I didn't even hear him enter. I'm not easy to surprise—he's already at an advantage. That is not good.

I don't plan on answering because I don't like to talk. I don't know, I'm not good at it, I was very quiet for a long time. I'm not particularly talented with phrasing, either, despite all the books I've read. I always sound uninterested or awkward.

I especially don't enjoy talking to heroes. They expect way too much wit and banter. My hood also changes my voice slightly, which they love to comment on. I'm not sure about the technology behind it, but my voice sounds slightly deeper and more... strangely mechanical, when I wear it. I think it's kind of overkill, but it's better than using my real one. I try to take my identity seriously.

I turn to face him, my glowing red eyes the only thing he can see in the darkness of my hood—which also has a veil to ensure my face can't be seen no matter the lighting. Aside from that I'm just a dark, triangularized silhouette with massive scythes that line my arms.

Clover looks exactly how he did in the picture. Only a bit more... larger than life.

Which is somehow devastating, since he's unlike anything I've ever seen before and it's distracting. His freckles are even more prominent in person, his glow brighter. His hair messier, his teeth sharper, his smile more... boyish. Mischievous, dimples prominent. Why is he smiling, anyway? Is he really not scared of me? Interesting.

Step. Step. The man makes his way slowly toward me, and I reflexively back away. Clover tilts his head like he wasn't expecting that, which isn't a first. People see my name and just assume I'll jump right to it. The shrinking proximity is a new priority, so before he can say something else, I speak.

The same warning I give everyone.

I can't remember the last time it worked.

"Stay away from me," I try not to let my voice shake, terrified of killing this guy. Maybe it's because I know how much he'll be mourned. He's the city's symbol. I really don't want to do this, especially to someone so loved and well-regarded. It feels wrong. "Please. I don't want you to die."

"That's so sweet," Clover remarks insincerely, pace not faltering. I try to come up with any way to stop him that isn't literally stabbing him in the chest or touching him, but I can't. I also don't like that he called me sweet despite the fact that I usually appreciate compliments. Even if they are difficult for me to pick up on or understand. I don't think he meant it. "But I don't plan on it."

Screw it.

I don't try to negotiate anymore, partially because Clover is now no longer in front of the door. He's closer to me, and if I make it around the row of filing cabinets then I may reach it in time to run again.

I book it. I sprint toward the door, hoping I can somehow outrun this man's flight, but I don't make it far. Before I know it I can feel the cloth of my cloak being grabbed, and I can't help but be thankful for the fact that it is so secure. You can't even pull the hood down, it's stitched to the mesh.

I don't hear him. He definitely flies when he does it.

Before I know it, I'm being launched across the room.

He didn't use all his strength, that I know for sure, because I probably would've gone through the bricks. Instead I'm stopped by the wall of monitors, glass falling around me but doing nothing since my whole body is covered in thick fabric.

I wince, trying not to make a sound but still hissing in pain at the blunt force trauma. No cuts or anything, thankfully, because my suit has enough armor to protect me pretty well from things like that. But ow. This guy is strong. That is not good for me.

"I'm serious," I tell him, already taking off my gloves because it's starting to click that this man is not giving up any time soon. So, I unbuckle the clips and let them hang in their little holders—specifically designed to be detachable when I need them to. Each of the fingers are detachable too, but it's less surface area and I don't want to risk missing if I really do have to touch him. "If you touch me, you'll die, please don't—"

"Really not living up to The Executioner name, are you?" Clover asks, amused. Honestly? That irritates me. I can't help the way I narrow my eyes on the ridiculously cocky man, and suddenly, I don't mind touching him at all. He's gonna criticize my job title? Imply I can't do the one thing I'm good for? I don't know, I didn't appreciate it.

He can't see my expression, but I do quirk an eyebrow. I'm on top of the control console as he makes his way toward me, and he's walking a little quicker this time. He doesn't want to give me time to try to run again, but he has nothing to worry about. I won't. That hurt.

Finally, he stops right in front of me, and holds out his hand.

Like he's going to help me up. Like we're friends or something. He's definitely planning on throwing me again. Good thing he'll never get the chance. Screw the target this will put on my back and the people who will mourn him, I'm over the situation.

I reach out, and I take his hand.

He's instantly hissing and pulling away.

I watch the skin on his hand begin to rot a bit, to decompose, which is typical for proximity. It's healing up within a second, though, which is not normal. Being close to me literally causes cells to die.

One problem, though. That wasn't just proximity.

I grabbed his hand.

And he's still standing there.

"Nevermind. Didn't realize you radiated death." He mutters. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. It feels like my brain just crashed. I can't comprehend this. I haven't touched someone in 17 years. Someone who lived to see another day afterwards. A second later, once the wound has healed and he's thought for a second, the smile is back on his face. "Fixed it. Still not meeting expectations."

How is he doing that?

How the hell—the rotting affected him, but he didn't die. Is he just that powerful? How did that even happen? Actually, what did he mean by 'fixed it'? Does he mean he fixed his skin or that he fixed my death radiation? Did he take my power away? What—

I'm fascinated. Entranced. I can't help the way I lean forward, all sound going away as I focus on his face. It's practically tunnel vision, and I watch one of his eyebrows twitch in confusion as I slowly reach toward his face with shaky hands. I don't want to touch his hand again, he might use it as leverage to grab me or something.

So, the face it is. I reach out and I gently press the tips of my fingers to the skin of his cheek. This time, there's no rot. Just a deeply unfamiliar, welcome bodily warmth.

I want to cry.

It's a good thing he can't see my face. I'm... I...

I'm at a loss. My entire body is trembling. Here I am, fingers pressed to his face, and he's fine. Confused, sure, but he's fine. He's living.

Despite how horrible that is for my situation, all I feel is happiness. He's okay.

Then, Clover tilts his head away from my touch. Fair, I hardly realized I was doing that. I jerk my hand back. I didn't mean to make him uncomfortable, it's not like we're friends. I just couldn't believe it. I still can't. I really want to, though.

"Wow, take me to dinner first."

I don't even acknowledge that. I can barely think, staring up at Clover as it grows increasingly harder to breathe. There's a fire in his purple—almost blue, maybe some pink—gaze. Mischief. I have no idea what the words he just said meant. I am not hungry for dinner. I'm not anything but shocked right now. It feels like my entire understanding of everything just got turned upside down. I don't know anything anymore.

He's okay. He's okay.

He's not dead!

"How are you still alive?" I'm breathless. Shocked. There's a thrill that leaks into my voice—an excitement, even. "How are you not rotting?"

"Set my chances of dying from you to 0." He notifies me without much hesitation. That barely even makes sense. Set the chances to 0? I mean, of course he would take precautions against The Executioner executing him, but I still can't believe it. I also don't understand. Set chances?

I'm also shocked he's telling me so easily. Most people like keeping the intricacies of their ability to themselves. Is he just that proud of it? That confident? Is he underestimating me?

He looks down at me with he same ridiculously superior smirk he's had this whole time, like he's unsurprised by my amazement. His entrance comes back to me—the way he advanced on me with no hesitation, despite the warnings. The way he threw me. Even now, not a care in the world.

Definitely.

"For my decomposing hand, moisturizer. Just kidding. Updated it to a 0 percent probability you could hurt me with your power at all. Now what?"

Probability.

It finally clicks. That's what his ability is.

He's not controlling my power, he's not immune to the touch of death. He can control outcomes, that's how he's so lucky. He can control results. He's not doing anything to my power, he's making it so my power can't do anything to him.

He can make it so my ability doesn't work on him.

He can make it so I can touch him.

"Whatever. Enough chit chat. I'm taking this off before I send you to prison. I've been wondering forever." Clover holds up his pointer finger and begins to draw near. I hold my arms up in their default defensive X position, one I've used a hundred times, leaning away from him as I watch a tiny utility knife slide out of the end of his finger. It's small but looks sharp.

I'm frozen when he reaches in front of me, not paying attention to the blades I have crossed and aimed at his body. He's not even a little worried about the weapons I have pointed at him, reaching out to grab my hood and holding up his knife-clad finger.

Then, he begins to cut away the mesh.

"Bet you look like a monster or something. Longshot said you're probably mangled. We bet 20 bucks, stay still." Clover continues like I have any idea what or who he's talking about. "You're smaller than I expected, that's for sure."

What? Okay, sorry I grew up on prison food? I didn't exactly get the best nutrients for a developing child. Not everyone gets to eat ten pounds of raw cow for every meal like this guy probably does. He's like eight feet tall. Okay, not really.

Whatever, doesn't matter, because everything is starting to catch up to me.

What's happening right now—the fact that he's cutting away my mesh. My cover. My identity.

My eyes widen. Oh no. "No, no, I'm just two lights under here. And hands."

Yep, two floating red lights that are perfectly eye-spaced apart and regular hands. That's definitely my entire body. I can't help but begin to struggle, and that's when Clover presses a hand to my chest. His strength pins me against the broken monitors with no effort. Just like that I can't move an inch. He continues cutting away the mesh of my hood.

He seems to find that mildly amusing. "Stop moving."

I need to get out of this.