Nil answered with precision, without hesitation, as if he had told the story a thousand times.

—Three men attacked me on the road. They were inexperienced, nervous. I offered them money, but they thought I was pulling a weapon and jumped me.

—What did they look like? —Giovanni jotted down every word, convinced he was in control.

—Young. One of them had grey eyes.

Giovanni tightened his grip on the pen.

—And the gunshot wound?

Step two: make him see.

Nil calmly slid his fingers over the buttons of his shirt and, one by one, began to undo them slowly. Not just the lower half. The entire garment.

Giovanni felt the shift in the air immediately.

The candles flickered on the desk, casting long shadows across the office, bathing Nil’s skin in a warm and treacherous glow. The light slid over his collarbone, down his chest, tracing every curve of his lean torso until it was lost in the darkness where the fabric still hung from his shoulders.

Giovanni tensed.

—That’s not necessary...

—Yes, it is. —he spoke softly, with a velvety tone, as his gaze turned bold.

Nil turned slowly, letting the shirt fall further open with the movement. The scar on his side was exposed, reddish, fresh— the only imperfection on skin that had no right to look so damn striking under lamplight.

Then he moved his hand.

Not obviously. Not like he was doing it on purpose. But just enough for the sheriff’s gaze to drift along the line of his waist... down the curve of his back... and settle on his ass.

Giovanni’s breath hitched, a strange heat spread through his chest, and a tingling stirred in his stomach. The air grew heavier.

This is an interrogation. he scolded himself mentally.

He forced his eyes to the wound, to the marked skin— to anything not lit in that damned way.

—I got shot in a village. —Nil broke the silence with his soft voice—. It wasn’t a robbery. It was a man... a farmer.

Giovanni narrowed his eyes.

—Why did he shoot you?

Nil lowered his gaze, carrying the expression of someone burdened with too much.

—Because I couldn’t save his daughter.

The sheriff blinked.

Nil sighed and slid the shirt over his shoulders again, but didn’t bother to button it completely.

—I traveled to their village when the girl was already too sick. I did what I could, but... it wasn’t enough.

Giovanni exhaled slowly.

It was believable.

So damn believable.

Nil turned again with exasperating slowness, collecting the last buttons of his shirt without taking his eyes off him.

—That’s why I didn’t want to talk about it before. How do you explain something like that?

And there it was.

That final stab to his conscience.

Because, even though Giovanni tried to remain cold, he couldn’t tell anymore if the weight in his chest was from Nil’s story... or from what he had just seen.

Nil smiled faintly.

Step three: finish him off.

Giovanni regretted it the moment Nil started walking toward him.

The apothecary circled the desk with the calm of a well-fed predator, never breaking eye contact, while the tips of his fingers slid along the wood, marking the rhythm of his steps— a subtle touch, almost careless. Giovanni should’ve stood up, put some distance... but he didn’t.

Nil stopped beside him. Sat on the edge of the desk with irritating confidence and crossed one leg over the other, leaning slightly toward him.

—Ever been called a murderer, sheriff?

The question hit him head-on.

Nil smiled gently, but there was no mockery in his eyes.

—Ever had a father curse you out while holding his daughter’s dead body?

Giovanni didn’t know what to say.

His throat dried up. The way Nil said it stole the air from his lungs, without blinking. Without doubt. Like he’d stared death in the eye more times than he could count.

Giovanni opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Nil leaned in closer.

Just a couple of inches more...

Giovanni tensed his muscles.

Nil was so close, for a moment...

For a moment, he thought he was going to kiss him.

And his body reacted before his mind could.

His breathing slowed, his pulse pounded. If Nil moved just a little more...

But he didn’t.

Nil came close enough for his breath to brush against Giovanni’s ear.

—I forgive you for doubting me, Giovanni.

His name.

His damned name.

Spoken like that.

Whispered with a venomous softness that made him shiver.

Giovanni swallowed hard.

And Nil felt it.

He knew.

He straightened as if nothing had happened, watching him with those damned eyes that pierced right through.

He smiled, slowly.

—It’s our secret, sheriff.

And before leaving, he winked.

As if he hadn’t just made every hair on Giovanni’s body stand on end.

The door closed.

And Giovanni couldn’t move for a long while. The sheriff felt like he couldn’t breathe.

His chest rose and fell as if he’d run across the whole damn town of Arcelia.

But it wasn’t exhaustion.

It was him.

It was Nil.

That son of a bitch.

Giovanni shut his eyes tight and clenched his teeth.

How had he let this happen again?

How the hell had he allowed Nil to get inside his space, his head, his damn body?

He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the heat in his cheeks like they’d been set on fire.

No.

It couldn’t be.

It couldn’t fucking be!

Nil had played him, from the beginning! Of course he had! He’d done it on purpose, with that damn smile, with that voice that slid in like poison.

And the worst part...

The worst part wasn’t that Nil had played him.

The worst part was that he let him.

Because the first time, he convinced himself he had no choice.

Nil was treating him at the clinic.

Nil was touching him only because it was necessary.

But now...

Now? What was his excuse this time?

Nil had unbuttoned his shirt right in front of him.

Let the fabric slip from his shoulders with deliberate slowness.

Had shown that pale skin with a damn purpose.

And Giovanni...

Hadn’t looked away.

Hadn’t turned his head.

Hadn’t even pushed him off.

His fists clenched with frustration, his knuckles whitening from the pressure. When did he lose control of the situation?

Nil only wanted to play with him.

And the worst part was... he was succeeding.

The sun was beginning to set when Roberto arrived in Iguala, a town larger and livelier than Arcelia, where the sound of hammers in the blacksmith shop and voices in the market still echoed despite the hour. The air smelled of wet earth and wood smoke, mixed with the unmistakable scent of sweat and tobacco floating in the streets.

Roberto went straight to the sheriff’s office, a solid adobe building with reinforced doors. It wasn’t his first time there, and the sheriff of Iguala, Donoso, greeted him with a nod and a curious look.

—Roberto. Didn’t expect to see you around here.

—I’m here for information. —Roberto removed his hat and shook off the dust from the road—. I heard about a robbery on the roads near Arcelia. A gang hit a stagecoach.

Donoso nodded and searched through a stack of papers on his desk.

—Yes, here it is. It was a little over a week ago. The passengers were headed to Iguala, but passed near Arcelia when they were attacked. No one died, but the passengers were badly beaten. They took money, horses... and oddly enough, documents.

Roberto narrowed his eyes.

—Documents?

—Official papers. Nothing you’d sell in a regular market.

That didn’t match the Black Specter he knew. It sounded more like they’d grabbed anything that might be worth something.

Roberto picked up the report and read through it calmly. Testimonies from the survivors, attack details. The witnesses described an aggressive leader, yelling orders and firing recklessly.

That didn’t add up. Roberto looked up.

—I was under the impression the leader was calm and calculating. Someone meticulous, who didn’t act without thinking.

Donoso shook his head.

—That’s what they said at first, but you know how people are after an attack. They were probably confused. And they’d been under the sun for hours, probably weren’t thinking straight.

Roberto frowned.

The original Black Specter wasn’t impulsive.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t act without planning. From the beginning it seemed suspicious to Roberto that a mercenary would switch from night raids to broad daylight attacks. And it was even stranger that, after more than a decade working alone, he’d suddenly start leading a gang.

And yet, here was his name tied to a sloppy job.

—Did any witness give a description?

Donoso grabbed a sheet and slid it across the table.

—Some remembered more details than others, but all agree on the following. Light gray eyes, a scar across the left eye, curly hair the color of honey.

Roberto clenched his jaw.

The real Black Specter was meticulous, only got involved when necessary. This impostor... wasn’t.

An impostor staining the name of a ghost.

Roberto lowered the paper slowly, his expression darkening.

If this man wasn’t the original, then...

Where was the real Black Specter?

And more importantly...

Did he know someone else was using his name?