Bloody Silk Tie

The air in the Gilded Cage smelled like expensive bleach and cherry blossoms. It was spring, or what passed for it in 2026. The trees outside the rooftop lounge were genetically modified to never drop their petals, which meant the sidewalk was permanently pink and slippery. It was a hell of a place for a hit. I sat at a corner table, watching the condensation drip down the side of my champagne flute. The liquid was a pale, bubbling gold. I’d added three drops of 'Mercy' to the other glass. It was a neuro-paralytic that didn’t just stop the heart—it liquefied the brain’s ability to process pain. It was the kindest thing I could do for a guy like Rene.

I checked my watch. 8:00 PM. The Flatline was heavy tonight. That’s what we called the virus—the thing that turned the world into a giant, unfeeling slab of concrete. No empathy, no love, no guilt. Just a dull, pulsing void where the soul used to be. Most people spent their days staring at walls or working jobs they didn’t care about until they forgot how to breathe. But not us. Not the hitters. We found the loophole. Adrenaline. Terror. The sharp, jagged edge of a knife. Those were the only things that poked a hole in the Flatline.

Rene walked in at 8:05. He looked good in a way that made me want to scream. He was wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my first three contracts combined. His hair was a mess, deliberately so, and his eyes were that weird, shark-like blue that usually meant he’d already killed someone today. He pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. Nothing reached anyone’s eyes anymore.

"You’re late," I said, sliding the poisoned glass toward him.

"Traffic was a nightmare," Rene said. "Some guy decided to jump off the 405. Total mess. Nobody even stopped to look. They just drove over the debris." He picked up the glass, swirling the bubbles. "Is this the vintage stuff?"

"Only the best for you," I replied. My heart wasn’t racing. It didn't do that. But there was a pressure in my chest, a phantom limb of an emotion. I wanted to see him drink it. I wanted to see his eyes go wide when he realized he couldn't move his tongue.

Rene looked at the glass, then at me. He leaned forward, the smell of his cologne—something like cedar and ozone—hitting me hard. "You know, Sila, you always did have a flair for the dramatic. The rooftop. The bubbles. The tiny vial you have tucked into your bra right now."

I didn't blink. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." He swapped the glasses. He did it so fast my eyes barely tracked the movement. It was a blur of silver and glass. "Nice try, babe. That's so you. Using the Mercy. It’s a bit basic, don't you think? I expected something more... explosive?"

He took a long sip of the champagne—the safe one. My glass sat in front of me, deadly and inviting. I reached out, picked it up, and dumped it into a nearby potted plant. The modified lilies began to wilt instantly, their white petals turning a bruised purple.

"Waste of a good vintage," Rene sighed. "Anyway, we have a reservation. The Pit?"

"The Pit is disgusting," I said, standing up and smoothing my dress. It was a black slip dress, thin as a secret. "The smell of unwashed bodies and desperation isn't exactly a vibe."

"It’s the only place where people still scream," Rene said, offering me his arm. "Come on. I’ve got a tenner on the guy with the facial scars. He looks like he’s got a lot of repressed rage. It’s romantic."

We left the lounge and descended into the guts of the city. The subway was a graveyard of people staring at their phones, their faces illuminated by a pale blue light that made them look like ghosts. We didn't talk much. In the post-empathy world, small talk was a waste of oxygen. You either wanted something or you were dead weight.

The Pit was located in the basement of an old industrial laundry. The steam was thick and smelled of iron. In the center of the room, two men were beating each other into a pulp inside a cage made of rusted chain-link. There was no referee. There was no bell. There was just the crowd, silent and watching with clinical interest. They weren't cheering. They were just waiting for the 'click'—the moment when the violence became real enough to penetrate the Flatline.

"Twenty on the small one," I said, leaning against the cage. The small one was fast, but his ribs were definitely broken. I could see the way he winced every time he took a breath.

"He’s a goner," Rene said, standing close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "His center of gravity is all wrong. Look at his feet."

"I’m not looking at his feet, Rene. I’m looking at his eyes. He’s actually scared. That’s rare."

We stood there for an hour, betting on lives like they were horse races. It was the closest thing we had to a dinner date. We didn't hold hands. We just stood side-by-side, watching the blood splatter against the concrete. When the small one finally went down, his skull making a sickening thud against the floor, I felt a tiny spark at the base of my brain. It wasn't joy. It was just... something. A flicker of light in a dark room.

"He’s dead," Rene noted, checking his watch. "Nine minutes. Not bad. You owe me twenty."

"Put it on my tab," I said.

We left the laundry and walked into a narrow alleyway. The city lights didn't reach down here. It was just us and the damp bricks. I felt the shift in the air before I saw the movement. Rene was suddenly behind me, his hand slamming against the wall next to my head. He didn't have a knife out, but he didn't need one. He was a weapon all on his own.

"You were going to kill me tonight," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. "Truly. Not just the champagne. You have a garrote in your purse, don't you?"

"It matches my shoes," I said, my voice steady. I reached back, my fingers brushing the hilt of the small blade tucked into my waistband. "And you were going to kill me in the Pit. You had the Handler’s marksman on the rafters. I saw the red dot on my shoulder twice."

Rene laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound. "I told him to miss. I wanted to see if you’d notice. You’re getting slow, Sila."

"I'm not slow. I'm bored. There's a difference."

He didn't move. He stayed there, pinning me against the brick. For a second, I thought this was it. This was the part where he finally snapped my neck or shoved a blade between my ribs. I waited for the fear. I waited for the rush.

Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out something small and heavy. He grabbed my hand and pressed the object into my palm. It was cold. It was a locket. A real one, made of tarnished silver, with intricate engravings of vines and thorns.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly.

"Pre-collapse," Rene said. "Found it in an estate sale in the dead zone. It’s supposed to hold a picture of someone you value. Or a lock of hair. People used to wear them to remember they were human."

I looked down at it. It felt impossibly heavy. My chest suddenly felt like it was being crushed by a vice. The Flatline didn't just flicker—it shattered. A white-hot spike of agony shot through my heart, radiating out to my fingertips. I gasped, dropping to my knees, the locket clutched against my chest.

"Sila?" Rene’s voice sounded far away.

It wasn't a heart attack. It was the virus. The neurological pathways were trying to fire, trying to process the concept of a gift, of a connection, and the virus was fighting back. It was a chemical war inside my skull. It hurt more than any wound I’d ever taken. It was agonizing. It was beautiful.

"I... I feel..." I couldn't finish the sentence. Tears, actual hot tears, burned my tracks down my face. I hadn't cried in three years. Not since the Flatline took over.

"You feel love," Rene said, kneeling in front of me. He looked terrified. It was the most honest thing I’d ever seen. "It hurts, doesn't it? Like being stabbed from the inside out."

"It’s horrible," I choked out. "Make it stop. Or don't."

He reached out and touched my face, his thumb brushing away a tear. He didn't pull away. He didn't kill me. He just watched me bleed internally.

The moment was broken by the sound of boots on gravel. Four men stepped into the alley. They were wearing the grey tactical gear of the Handler’s clean-up crew. They didn't have faces, just matte-black visors.

"The Handler says the date is over," one of them said. His voice was synthesized, flat, and perfect. "You’re both off the clock. Breach of contract. Emotional interference is a terminal offense."

Rene stood up, pulling me with him. The pain in my chest was fading back into the dull hum of the Flatline, but the memory of it remained like a burn. He didn't let go of my hand. He drew a 9mm from his shoulder holster with his free hand. I reached into my purse and pulled out the garrote, the wire glinting in the faint light.

"I really liked this suit," Rene complained, stepping in front of me.

"You’ll live," I said, my voice returning to its usual sharp edge. "Maybe."

What followed was a blur of motion. The physical collision of bodies, the rhythmic 'thwip' of suppressed gunfire, and the wet sound of the wire cutting through Kevlar. We moved like we were dancing, a synchronized routine of violence that we’d practiced in a dozen different nightmares. I didn't think. I didn't feel. I just moved.

One of the goons swung a baton at my head. I ducked, swept his legs, and had the wire around his throat before he hit the ground. Rene was a whirlwind of efficiency next to me, taking out two of them with precise shots to the neck gaps in their armor. The last one tried to run, but Rene caught him with a knife to the back of the calf, then finished him with a casual shot to the head.

Silence returned to the alley, save for the hum of the city above us and the distant sound of a siren. The cherry blossoms from the rooftop had somehow drifted down here, sticking to the blood on the ground like pink confetti.

We stood there, breathing hard. My dress was ruined. There was a spray of red across my collarbone. Rene’s charcoal suit was shredded at the shoulder.

I looked at the pile of bodies, then at our joined hands. We were still holding on. His grip was tight, almost desperate.

"You're a total psycho," I whispered, looking up at him. I could see the shark-blue of his eyes softening, just a little. "And it's honestly a serve."

Rene pulled me closer, his forehead resting against mine. The spring air felt cold, but his skin was warm. For a second, the Flatline didn't matter. The virus didn't matter. The fact that we’d probably be dead by morning didn't matter.

"Same time next week?" he asked.

"If we're still breathing," I said.

I looked down at the locket still gripped in my other hand. I wondered what kind of picture I’d put inside. Maybe a photo of the two of us, standing in a pile of bodies, finally feeling something other than nothing.

I started to say something else, but then I saw the faint green glow of a sniper’s laser crawling up Rene’s chest.