He lowered his guard, and that was all Jason needed, a quarter second to strike out backhanded, the knuckles of his fingers and palm making simultaneous strikes on a pressure point at the center of X’s eyebrow and the facial nerve below his left cheekbone. Done perfectly, the blow would cause excruciating pain and a near-instant blackout. But X twitched at the last moment, just enough to stay on his feet. Still, he was stunned; and that, too, was all Jason needed. He struck out stiff-fingered, caught X in the throat, then followed with a blur of jabs and a right cross big enough to fold X at the knees. Jason met him on the way down, twisting through the hips with an uppercut that might have killed a lesser man. Even X seemed half-dead when he hit concrete, eyes down to slits as he coughed out blood and bits of teeth.

Jason straightened, breathing hard. It had been a near thing. Another minute, and he’d have had no fight left.

Destroy the balance.

Obliterate the man.

That was the midnight decision: to make X angry, to build the anger into rage, and the rage into disdain. It was the only path Jason had left, so he’d taken the hits, the pain, and done it for what?

A quarter second.

The blink of an eye.

Jason dragged out a chair, found a bottle of wine, and waited to see if X would drown in his own vomit before color rolled back into his eyes. He considered helping the man along—ten full seconds of that fucking close.

When X could focus, he found Jason in the chair, the bottle half-empty. “I knew it,” he said. “I was right…”

“About what?”

But X didn’t answer. He was too busy bleeding, and nodding, and weeping tears that looked like joy.

For Warden Wilson, the world had long ago ceased to make sense. His office? What did it matter? His responsibilities? The future? How long since his wife had touched his hand or smiled? Or since his sons had called him father?

Could X actually die?

Of course, he could be physically killed, but what provisions had he made? The man was insane, vicious, and richer than sin. He had lawyers, mercenaries, God alone knew what. And only God knew what would happen if X died prematurely.

“Excuse me, sir?” The warden’s secretary appeared in the open door. “Visitor processing still needs an answer, and the doctor called again. I really think you should go.”

“Very well.”

The warden rose from the desk yet seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. His secretary had ideas about X—many did—but only a few understood the monster in the basement: those who’d paid the price, and lived afraid. Buttoning his coat, Warden Wilson made his way to the subbasement under death row. Two guards stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Status?” he asked.