I waited for thirty minutes, crouched in the shadows. The man descended from the roof—it was Runner, with his close-cropped hair. He stopped to scan the street with his icy blue gaze, but he seemed to be just checking the surroundings. No signs of agitation. He hadn’t found my sleeping bag.

I was confident I’d been cautious in my observation routine. I didn’t think I’d been spotted. It had to be a standard perimeter check. That meant my rooftop position was probably still secure, at least for a few more days. 

Lucky break, courtesy of a nightmare.

Later that same afternoon, something happened.

I’d seen Gangster and Model leave in the morning for one of their shadowy errands. When they returned, their car was going too fast. Model jumped out and rushed into the building, coming back out a minute later with Leader and Bear. They opened the back door and began lifting out what looked like a large bag.

No, not a bag—I realized with a jolt—it was a man. Gangster. Was he dead?

He twitched, barely, but couldn’t stand. The two men had to carry him. I had a poor angle from my perch, but even from up here, I could see the blood streaking down his arm. I didn’t dare use the binoculars; sunlight could give away my position. They disappeared into the building.

Ten minutes later, a car pulled up. A man I’d never seen before jumped out and rushed inside, medical bag in hand. His windshield bore the caduceus symbol—he was a doctor.

Several minutes passed.

Then Model and Runner came out. One drove the doctor’s car, the other took the blood-soaked vehicle. They didn’t speak a word, just moved with quiet precision. They parked the cars in a shaded alley, right in front of my vantage point, probably to avoid drawing attention. 

They went back inside.

Model returned soon after with cloths, sponges, and a bucket. He got to work scrubbing blood from the back seat.

I watched him for over an hour.

He was my age—young, athletic, polished. Always looked like he’d walked out of a fashion magazine. Even now, in the cold, his coat off, shirt sleeves rolled up, splattered with blood, he worked with obsessive precision.

Blood isn’t easy to clean. But he didn’t stop. He soaked it, scrubbed it, rinsed and started again. He wasn’t just cleaning—he was losing himself in the task to forget whatever had just happened.

That kind of behavior felt familiar. Like I’d done it before—just couldn’t remember when.

After a while, the doctor came out, followed by Bear. Their faces were tense. Resigned. Not a good sign. They spoke briefly, then Bear walked the doctor to his car and watched him drive off.

Model had just finished. The rags he’d used were soaked dark red. Bear walked over and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. Model didn’t say a word, just looked like the weight of the world had dropped onto him.

Gangster was dead. No doubt left.

And to my own surprise, I felt it. That sharp edge of loss, like I’d lost someone myself. 

Unsettling.

I rolled onto my back and stared up at the sky, blue and unforgiving. After four days watching them, it was no wonder I was starting to feel something. Familiarity breeds empathy. Dangerous.

These men reminded me of soldiers. And in whatever fragments of memory I still had, I had been one too. I knew what it meant to lose someone in combat.

I had to shake it off. I was losing my objectivity. First rule of recon: don’t feel. Just observe.

Still, this changed everything.

One of them had been seriously injured. Maybe killed. That meant whatever they were doing wasn’t safe. And when things went wrong, they didn’t go to the hospital—they handled it in-house. That meant illegal.

So, what now?

Call the police? Report them?

It sounded right. But it didn’t feel right. I tried to rationalize it. Maybe I’d just been watching them too long, and my judgment was off. But no matter how hard I pushed, something inside me resisted. 

I couldn’t do it.

Maybe I didn’t want to. 

Maybe some part of me didn’t trust the police any more than I trusted these men.

No, I needed another way to find my answers. And I had a very dangerous idea.