He held the doors open and gestured for her to go ahead. The carpeted hallway stretched before her, empty. When she took a step into it, the doors of the elevator shut; she looked back and saw that he had not followed. He would be falling now, mopping his brow, breathing a sigh of relief at being rid of the responsibility. Perhaps he would be making plans for a late supper, or an early breakfast. Perhaps he had a woman waiting.

There was no place to run. She continued walking with slow even steps to the door at the end, the plain wood door with no name and not even a lock, only a knob to turn.

She knocked politely and went inside.

The room was dark except for a small lamp burning on the corner of his desk, a circle of warm yellow light on blood red carpet, polished dark wood, the black shine of the toe of his shoe. He was smoking imported cigarettes; the tobacco stank like old leather.

“Sit,” he said, voice raspy with smoke. When she had settled herself in the plain chair before his desk, he sat, too. “Maybe it was bad luck. Could have happened to anybody.”

She refused to grab the straw and sat in silence, watching the red flare of his cigarette.

“You know you won’t be leaving here.”

“I know,” she said evenly. The fantasy rushed back on her, strong as the smell of his tobacco—a knife in her hand, skin peeling back from muscle, his face. “I’m sorry about your employee. The one who burned.”

“He was getting to be a problem. Too bad about the girlfriend, though. She was a competent thief, and they’re harder to come by than psychos like Sol. Like you.”

He extinguished the cigarette in an ashtray, and now he was only a dark shape in the shadows; he could have been anyone, anywhere, anytime. She closed her eyes and lived the fantasy, felt it rush through her with the force of an orgasm.

“Velvet was never of any importance,” she said aloud. “The idea that I will die for her is ludicrous.”

“You mistake me,” he said. “I’m not killing you because of Velvet. I’m killing you because I’m tired of burying your hobbies, Ming. You’re a fucked-up rabid bitch, and it’s time somebody put you down.”

The noise of his gun cocking was shockingly loud. She found herself gripping the arms of the chair hard enough to break her laquered nails, and could not force herself to relax, not now, not ever again. A childhood prayer came back to her in singsong whispers.

Behind her, the door opened and a square of light spilled in.