The sound of bones snapping echoed in the hollow guts of the abandoned factory. It wasn't just a sound—it was a wet, brittle crack that stuck in the air like a bad smell, mixing with the tang of rust and something faintly charred. Zack didn't flinch. Neither did the other two men with him, who muttered sharp Japanese curses under their breath as they stuffed what remained of a body into a suitcase.

Zack kept his face blank, pretending not to understand a word, though he caught every syllable. "That's the last one," he said flatly, clicking the suitcase shut with a metallic snap before giving it a lazy kick. The summer heat pressed against his skin as he drove home an hour later, the car's air conditioning struggling against the California sun.

His European-style house stood out sharply on the San Gabriel street, a deliberate statement of wealth. Zack stepped inside without hesitation, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal the web of tattoos covering his chest and shoulders—each marking a chapter of his past he'd rather forget. He moved through the house like he owned every inch of it, out through sliding glass doors to where the pool shimmered invitingly under the morning light.

"You're still quiet, puppy," he drawled, lowering himself onto a lounger without looking up. His eyes remained fixed on the sky, but he knew you were there. Knew you'd noticed the dark stains spreading across his shirt where blood had seeped through. "What is it? You here looking for love you know I won't give you? Or do you have some kinda kink for blood?" His tone was deliberately provocative, testing, as the scent of chlorine mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood still clinging to his skin.