press it on, faster
without the sick feeling of crashing

I took an unconscious step back, but Taemin didn't move. His head was slightly tilted forward, blond hair falling into his eyes that looked like strings of sunlight in the sunshine. Vividly I remembered the day Jungkook had asked me to describe him, the words I had used to answer the question, the look in Vernon's eyes as he had called him the emphatic killer. And he looked emphatic, all right. There was a distinctive mournfulness in his expression too unnerving to be consoling, his fingers tipping the hilt of the knife at his belt almost reluctantly.

"Stay back," I said, summoning the calmest tone I could, and brandished the gun at him with an unwavering hand.

"Oh, please," he said, voice like a sigh. He didn't seem mocking, but there was an imperious knowledge in his tone that rubbed me the wrong way. "Put that thing down. I know you. I know you're a knife user. That piece of metal doesn't belong in your hands."

"It's a weapon, not a paintbrush," I murmured, much against my will. I knew better than to talk back to him. Despite his languid posture, I knew it would take him less than a few seconds to throw a knife. I had never seen him in action before, but I had heard things, most of them accidentally, about what kind of killer he was. Lee Taemin was not a killer for hire, he was a cold-blooded murderer who operated within the growing roots of the Lee clan. Family business.

"You could paint a pattern of blood onto the wall with it," he replied simply, and began to move. It was almost elegant, like a dancer's controlled movements, the way he started walking. Every muscle was in full submission, nothing moved without him wanting it to. "Different weapons paint different patterns. It matters which one you use."

"Oh, yeah?" Raising a challenging eyebrow, and the gun along with it, I stepped sideways, like we were wrestlers circling each other in a ring, trying to get to the door without him noticing. "Are you a poet or a murderer?"

He ignored the question. "Your manner of killing is your sign," he said, copying my movements. "If someone mistakes your kill for someone else's, you get no credit for it. And that can lead to...complications." He seemed to savor the word. "Unseen consequences."

"No one needs to recognize my sign."

"Well, you don't exactly need to leave your signature anywhere. There's no body." His eyebrow quirked just as he sidestepped into the line of the window, looking like a dark silhouette against the light. "Or are seriously attempting to kill me?"

His tone was mild enough, but the question made it seem like he was laughing. I gripped the gun tighter, pulse quickening. Someone come through that door right now or so help me god. "Even if you move fast, you can't defend yourself. All I need to do is press that trigger, and your brains will paint the wall."

Brief amusement flashed in his eyes. "I'm a professional," he said, almost regretfully, like he was pulling a superiority card though he didn't want to. "I know thirteen ways to incapacitate you from this position, in varying degrees of pain. And you know as well as I do that you will not press that trigger." My shoulders tightened. "I'm not killing you just yet. I'm simply delivering a message." A smile quirked his mouth. "Don't shoot the messenger."

Every muscle in my body was screaming at me to shoot him, but the memory of Vernon's words kept me from doing it. Shooting him was the most obvious solution, and besides, he was a criminal. A cold-blooded killer, who had done unspeakable things to so many people that he probably deserved what he had coming. But my own experiences had taught me that even appearances were not as deceptive as descriptions. Whatever I knew about this man, I had learned from sources who were just as unreliable.

He was a killer, yes. But if I pulled that trigger, what would I be?

Slowly, almost reluctantly, my grip relaxed. Taemin's predatory eyes flashed. "Good job," he said, voice like velvet. "Now, do you know what you want?"

"What?" The question was so different from what I had been expecting that it caught me off guard for a moment—a short moment, but long enough that it gave him time to do what he needed.

Something flashed in the air—a blur of silver fire, and the gun clattered to the ground. I had let go of it before the knife could cut into my hand, but I was still frozen in muted shock as I watched the weapon fall, uncomprehending as the gun fell, and looked back up at Taemin. He had flipped himself onto the windowsill, and was sitting on his haunches like a cat. I stared at him, too startled to even begin to understand what he was doing, as he grinned at me and fell backwards.

My eyes widened. I rushed to the window, and looked down. The street was empty, as if I had just dreamed everything, but as I looked, something flashed in the corner of my eye. Taemin, swinging himself over the fire escape. I felt cold all over, as if all the heat in my body had been sucked inside.

No way I could jump this height to follow him. I pushed myself off the window and whirled, glancing around the room for the fallen gun and knife, brain going into overdrive. I'm simply delivering a message.

There was no reason for me to disbelieve him, since I was still standing alive and unharmed. And yet, there had been no message and no deliverance.

Unless...

I swept up the throwing knife from the floor and rushed out of the room and down the corridor, hurrying downstairs. Ten greeted me at the base of the stairs, face bloody and lip split from something that must have occurred when I was upstairs, looking confused even as I pushed past him and out of the gates. "Hey!" he called after me, not needing to run to catch up. "Can I at least know what this is about?"

"Round up the others," I said hastily, fingers curling around the still-warm hilt of the knife in impatience. "Taemin just escaped."

"What does that have to do with—" He cut himself off, taking a deep breath, I turned away and started towards the exit again, and he made a noise of irritation before rushing to keep pace. "He must still be around the building. There's no way—"

"No," I said, out of breath as I pushed open the tall double doors of ebonized wood and stepped outside. The wind that greeted me was cool and humid, with a tinge of salt. "He's probably in a car by now, going up to the second base. This one's just a barrier to thin us out, so not everyone can follow. That's probably why it's so empty. There's not a soul in there except those two."

"What do you want me to do about that?"

"Follow him," I said. "That's what he wanted me to do. You said it yourself, he can't be far. Tell the others."

He made an inelegant sound. "Tell them yourself."

"How?" I asked, annoyed.

"Your earpiece—" He glanced at me, realization striking him, then fell back with a sigh. "You didn't take them?"

I stared at him. "What do you mean, I didn't take them? They weren't given to me!"

"They—" He broke off, rolling his eyes. "God. Never mind. Just—they're probably in your car. Go in and put it on immediately, for god's sake, the others are probably out of their minds wondering where the hell you are already. I'll get the ones I can, tail you in my car. Follow Taemin. And please don't rush in headfirst without waiting for backup."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I muttered, and we split up. I went straight towards the Hellcat, annoyed at everyone but also myself. The door handle seemed to respond to my touch, and I felt shivers crawl down my spine as I slipped into the driver's seat. The leather was new, still not worn to the touch, as was cool through the slivers of unprotected skin at my thighs and upper arms. I ran my hands along the wheel, getting used to the feeling before I started.

The car was responsive, purring under my control as I pulled it out and away from the building, foot hovering millimeters from the accelerator. I gave myself a couple of seconds—windows rolled down just a couple of inches, the knife in the shotgun seat, a winded wickedness rising in my chest.

I gunned the engine, and stepped on the accelerator.

The Hellcat purred in pleasure as the needle climbed the numbers of the speedometer, picking up speed at a steady and speedy pace. The buildings passed by in a blur, and it wasn't long before I saw the tail of a black car disappear down a turn ahead, and followed. We had one advantage—most of us were racers. The Lees could be killers or kings, but we knew how to catch up, and we knew how to make the other crash and burn.

Soon enough, I was smelling burnt rubber and the scent of everything divine. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, body thrown against the seat by the sheer speed of the car, and after more than three years, I remembered what made me a racer. It was in my blood.

I was predator, not them, I was the hunter, not them. There was the vicious fire of the chase singing in my blood, the ice-cold certainty of satisfaction and confidence in my nerves, a regal sort of arrogance in my thoughts. For those few minutes, there were no secrets to seek, no answers to uncover, no feelings to hide.

For the first time, I felt what it was like to be on the other side of the hunt.

A familiar black GTR appeared in my rearview mirror, spray-painted neon green with spiky characters. Then, a red-and-black Stingray showed up at my right, Taeyong's hair like a lick of flame in the blur, and a menacing matte black Camaro Panther at my left, the line of Vernon's jaw as straight and strong as the chassis of a car.

I felt a starburst of euphoria, like a helium balloon in my chest, carrying me up to the sky. I pressed on ahead and cut into a corner street, the screech of the tires audible inside the car. The black car Taemin drove was just ahead, and as we reached deeper into the street, the buildings loomed, stretching taller and darker, the road narrower, like a canopy of trees in some enchanted dark forest.

My earlier delight faded into a calmer awareness as the car in front of me slowed, and we followed. I picked up the earpiece and clipped the wire against the neck of my t-shirt, hooking it over my ear and fixing the earpiece into my ear. The Hellcat slowed to a trot, and my eyes narrowed as the black car pulled into the front gates of what looked like a grubby apartment building.

I followed suit, heart thrumming against my ribcage like a separate organism, and guided the car down the incline into an underground parking space. The black car was parked just across, but it was empty—or seemed to be. Broken bottles and cigarette butts littered the ground, which didn't seem accustomed to getting guests.

Taking a deep breath, I climbed out of the car. The other cars were pulling in after me, and we seemed like we were trapped in a deep cavern, not a single ray of light reaching us.

I had arrived at the last stop.