The man had screamed louder than usual.
That was the first mistake.
The second was leaving the alley open.
The third—Carmen's—was catching the movement too late.
She turned from the kill, breath still ragged, gloves soaked and slick, blood dripping from the scalpel—
And saw him.
A boy.
Seven, maybe eight.
Frozen. Barely breathing. Mismatched socks. One glove. Eyes wide with something that wasn't just fear—it was understanding.
Julian moved before Carmen did.
Fast.
Sharp.
Not to kill—yet.
To cover the body. Block the view. Assess.
Carmen raised a hand.
"Wait."
Julian stopped mid-step.
The boy trembled.
He looked like he'd forgotten how to run.
Carmen crouched slowly, blood pooling around her boots.
"What's your name?" she asked, voice dipped in something dangerously close to warmth.
The boy didn't speak.
Julian growled low. "He saw everything."
Carmen didn't flinch.
She just watched the boy's face. The way his hands twitched. The glove dangling from his fingers like a memory he hadn't dropped yet.
"You saw something tonight," she said. "But you don't know what it was."
The boy didn't nod. Didn't deny it.
Just stared like the world had cracked open and swallowed part of him.
Julian's fingers curled around the knife hilt inside his coat.
Carmen didn't move.
"Not yet."
Julian's jaw tensed. "You're gambling with risk."
"I'm making a decision."
She turned back to the boy. Lowered herself until their eyes met.
"You've seen someone get hurt before."
He didn't answer.
"Your father?"
A slight nod. A twitch. The air changed.
Carmen leaned in. Her gloves still wet.
She reached up and gently touched his cheek.
Left a red smear across his skin.
He flinched—but didn't pull away.
"I bet you stayed quiet then, too."
His lips parted.
Barely a whisper: "I didn't tell."
Her smile wasn't comfort.
It was confirmation.
"Good," she said. "Now go home. Wash your face. Forget this alley exists."
And just like that, he turned.
And ran.
The sound of his footsteps disappeared into the night like a heartbeat retreating into silence.
Julian didn't speak until they were back at the flat.
The blood was gone. The body burned. But something lingered.
He stared at the ceiling, cigarette between his fingers.
Carmen traced a blade up her inner thigh, thinking.
"You think I made a mistake."
He didn't look at her.
"You left a variable alive."
"No," she said. "I left a weapon walking. Maybe he uses it. Maybe he doesn't. Either way—he's tainted now. And tainted things don't come clean."
Julian turned his head. Smoke curled from his lips.
"Would you kill him later?"
Carmen's smile was slow. Final.
"If he remembers?"
She kissed the knife's tip.
"Absolutely."
But miles away, under a cracked window and a flickering lamp, the boy sat on the floor wrapped in a threadbare blanket.
His mother lit a cigarette. Didn't ask where he'd been.
Didn't ask why he was quiet.
He watched the smoke rise.
Watched her indifference bloom.
And something clicked inside his chest.
He didn't know the word for it yet.
But he understood something new—
Power isn't loud.
It's quiet.
It's cold.
And it watches.