"Have you ever been having a good time, and then suddenly life kicks your jewels in and takes all your lunch money?"

It's cold on the rooftop tonight. Purple neon glows up from the city streets, criminal stats and bounties blinking on the closest Jumbotron. Ambulance sirens echo.

"Could've stopped you at 'having a good time'." Nick takes a drag from his cigarette.

Eurion adjusts the C14 Timberwolf pressing into his shoulder. "You remember the other ones?"

"Other what?"

"The sirens. Fire, Police."

Nick sniffs, wipes his nose on his sleeve. "Nah. They went out when I was twelve or something."

Fiddling with his new scope, Eurion looks through it, trying for a clear view into the apartment office six blocks down.

"He better show. I've got two weeks pay riding on this."

Smoke puffs out of Nick's mouth. "If she's there, he will. Sucker's whipped."

Nick’s short. Skinny. Never combs his mop of black hair. A twenty-six-year-old walking advertisement for anemia, he used to dream of making it in the underground music production industry. Used to play piano and guitar, too, before he broke two of his fingers; or before his instruments turned to ash in the fire that killed his parents, anyway.

The scope clears.

“She's there.” Eurion shifts his weight. “Brunette, blue dress. Innocent-looking.”

“No mistress is ever a saint.”

It's not a slow process, but Eurion finds himself itching to get it over with, looking forward to the moment he locks his sniper rifle up for the night and gets a good meal in his stomach. Of course, he needs money for that. Three nights of leftover baked beans is too much for anyone.

A suit walks into his sight.

“Target found.”

“Pinstripes?”

“And the green tie, yup.”

Nick blows a smoke ring. “Whenever you're ready then, junior.”

Eurion watches the man approach his lover. He rests his finger on the trigger, waiting for the woman to move forward. She holds up her hand, saying something.

“Calling it off,” Eurion says. “Definitely not his night.”

He tightens his finger.

It's too far away to hear the glass of the windows shattering, the woman screaming and ducking behind a desk. It's too far to hear the man’s blood spray against the wall.

It's not too far to feel the coolness of Eurion’s rifle.

There was no kick. No shot from him. No click of the trigger.

“Shit!” He slams his fist on the ledge of the roof.

Nick sits forward. “We gotta go. Whoever made that shot is closer to the body, there's no chance to claim it.”

Gritting his teeth, Eurion gathers his gear, unloading his timberwolf and slinging it across his back. He loads a Glock 17. Nick stands guard, pistol already loaded, and spits his cigarette stub to the ground.

“Let's go.”

The apartment door groans open when they push in.

Nine hundred square feet of stained linoleum greets them, split into three rooms and a miniscule bathroom. Rome sits at the table, muscled frame casting a large shadow on the floor. He holds a bag of frozen peas to his face. “Hey. Package for you, Newport.”

Nick looks to the counter. “Earlier than expected.”

“You're telling me. Apparently I took too long getting out of the shower to answer the door - delivery guy was a real ass about it.” He runs a broad hand over his buzzcut.

There's the padding of bare feet as Louis shuffles into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, tanned torso on full display. His sweatpants are too big. He mumbles a greeting.

“Looks like you stuck your fingers in a socket,” Eurion comments, gesturing to his hair. Even lookers can't win against bedhead, especially with caramel waves like that.

There's no reply.

“Where's Salem?” Eurion turns to Rome, grimacing at the sight of the black eye he's nursing.

“Out. Said she needs new clothes, the old ones are too loose.”

Nick rummages through the package. “Marriage did a number on her.”

Sputtering, Rome drops the bag of peas. “Excuse me, we're very happy together. We're just -”

“Broke,” Eurion nods. He pushes past Louis, who's standing dazedly in the open door of the fridge, and grabs a beer. “Low on food. Spending all your money on birth control.”

Rome reddens as Nick snickers.

“They have to,” Louis says. He's still staring into the fridge, baritone voice thick with sleep. “Don't wanna bring kids into this dump.”

Silence falls.

Eurion toasts Louis. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Anyway, she'll be back soon.” Rome lifts the peas to his eye again. “You guys get your pay?”

There's a rattling noise. Nick empties the box onto the counter, catching a few packs of cigarettes before they slide off the edge.

“No.” Eurion runs his tongue over the backs of his teeth. The sight of the target's blood on the wall is still fresh in his mind. “Someone beat us to the target. We can't go to Hosea empty-handed.”

“It was a clean shot,” Nick says.

“Mine would've been cleaner.” The beer tastes bland on his tongue.

Emerging from his stupor, Louis pulls a half-emptied can of peaches from the fridge, along with a tub of sour cream and some sandwich meat.

“That's disgusting,” Eurion says.

Louis cracks the tub open. “It's also expired. Life is an adventure when you can't scrape two nickels together.” He dunks a peach slice in the sour cream, then tosses it in his mouth.

“Didn’t you have a client two nights ago?”

There's a knocking on the door.

“That'll be her,” Rome says, smoothing a hand over his tank top. There's a stain on the white cotton.

“You still trying to look good for her? That's cute,” Eurion says.

Louis’s words are muffled through a mouthful of ham. “She sheen all yer shit, man.”

The door bangs open against the wall, revealing a tall woman with long, russet hair and a gleam in her eyes. A black tracksuit, once fitted and snug, hangs loosely on her figure. She holds two bags on her arm and another in her teeth.

“Babe, what -” Rome moves to help her. “Where did you get all this?”

Salem hands him a bag. When her mouth is free, she pulls him in for a kiss, then tosses her tresses back over her shoulder.

“Where did you get that?” She quips, poking his cheek.

Louis' voice is thick with sour cream. “Observant.”

“Shut up, Louis.” Rome grabs Salem’s hand in his. “It's nothing. Gift from the postman.”

Nick lets out a grunt, stacking his packs and putting them back in the box. “I hope you returned it. Delivery’s short.”

“Again?” Eurion trots over to the counter. “That's the third time now.”

“Why do you care?” Salem glares at him. “You're not smoking. You better not be smoking.”

Only two a day, but there's no way he's telling her that. Last time she caught him, she broke a wooden spoon on his kneecap, a birthday gift their mother had given her.

“Poor service means someone's snubbing Nick.” Eurion takes a swig of beer. “I don't like when people snub us.”

“Nice save."

“Shut up, Louis.”

Peeking into the bag, Rome raises a brow. “What’s this?”

Salem sets the other pair on the table, ignoring Louis’ squawk as his can of peaches tips over. “These two are clothes. That,” she points to Rome’s, “is classified. Put it in the closet, I'll explain later.”

Rome lumbers off, disappearing into the master.

“Classified?” Eurion echoes.

“Never you mind.” Salem hands a bag of clothes to Nick. “These are for you and Eurion. All black, as requested.”

“Nothing for me?” Louis asks.

Salem tousles his hair. “Not today, pretty boy. Couldn’t find anything stylish.” The tone in her voice makes it clear she’s irritated to have lucked out.

Louis chews his lip, thinking. “I’ll have to re-use a few pieces. Maybe Ms. Corvette will take pity and give me an allowance.”

“Oh, to be young and beautiful,” Nick says dryly. “Tell me, how young were you when you started working as professional arm candy?”

“If you mean, ‘how long have I been an emotional escort’, eight years.”

Eurion dumps his empty beer bottle in the trash. “Isn’t sixteen a little young to start in the socialite scene?”

“Takes a while to work your way up,” Louis shrugs. “Plus, business these past three years has sucked. Half my regulars have left the area or been killed.”

Sorting through the last bag, Salem sighs. “Not that I actually like the thought of this, but have you thought of extending your services? You’d double your profits.”

The sound of Louis’ chair scraping on the linoleum gives Eurion goosebumps.

“I’d rather be broke than a full-on prostitute, thanks.” Louis aims his empty peach can for the trash and shoots, using Eurion’s leg as a backboard. The can clatters to the ground.

Eurion scoops it up and tosses it in the bin.

“Speaking of profit,” Rome says, having re-entered the room, “I’ve got sales to make.” He’s wearing faded slacks and a blue dress shirt now. “I think I know someone who can help us with those investments we talked about earlier, Babe; I’ll look in on them on my way back.” He kisses Salem, then heads out the apartment door, slamming it shut behind him.

“What investments?” Eurion demands.

Salem pushes him into a chair. She pulls open a kitchen drawer, withdrawing Dad’s old electric razor.

“Haircut time.”

He rolls his eyes, then pulls his black bomber jacket off. Salem hands him a dish towel to wrap around his shoulders.

“Any requests?”

“Not too short.”

“You're gonna have to give me more than that, kid.”

Louis snaps the lid back onto the sour cream, then returns it to the fridge. “Eurion doesn't understand style, Salem. You got all the good genetics.”

Eurion glares.

“An undercut,” Salem decides. “Side parting, no more of this bowl cut nonsense.”

“It's not a bowl cut.”

“Shut up and sit still.”

The razor makes a whirring sound. Black hair starts falling to the floor.

“Have you heard what they're saying about the new restrictions?” Nick folds his arms and leans back against the counter. “Government’s trying to implement a nine o'clock curfew now.”

“Will anyone follow it?” Salem tilts Eurion’s head sideways, then removes the razor's plastic safeguard.

“Some. The paranoid and brown-nosers always do. Anyone who cares about surviving won't, though… The best money always gets made after dark.”

“What a sick, sick world we live in,” Salem sighs.

Nick lights a smoke. “Don't I know it.”

When he was a kid, Eurion always figured Nick and Salem would end up together. Best friends since childhood; they had to. But when Rome showed up and Nick had no problems with him, Eurion realised those old Hollywood movies were full of shit. Sure, Nick threatened to kill Rome if he hurt Salem. But Eurion had done the same.

“I was thinking, today…” Salem trails off.

“Not too hard, I hope,” Eurion says.

She smacks his head lightly. “I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

“No, I - I was thinking what it would be like if you could get into an online college.”

It’s quiet again.

Eurion doesn't dare look at Nick. “I'm twenty-two. Little bit late, don't you think?”

The razor crawls up his neck, slow and steady. “It's never too late.”

“Salem… We can't afford that.” Eurion stares at the wall. He imagines the target's blood on it, wishes he could scrub the wallpaper. “And even if we could -”

“I just wish you didn't have to do the work you're doing.”

Nick’s eyes are on him. He's sure of it.

“Look, I don't love it either. But we don't accept all the offers. We've never hunted without doing a background check, making sure they deserve the penalty they're getting.”

“There’s a proven process,” Nick says. His voice is quiet, but it cuts through the kitchen. “A few good kills improves your reputation among clients. You start getting higher-profile assignments. High profile equals high pay. If you’re making more money per kill, you don’t have to kill as often.”

“Unless you’re a bill chaser,” Louis points out.

“Which I’m not,” Eurion responds hotly. The razor glides by his ear.

“Exactly.” Nick takes another drag. “He just has to get through the rough patch, Salem. Nobody knows who he is yet.”

The floor is littered in black strands of hair now, Eurion’s knees speckled with them.

Salem’s voice comes out low and shaky. “I’d rather it stayed that way.” The razor shuts off.

“Salem-”

“Wishful thinking, right?” She moves to stand in front of him now, holding a small pair of shears. “I just - Mom and Dad didn’t leave much for me to do, you know? But looking out for you - that’s my responsibility.”

“What do you want me to do?” Eurion clenches a fist, careful to avoid her gaze as well as Nick’s. “I don’t have the personality for sales. Smuggling would mean bringing shit into our home, which endangers everyone. Work for the government? Not a chance.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Louis says, digging through the fridge again, “But you could totally make it in my line of work.”

Eurion scoffs. “Thanks.”

“What? You’ve got a face, kid. Ladies would love those big brown eyes.”

“Not everyone has the ability to smile and listen to people complain about how lonely they are, Louis.”

“Bodyguard.”

Everyone looks at Nick.

“That’s the end goal. Was for me, at least, before I got into the black market. I didn’t have the build for it, anyway, but it’s a profitable position, and usually involves minor violence rather than killing.”

Salem swivels back to Eurion.

“I’ve built up my endurance pretty well,” Eurion says, considering.

Nick nods. “Start working out with Rome and you’ll bulk up a bit. You’re lean, but you’ve got good shoulders. Women pay better for pretty bodyguards, so if you get too big you’ll have less of a market there, but men like their security beefy.”

It's quiet. Florescent light blinks erratic off the shears in Salem's grip. For a moment, Eurion wonders if Rome couldn't make the hydro bill again, but one glance up and he knows it's not the electricity. Salem's hands are trembling.

He reaches out, catches her wrists. Willing himself to meet her gaze, he sees it all: the shadows under her eyes, the tears threatening to spill, the fear that lives in her very irises now.

It sends his gut curling. If he could, he'd never look her in the eye like this, never acknowledge the change in her face, never have to watch his sister turn into this shell of her former self. But she needs him now. More than she did before. He can't be the same selfish kid he used to be.

Forcing a small laugh, he says,

"Seems a long time ago I wanted to be a professional gamer, huh?"

It’s dark when the bedroom door clicks open, jolting Eurion awake.

The soft shuffling of slippers helps him identify Louis, no other sound meeting his ears, and he’s just closed his eyes again when-

“Eurion.” It’s a whisper. “You awake?”

“Mmph.”

The single bed two feet away creaks as Louis sits.

“Need to talk.”

Eurion sighs. “Okay. Gimme a sec.”

It takes a minute for him to right himself, pushing himself up to sit against the wall. He rubs sleep from his eyes. Slivers of blue and purple light filter through the blinds, a little extra coming through the broken slat third from the bottom, the one Rome broke when he installed it over the small window. There’s enough light to make out Louis’ figure on the other bed. He sits hunched over. His knees are pulled to his chest.

“What is it?”

No response.

“Lou.”

“Ms. Corvette propositioned me.”

This is something Louis does, always referring to his clients by some misnomer - a fear of reality, he called it once, saying that to recognize identities would be proof he’d accepted his lot in life. Easier to refer to them by a nickname. To give them an avatar. Louis loves video games, and life gets a whole lot easier when he pretends he’s living one.

Eurion runs his tongue along the back of his teeth. “For consort services?”

He can just make out the nod Louis gives, a shadowy movement.

“What… what did you say?”

“I said I’d think about it.” The words are muffled; he’s buried his face in his hands now. “I feel sick. We had just left the high stakes table and were headed for the bar, and she asked me. Said it like it was the most casual thing in the world.” He lifts his head. “I said I’d think about it. What’s wrong with me, E?”

Eurion doesn’t have to think. “You’re desperate. No need to feel shitty for it; we all are. That’s what’s wrong with us all.”

“None of you are considering becoming harlots.”

“I kill people for a living.”

It’s silent.

Ten years ago, this conversation would have been a fever dream, a bizarre concoction of Eurion’s adolescent mind in a much simpler time. But now he sits, staring at the dark silhouette of his roommate, the term murder already fading from his vocabulary, and wonders what he’ll be talking about ten years from today. If he survives another ten.

He’d called it that once. Murder. Used to think that about Nick, for a while, that he was unfeeling and psychopathic and savage. But now?

Professional assassin. Sniper for hire. Private gun. They’re all phrases Eurion goes by, mantles he’s accepted as part of the “trade”. Nick was never numb, he knows now. Nick was simply adaptable.

Grit your teeth and do it, Nick had said, the first time he took Eurion for target practice. That kick will become your safety net.

It’s true. Nothing makes him feel as secure as the cool steel of his Timberwolf resting in his grip. But Eurion has come to terms with his chosen path.

Louis fights himself constantly.

“What does your gut tell you?” Eurion asks.

“I can’t tell. I’m too distracted by the holes in my sneakers.”

“Seriously, Lou.”

A sigh. “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell if I feel worse at the thought of going through with it, or at the thought of how broke I am. I’m running out of options. Did I tell you I had to sell my Versace shirt? The one Lady Toupee bought me?”

Louis used to wear that shirt around the apartment three days a week. Didn’t matter that he wasn’t entertaining. Clothes this nice deserve to be worn, he said. He’d thrown a fit when Nick joked about shrinking it in the wash.

Eurion holds back a sigh, missing those days, the days when they still had a laundry machine, the days when chores had a causal air about them and less of a this is for our survival mentality.

“You told me,” he says.

Distant, muffled through the wall, an ambulance siren whines into being. The sounds rises and falls, wavelike, a wave of drowsiness that sloshes over him. It's more of a lullaby than an alarm these days. A reminder that night is looming.

Louis picks at something on his knee. "I saw a bounty claim report on the casino big screens. For that bigshot CEO you were after."

Adrenaline hits Eurion like a skytrain.

Choking on spit, he shoots forward off the wall, nearly falling off the bed. His ratted blanket pools onto the carpet. "What did it say? Who was it?"

"Richard something." Louis cocks his head. "Aren't you supposed to read up on these guys before-"

"Not the target, Lou - The shot, who was the shot?!"

"Oh, right." Lowering his feet to the floor, Louis sits forward. Soft-glowing purple and blue lines fall across his face, painting him a Greek god in filtered neon, a cool, sharp image that reminds Eurion of an advertisement he's seen for an extravagant cologne line.

Daylight suits Louis better, in Eurion's opinion. Warm light brings his softer features into focus. Makes him look young. Like the boy he'd been, before the world had started carving him into something else.

Humming, Louis taps his finger against his chin. "New blood, this one. Goes by the name 'Triggerfinger'."

"Original."

"That's rich, Nighthowler."

"Shut up." Heat crawls up Eurion's neck. He didn't pick the name, didn't know he'd gotten a reputation for his choice of weapon until it was too late to establish himself as anything else.

Snorting, Louis leans back, disappearing into the shadows again. "Anyway, I overheard a couple private guns talking about it. Apparently this one's a sniper, female - climbing the ranks quickly, too. Not much other info out there."

Eurion tastes the lining of his cheek, poking it out with his tongue. Sleep and dehydration have melded together to turn his mouth to sandpaper.

He fumbles for the half-empty water bottle under his bedframe. "Well, the female part narrows it down. There aren't many women cutting into the gun market these days - which is odd, really. They don't have to get up close and personal if they don't want to. They could make a living as a killer without ever throwing or ducking a punch. There's precision to sniping. Attention to detail. You don't get blood on your hands - literally speaking - if you're good at what you do."

"I expect it's the killing part that turns them off the job," Louis says dryly.

Shaking his head, Eurion rights himself, scooching back on the bed again until his spine meets the wall. "No. There's a lot of femme fatale types out there. They'll slip things into drinks. Lure a man to a dark alley with a little skin, then step back so a gang of brawlers can jump him. Women aren't afraid to take a life."

"Maybe I should be on the watch for that, eh?" A half-hearted laugh sounds from Louis' silhouette.

Eurion closes his eyes. The memory of the scene plays against the dark canvas of his eyelids, stilling him to watch again and again as his shot, target, and pay are taken from him. If this starts happening on the regular, it'll be his reputation at risk next.

"Maybe we all should," he says.