Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty. There was no commotion. There were no gunshots or powers used. He heard people pass by, and he knew they were looking for him.

Come on.

Another minute passed. His screen glowed.

They were here. The insurance.

He texted them his location in the building.

They’d give him an out, an excuse, and time, all of which were things he needed. He’d get away, then he’d figure out his next steps.

The sick feeling was bad enough he thought he might throw up. The costume and the armor helped, more than anything. A wall between him and the rest of the world.

“Are we going out the way we came in?” Bazilizk asked, his voice a whisper cutting through the dark.

Tristan turned. “Is there a better way out?”

“Not really. Usually people don’t hire me unless they want someone to die, and going out that way will be quiet,” Bazilizk hissed.

Bazilizk was as tall as Paris, but had very broad shoulders, with elaborate decoration at the face, hands, and feet.

Throttle was more unassuming, a guy with tousled hair, a helmet that looked like wood wound around a stump, gaps left for the eyes. His clothing was mundane and ragged, and he carried a rope.

He would be Tristan’s excuse.

“They’re expecting me to run. They may cut us off. If that route works, it works. Just be prepared for an incident. You remember the outline?”

“You want plausible deniability. We make it look like you’re captured.”

“Yeah.”

“Do I kill anyone?” Bazilizk asked.

“No,” Tristan said. “Not unless—”

He imagined the tables being turned. Losing his mind as Byron lived his life. Moonsong and the white picket fence, and the two kids with creepy Moonsong personalities.

“Not unless absolutely necessary. No. Scratch that—just… let’s just get out of here.”

“I want an answer,” Bazilizk stated. “I don’t like gray areas or unclear jobs.”

Tristan thought for a long second.

It felt wrong, that Bazilizk would be that insistent. But everything felt wrong nowadays. Everything felt like a trap, a statement left unfinished. Hollow.

It was as if he was playing a slow, careful game of chess, moving his pieces while only guessing as to the state of the other side of the board.

Were they even playing? Or playing at a high level? Could he make a decisive move, or confuse his opponent?

What they never showed in the movies was that these games that masterminds played went with stomach-churning degrees of stress and consecutive nights without a wink of sleep. Performance faltered. All it took was one mistake.

“No deaths, no killing. Lead the way.”

“I’d better make it look like I caught you,” Throttle said. “It also makes it easier to make a fast escape if I have my rope on you.”