Mason, you are so fucked.

While tugging down on the brim of my hat, I smile at the thought, anticipation filling my bones like marrow. This part of the city is polished, clean, and utterly insignificant to someone like me. Mason has to believe that living here, surrounded by wealth and status, means I can’t reach him.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

I slip through the building’s entrance with ease, my steps silent. The lobby is quiet, almost eerie in its opulence. Glass chandeliers hang overhead, casting a soft, ambient glow. The marble floor shines, reflecting my image and sparkling with flecks of gold and silver. All of this luxury, including the designer clothes I wear, doesn’t faze me.

At the end of the day, we’re all mortal, destined to die one way or another.

The doorman glances up from his desk, raking his gaze over me. I lift my chin like I belong here and the expensive clothes I’m wearing are part of my identity. He doesn’t blink, returning to his mundane tasks.

The elevator doors open with a soft chime, and I step inside, the metal reflecting a distorted version of myself. An illusion. A ghost. But tonight, I’m as real as the pain I’m going to inflict.

I press the button for his floor, and the elevator ascends smoothly, carrying me up toward my destination. After the brief ride, I exit the elevator and walk up to Mason’s door and knock. I could pick the lock, but it’s more fun if he lets me in, unknowingly giving access to the future crime scene.

The door opens just a crack, revealing my target. His hair is messy and his clothing rumpled. The nearly empty tumbler in his left hand catches my eye, and I smile. Mason was never a match for me, but he’s really put himself at a disadvantage by being under the influence of alcohol.

“What do you want?” he asks, his tired gaze narrowing on my face.

I smile, stepping forward so he’s forced to open the door a bit wider. “Mason, right?”

He frowns, glancing at me with confusion, his fingers tightening on the door. “Who’s asking?”

Ignoring his question, I step closer and he jerks back. Even in his stupor, he senses something about me is off, that my black slacks and crisp black shirt are mere camouflage. Too bad his instincts won’t save him.

“I need to talk to you about Dr. Andrews,” I say.

“What about her?”

A flash of unease lights up his gaze. He’s trying to gauge what I know, trying to figure out why I’m standing at his door talking about the woman he put his hands on. He’s not ready for this conversation. Not like I am.

“So, here’s the thing,” I say. “She needs to be taught a lesson.” I shove my hands in my pockets, leaning against the doorframe in an innocuous position. As expected, he relaxes, misreading my casual stance. “And I need you to help me, Mason.”

His frown deepens, his brow furrowing as he tries to place me, to recall my connection to him and Geneva. “What the hell are you talking about? And how do you know my name?”

I give him a sly smile as though we’re friends sharing a dark secret. I suppose that could be true. Mason and I are the only ones who know that he hurt Dr. Andrews.

“Geneva mentioned you once, but that’s besides the point. She needs to be punished. Severely.”

This time Mason takes a step back, keeping his death-grip on the door. But he doesn’t shut it. He won’t. He’s too curious. Too titillated by the idea of hurting Geneva again.

For that alone, I’m going to cut off his balls and hang them on my rearview mirror like a pair of dice.

Mason’s gaze darts from side to side, confirming we don’t have an audience. His mouth thins as he considers my proposal. I catch the moment the idea takes hold of him, the subtle shift in his body as intrigue and something dark begin to fuse together.

“What exactly are you thinking about doing?” he asks.

I shrug. “I’m open to anything, as long as it hurts. A lot.”

“Come in,” he says, his voice low. “This isn’t something to talk about publicly.”

I step through the threshold while concealing my amusement. The door clicks shut behind me, and I take a moment to assess my surroundings. The apartment is as expensive as it is boring. Clean lines, neutral tones, polished wood floors that gleam under the soft glow of designer lighting.

Blah, blah, blah. Details, shmetails.

Mason has surrounded himself with objects that symbolize wealth and power, but all I see are the hollow trappings of someone desperate to prove that he matters. That he’s in control.

A delusion I plan on shattering.

He crosses the room, setting down his tumbler on the counter before reaching out to grab a glass bottle.

Mental note: His right hand is his dominant hand.

His movements are jittery, but it’s not with fear. It’s eagerness. The fantasy of punishing Geneva excites him… almost as much as I’m excited to kill him.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks.

“Sure.”

Mason pours me a drink and hands me the glass. Once I take it, he refills his. “How do you know Gen? And what did she do to you?”

“I met her at Blackwater, where I used to work. To answer your other question: She ruined me.”

Mason lets out a sound, something between a laugh and a grunt, as if he understands. I almost smile. He has no idea what Geneva has done to me, how deeply she’s embedded herself into my mind. Ruined me, yes, but not in the way he thinks.

She’s made it impossible for me to want anyone or anything else. Because she’s the only thing I think about, the only person who I give a shit about. Does that mean I care for her? Not exactly. I doubt I’m capable of such emotions anymore.

But whatever I feel for her, it’s all-consuming.

“Gen has always been uptight,” Mason says. “A stickler for the rules.”

“I’m not surprised. It must’ve been hard being with someone like that.”

He scoffs. “You have no idea. She thinks following the rules makes her better than everyone.”

I dip my head in acknowledgment. “I get it. Before she got me fired, due to ‘inappropriate behavior,’ Geneva told me she’d just dumped her boy-toy and was swearing off all men.” Mason flinches at “boy-toy.” Fucking with his fragile ego is too easy. I blow out a breath, maintaining the composed look I’ve mastered, even though the urge to smile is almost overwhelming. “She needs to pay for what she did.”

“She’s always so cold,” he says. “She never let me in, never gave a shit about me beyond what I could do for her. But everyone has a breaking point, and I want to find hers.”

“That’s a good place to start.” I keep my voice soft, coaxing him. “What else?”

“I want to make her feel powerless. Tie her up, blindfold her, and torture her. Basically, take away everything that makes her feel secure.”

My mind files away every single word. Mason thinks he’s describing his fantasy for Geneva, but all he’s doing is giving me the tools I need to destroy him. Every twisted thought that crosses his mind will soon be his reality. Plus, some initiative on my part, of course.

“And then?” I ask.

Mason’s eyes gleam with cruelty now, fully immersed in his sick delusion. “I’ll make her beg. Make her plead for it to stop. But I won’t stop. Not until she’s completely broken or dead.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about this,” I say with a small laugh. As if I haven’t thought about torturing and killing him for weeks now.

He shrugs, trying to appear casual, but there’s an eagerness in his expression that he can’t quite suppress. “I’ve had time to think.”

“Damn man, what really happened? This sounds like more than just her dumping you.”

The skin around his jaw tightens and the shift in his demeanor is immediate. Rage is there, just below the surface, and I want him to release it. To admit what he did, so I can kill him.