CHAPTER 2 — THE FIRST TASK
1208 Words
The uniform was heavier than it looked.
Aurora slid her arms into the sleeves slowly, fabric cold against her skin. It fit too well—tailored, adjusted, as if someone had measured her without her knowing. The dried blood along the hem brushed her wrist.
She flinched.
“Don’t rush,” Aleksander said from behind her. “People make mistakes when they rush.”
His voice was close enough to graze her spine.
Aurora’s shoulders tensed. She finished fastening the last button, then turned. He was standing within arm’s reach, eyes tracing the line of the uniform as if evaluating equipment rather than a person.
“Too loose,” he murmured.
He reached out.
Two fingers caught the fabric at her shoulder, tugging it into place. Not rough. Not gentle. Efficient. The contact sent a quiet, unwanted shiver through her.
She held her breath.
“Breathe,” he said, noticing. “You’ll need the air.”
He stepped back and nodded once, satisfied. “Follow me.”
They moved through a door she hadn’t noticed before—flush with the wall, soundless when it opened. Beyond it, the building shed its polish. The corridor narrowed. The lights dulled. The floor changed from carpet to sealed concrete.
“This floor doesn’t exist,” Aleksander said as they walked. “No cameras. No records. No questions.”
Aurora swallowed. “Then why bring me here?”
“Because you’re already compromised,” he replied. “Which makes you reliable.”
They stopped in front of a maintenance hatch. No number. Just a thin metal seam and a keypad smudged with fingerprints.
Aleksander keyed in a code.
The hatch opened.
The smell hit her immediately—iron and bleach fighting for dominance.
Inside was a service room barely larger than a closet. Pipes crawled along the walls. A drain cut through the center of the floor.
And there—splashed across white tile and pooled along the base of a pipe—was blood.
A lot of it.
Fresh enough to still be dark, tacky at the edges. Not a neat spill. A violent one. Smears climbed the wall in frantic arcs, as if someone had tried to stand and failed.
Aurora’s stomach tightened.
“What happened here?” she asked, voice thin.
Aleksander didn’t look at the stains. He watched her.
“Your task,” he said, “is to remove every trace.”
She stared. “There’s no body.”
“No,” he agreed. “Not anymore.”
Her pulse jumped. “Where—”
“Not your concern,” he cut in. “Blood, tissue, residue. Pipes. Drain. Wall seams. If anything remains, I’ll know.”
Her throat went dry. “How much time?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“That’s—”
“Enough,” he said calmly.
He handed her a small black case. Inside: gloves, solvent vials, a handheld UV light.
Professional. Purpose-built.
She knelt.
The tile was colder than she expected. She snapped on gloves and uncapped the first vial. The solvent hissed softly as it touched the blood, breaking it down into a dull pink film.
Her hands trembled.
“Steady,” Aleksander said.
He crouched beside her—too close. His knee brushed hers. The proximity was deliberate; she felt it in the way his shadow cut across her hands.
“You miss the seams,” he continued, pointing with one finger to a hairline crack near the pipe. “They always do.”
She followed his direction, scrubbing. The stain fought back, clinging to the porous grout.
“Harder,” he said.
She pressed down. Her arm burned.
“Again.”
She scrubbed until the solvent ate through the color and left the tile bare.
“Good,” he murmured.
The word landed heavier than it should have.
Aurora moved to the drain. The grate was bolted down. Dark fluid clung beneath it.
She hesitated.
Aleksander noticed. He reached over her shoulder, hand closing around her wrist—not stopping her, but guiding. Firm. Certain.
“Lift,” he said quietly.
She did. The grate came free with a wet sound. Beneath it, the drain was clogged with something thicker than blood.
She gagged and turned her head away.
Aleksander’s grip tightened for a brief second—anchoring her.
“Eyes on the work,” he said, low. “Not on your fear.”
She forced herself to look. Forced herself to clean.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time blurred into motion and breath and the steady pressure of his presence behind her. He corrected her once—twice—moving her hand, adjusting her angle. Each contact was brief, controlled, undeniably intimate.
Not comforting.
Claiming.
When the last visible stain vanished, Aleksander switched on the UV light. Blue glow swept across tile and pipe.
One faint smear lit up near the wall.
Aurora saw it at the same time he did.
She reached for it.
“Wait.”
He caught her wrist again, pulling her back just enough to stop her fingers an inch from the stain.
“Look first,” he said. “Act second.”
She swallowed, then nodded.
She cleaned the smear. Checked again.
Nothing.
Aleksander stood. “Good.”
Relief rushed through her—short-lived.
“Next,” he said.
He opened a second hatch—this one vertical, hidden behind a removable panel. Inside was drywall.
Clean. Untouched.
Her brow furrowed. “There’s nothing here.”
He met her gaze. “Not anymore.”
He pressed two fingers to a spot near the corner. The wall gave slightly.
“Behind it,” he continued, “blood seeped into insulation. If it stays, heat will bring it back to the surface.”
Her chest tightened. “You want me to—”
“Open it,” he finished.
She did.
The drywall cracked, peeling away to reveal damp, darkened insulation. The smell intensified.
She worked fast now, methodical, focused. Fear sharpened her movements rather than slowing them.
Aleksander watched without speaking.
When she finished, he closed the panel and wiped his hands on a cloth. “You learn quickly.”
She looked up at him, exhausted. “Do I pass?”
His gaze held hers. Unreadable.
“For today.”
Her knees felt weak.
As they turned to leave, her sleeve snagged on the hatch. She tugged it free—and the cuff tore, revealing the old blood beneath.
Aleksander stopped her with a hand at her waist.
Just there. Solid. Inescapable.
He leaned in, voice low enough that it brushed her ear. “Careful.”
Her breath hitched.
“Uniforms matter,” he continued softly. “They tell people who you belong to.”
He fixed the tear with a quick, practiced motion, fingers lingering a fraction longer than necessary.
Then he stepped away.
The corridor lights brightened slightly as they left the service room, erasing any sign it had ever been used.
Aurora followed, heart still racing.
At the threshold, Aleksander paused. “One more thing.”
She looked at him.
“This was the smallest task you’ll ever get,” he said. “Next time, the mess will be louder.”
He opened the door.
“And you won’t have twenty minutes.”
- Writer
