243. CHRISTOPHER H. (POV)

243. CHRISTOPHER H. (POV)
Lazarus laughs, genuinely. He scratches the back of his neck, and the abrupt movement makes one of the guards next to William straighten, his gun aimed directly at Lazarus’s head.

The assassin raises his hands again, in a mocking surrender, and says, “As if you didn’t already know the answer, sir.”

“Evelyn paid you?”

“If you’re stupid enough to mention the Black Scythe, knowing exactly what we are, what we do, then you already know I can’t answer that.” He sneers. “It’s unethical.”

“Unethical?” I snap, drawing his eyes to me. “Since when do assassins have any decency?”

“It’s murder, not a mess.”

William watches him in silence for a few seconds. The room feels like it’s shrinking, as if even the air itself is waiting for his decision.

Charlotte remains still, silent… like a statue.

Lazarus licks his dry lips, then shrugs and sighs.

“Alright. She paid me, okay? Normally, I don’t take jobs this complicated. But we’re old acquaintances. She had the money, the job—I took it.” He laughs, a lower, sharper, more broken sound than expected. “A man’s gotta eat, right?”

William smiles too, but it’s not his usual light smile, nor the one loaded with sarcasm. It’s a cold, dangerous smile… the kind that comes right before a shot.

“A man’s gotta eat,” he repeats, almost a whisper, as if savoring the words. “And you thought killing Charlotte Houghton would buy you a feast?”

Lazarus lifts his chin, but his shoulders are a little tighter now.

“How much did she give you?” William squeezes the bullet harder. The veins on his hand bulge and pulse with a deeper fury. “How much did Evelyn pay you for the job?”

Lazarus hesitates. His eyes flick around, quick, searching for an escape that doesn’t exist. The room’s sealed, three guns aimed at him. And that’s not all. Heavily armed men surround the entire building. We planned this carefully, leaving no room for mistakes.

William steps forward, the bullet still between his fingers, but now his gaze is sharp, like a knife pressed to a throat.

“How much, Lazarus?” He demands, with no charm or casualness. He’s no longer Will… He’s a Houghton tonight.

“Twenty,” he spits the number like it’s bitter. “She paid me twenty million upfront for the countess’s precious head. Tell me, would you refuse that much money? It’s just a head. Just a breath. Do you think anyone’s worth enough to turn that down? People die every day. Everyone’s going to die eventually. What’s the harm in pushing the inevitable forward and getting paid a little for it?”

Beside me, Charlotte wavers. I can feel her trembling under my touch, and I gently stroke her back.

“So, you were paid for this.” He repeats, his voice lower, rougher than usual, making it very clear. “Evelyn paid twenty million to the Black Scythe for Charlotte’s head. Fucking twenty. Is that correct?”

Lazarus stiffens slightly, then grins, cocky and victorious, crossing his arms. He’s no longer troubled by the guns pointed at him. No longer a cornered animal. The way his eyes flash now—it’s that of a predator reborn.

“Yes... And do you know what’s going to happen to you for laying your hands on me?” he hisses, licking his lips again, the skin starting to bleed from his compulsive licking. “The Black Scythe’s blacklist is terrifying. An entire organization living to wipe you off the face of the earth. They don’t stop. There’s nowhere to hide. No place in the world that’s safe. They’ll go to hell and drag you back just to teach you what real pain is. We may trade lives for money, but it’s despair that really makes it worth it. But if you let me go… if you join me, I can spare you. I will accept you.”

William now smiles triumphantly, as if extracting that confession from Lazarus was his greatest win. Because it is—and Lazarus quickly realizes it.

The sound of the door opening behind makes Lazarus go rigid. He doesn’t need to turn to freeze.

A subtle chill runs over my skin as two men enter the room in dark suits as flawless as ours, but with masks covering only their eyes. Not silver, but black and menacing.

I blink slowly, feeling my eyes sting as my pupils dilate with each heavy step, blood rushing in an instinctual recognition of danger.

They’re dangerous.

Both of them, yes, but the taller one, easily over two meters, is the one who truly makes the blood in my veins go cold. Even William feels it; he squeezes the bullet tighter, his shoulders tensing and straining the suit across his back.

The guards quickly shift their aim toward the two new arrivals, but William gestures for them to lower their weapons. It’s no longer necessary.

Lazarus swallows hard, looking genuinely unsettled for the first time.

The slimmer one scans the room, arms crossed a few steps from the door. There’s no obvious hostility in his stance or his black eyes, but one look is enough to know he’s cautious and dangerously self-assured—the kind of man who doesn’t need a gun to get things done.

The taller one, however, fills the space with a suffocating presence. No trace of cologne, no hint of scent, yet it’s hard to breathe, as if the air itself has gone heavier, thicker.

The giant doesn’t look around. He doesn’t care about me, or Charlotte shrinking as if she wants to disappear. He doesn’t care about the weapons raised, then lowered with caution.

From the moment the door opened, his focus has been solely on Lazarus.

“Caim,” Lazarus murmurs, with icy certainty, before even turning. The man is behind him; he can feel it. The presence is crushing his back. The weight of his eyes is like tons, enough to make his shoulders buckle.

Still, he forces a hard swallow, licks his cracked lips, and slowly turns.

Lazarus isn’t a small man, in height or build. His presence, his killer intent, isn’t easy to ignore. But now, with Caim looming over him, more than ten inches taller, he looks almost like a joke.

Just a moment ago, he was bragging about the Blacklist and the Scythe’s horrors, but now he appears smaller. That predator’s gleam in his eyes dims in front of the wall of radiating quiet, restrained violence.

“Sir…” Lazarus begins, or at least tries to, because Caim’s glacial-blue eyes silence him instantly.

“Lazarus.” It’s not Caim speaking, but his companion—the slimmer man, who would probably win if agility were the contest. “You did something unnecessary. And now… the Scythe isn’t pleased.”