Rain suddenly began pouring so Xavier had to rush back to his apartment, only to find it empty. He didn't mind it because he didn't need distraction at this moment, and having girls around only brought him unspoken thoughts.

He locked the door, threw his keys on the counter, and dropped the package on the table.

For a moment, he just stood there, looking at it. The paper had soaked up a bit of rain, corners soft, edges curling slightly. He tore it open carefully, not because it was fragile, but because whatever was inside didn't deserve haste.

Under the wrapping sat a small black case, matte finish, no labels, no marks. He flipped the latch. The lid opened with that faint mechanical click that sounded too clean for something this dirty.

Inside were ten syringes. Each one filled with a clear, slightly viscous liquid that caught the light like glass. Neatly arranged, all identical. A thin chill slipped through him — not fear, but memory.

John Kane's words came back to him, the way he said it that night in that half-lit room: "One dose is all it takes. Straight to the bloodstream. No struggle, no time to react. Clean and untraceable."

Xavier picked up one of the syringes, held it against the light, watched the liquid settle. He could almost hear Kane's tone again — too calm for a man talking about killing.

That was the plan back then. Kill Maximillian. End the chain before it reached him.

But now… things have changed.

He leaned back in the chair, eyes fixed on the case, jaw tightening slightly. The rain outside grew heavier, streaking down the glass. The city looked blurred, distorted — like everything else lately.

He exhaled, quiet and long, and muttered to himself, "Ten shots. Ten chances to rewrite the mess."

Then he closed the lights, leaving the case in the dark — still waiting for a decision he hadn't made yet.

He'd barely set the case on the table when the phone lit up—John Kane's number staring back like a warrant. Xavier let it ring once, twice, and then swiped to answer. He kept his voice flat, casual—like he was calling about a delivery that might've been late, not murder supplies that had just arrived.

"Kane."

"Xavier." Kane sounded clean as always, like he'd slept with the city's ledger under his pillow. "You get the package?"

"Got it." Xavier watched the light bloom on the countertop, the syringes waiting like teeth in the dark case. He let the word hang a beat so Kane knew he'd handled it. "Everything's intact."

There was a small, satisfied pause. "Good. You understand what this is for."

"Yeah." Xavier kept it short. Then he pushed, casual. "Any movement on Maximillian? You promised you'd have someone on him."

Kane shifted. It was audible—just a click in the background, the kind of thing that meant he was taking a call, checking a report. "Sources say he's still in the city. Not gone anywhere. It's only a matter of time before someone pins him down."

Xavier let a slow breath out, played the right part — annoyance edged with curiosity. "Why send the syringes now? Why not when you were sure where he was?"

"Unofficial trade," Kane said, voice narrowing into something sharp. "Audit's in a few days. Too many questions, too many inventories. I couldn't risk missing product flagged in our stock. Wouldn't survive the board's teeth."

There was a thin laugh in his tone, the kind that didn't reach the eyes but reached the point. "Besides, I paid someone enough to take the heat if the syringes went missing. Liability covered. You get the tools; they get the scapegoat. We both get what we want.... revenge!"

Kane didn't bother with reassurances that sounded human. He offered pragmatism. "Don't get sloppy. Use them and make it look like an accident. No witnesses, no scene."

"All right," Xavier said finally. "I'll handle the rest."

Kane's voice softened the smallest degree, only enough to remind Xavier of the stakes. "Do it clean. And Xavier—don't get sentimental."

The line clicked dead. Xavier stood there with the phone still warm against his ear and the case cold on the table. For a moment he let the silence swell, letting the rain on the window and his own breath fill the room. Then he closed the lid of the case, fingers steady, jaw unclenched but not loose. He had the syringes now.

The day melted as usual, and Xavier moved through it with the same quiet precision he used for everything — training with Viola next door, eating whatever Seraphina had cooked like it was fuel that mattered, letting Oliver spill the academy's latest petty dramas.

Training with Viola was noise and muscle and the only kind of honesty left to them. They worked through combos and misdirections until sweat glued their clothes and their breaths matched. She hit him once and didn't soften when he stumbled. She barked at him in the middle of a sequence and then laughed when he cursed under his breath. It grounded him. It made the plan feel less like a single, impossible cliff and more like a map he could step across.

Lunch at Seraphina's was warm light and better bread than Xavier deserved. Seraphina talked about a neighbor's new cat. Xavier nodded and ate.

Night came like permission. He sneaked out of his apartment and Viola was already waiting for him outside.

She didn't say much when he joined her. Her eyes slid to the crease of his sleeve and back to his face, like she was counting the changes in him and deciding if she liked what she saw. The street smelled faintly of rain and old smoke. Cars were distant ghosts. Above them, windows held a dozen small lives they weren't part of.

"You sure?" she asked, voice low enough that it could have been a thought rather than a question. She had that tilt to her chin, the one she used when she wanted something done clean and quick.

Xavier looked at her and felt the case under his ribs, heavy and humming with intent. "I'm sure," he said. No bravado, no promise. Just the fact of it. The syringes were a cold weight against his chest when he flexed his fingers, a reminder that any mistake would cost more than money.

It was now time to deliver some justice, or rather…. a sweet revenge.

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