The Right Hands Never Get Dirty
1141 Words
The warehouse didn’t look like much from the outside—abandoned, quiet, the kind of place you'd forget as soon as you passed it.
Jeffrey Darlington liked it that way.
Inside, the air buzzed with the faint scent of oil and cold metal. Stacked crates lined the walls, each marked with discreet codes no outsider would ever decode. He didn’t bother with gloves—his hands weren’t meant to touch the product. Just direct its flow.
“Three days,” he said, eyes on the clipboard in front of him. “That’s how long you have to move the shipment. After that, we’ll be dealing with international eyes, and I’m not in the mood to clean up another mess.”
The man standing opposite him—older, greying, tense—nodded quickly. “Understood, Mr. Darlington.”
“Jeffrey,” he corrected with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Only my father likes to be called Mister. Makes him feel relevant.”
The man didn’t laugh. Smart.
Jeffrey looked up, his expression unreadable. “This crate here?” He pointed lazily to one stamped with a red triangle. “It doesn’t go through the docks. You’ll route it through Port Harrow, then reroute again through the textile shipment.”
“But we haven’t secured—”
“You’ll figure it out,” Jeffrey cut in smoothly. “You’re very resourceful when your job’s on the line.”
He dropped the clipboard onto the crate, tapping it once. “Oh, and if The Registry tries to poke around again, give them a taste. Just not the whole bottle.”
The older man hesitated. “That’s… still illegal.”
Jeffrey tilted his head, gaze cool. “So is waking up in a body bag.”
The silence that followed was thick.
Then Jeffrey smiled, charming again. “Relax. No one’s dying today. Just don’t disappoint me.”
As the man scurried off, Jeffrey pulled out his phone. He scrolled through a few messages—one from his mother about the estate, one from an unknown number simply reading “Is it done?”
He deleted that one.
Behind him, a forklift beeped as it moved a crate stamped in Cyrillic. He didn't look back.
He never had to.
---
A high-rise rooftop bar — privately booked. Rain misted the windows earlier, leaving streaks against the glass. The city glowed below, soft and cruel. Two cocktails sit untouched on a polished black table. Neither of them drinks.
---
Sebastian Fugerson stood at the window, the skyline casting cold light along his sharp features. Hands in his pockets. Waiting.
The elevator chimed behind him.
He didn’t turn.
Aanya Darlington stepped out. Not in armor, not in fear. In a calm that came from knowing how many eyes watched her — and how few ever saw her coming.
“You came,” he said finally.
“I didn’t come to drink,” she replied, brushing invisible dust off her blazer. “And I’m not here to thank you for stalking me.”
That made him turn.
“You think I was behind the café surveillance?”
She raised a brow. “You weren’t?”
“I don’t send amateurs.”
A pause.
Then a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “Duly noted.”
They both sat, slowly. Like predators circling the same meal.
“I received your message,” Sebastian said, folding his hands. “Polite, in your own way. Subtle. Threatening. Exactly like your father would’ve handled it.”
Her fingers twitched at the mention of her father. “That’s not a compliment coming from you.”
“It’s an observation,” he said. “You wanted my attention. You have it. What do you want, Miss Darlington?”
She leaned forward, voice silk and steel.
“To survive. To win. To make sure the people trying to erase me from my own family name remember why they feared it in the first place.”
He studied her, and for the first time, something in his expression shifted. The suspicion didn’t vanish — it sharpened.
“You want my help.”
“No,” she said. “I want your resources. Your silence. And maybe… eventually… your loyalty. But not before I earn it.”
“And what do I get in return?”
Aanya’s smile was a dagger in velvet.
“You get me not treating you like the enemy. And if we’re really lucky — we both get to keep our empires.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then he lifted the untouched drink and raised it slightly in her direction.
“A temporary truce,” Sebastian said. “Until we no longer need each other.”
She lifted hers without drinking. “Until then.”
Clink.
---
A dim, neon-lit gaming center in an old warehouse district. Not flashy, but elite—invite-only. The hum of machines and flickering lights create a rhythm only real gamers understand. There are no paparazzi here. No family names. Just usernames and leaderboard scores.
---
Aanya leaned back in her chair, headset slipping slightly as she flicked the joystick with a quick, surgical movement. The screen flashed: Headshot. +200 XP.
Her lips curled. “Too easy.”
“QueenViper’s on fire tonight,” someone muttered from the next station.
She ignored them. She always ignored them. Aanya didn’t come here to make friends.
She came to dominate.
The match ended. First place. Again.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard, loading into the next tournament bracket.
“Remind me never to cross her in real life,” a newer player whispered. “She plays like she’s planning a coup.”
If only they knew.
She pulled off her headset briefly, brushing her hair from her face. The screens reflected in her eyes—vibrant and calculating.
Behind her, in the shadows near the vending machines, Aston watched.
He’d been coming here for weeks now. He never played.
Just watched.
At first it had been curiosity. A girl with that name, from that family, playing anonymously in a den full of strangers? It was reckless. Stupid. Intriguing.
But now… now it was more than that.
He watched the way she leaned forward just before a kill, the way her fingers drummed when she was annoyed, the flash of victory in her eyes that never showed up in polite society.
She was lethal. In-game and out.
And she didn’t even know he was there.
Not yet.
Aanya loaded into the next round. The map was a post-apocalyptic ruin—tight corners, no sniping advantage. She cracked her knuckles.
“Time to bleed,” she whispered to no one in particular.
Aston’s phone buzzed.
Unknown Contact: Why are you wasting time watching a girl play games?
He didn’t answer.
Because it wasn’t a game.
Not with her.
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