught his attention: a reflection in a glass panel behind the target.
Someone standing in the shadows.
He zoomed in. Distorted, but unmistakable. A figure, standing where no figure should have been. Watching the photographer, not the target. His jaw tightened.
Too much empty space around the target. Someone had wanted this photograph taken — wanted him to see it. That bothered him more than the target did. He'd been photographed before. Mugshots, security footage, a wedding once. He'd never been cast before.
He'd learned long ago that what someone chose to leave out was often more important than what they gave you.
His eyes drifted toward the front door. Toward the hallway. Toward the apartment two doors down.
Samantha.
The contract hadn't changed. But something had.
He'd been hired to kill a man. Someone had hired a second man to kill whoever did it. He found the symmetry offensive.
He didn't care for surprises.
He'd built his life to exclude them. People died from surprises. Usually other people.
Especially the human kind.