Clean Slate

The sun rising over Lake Michigan was blindingly bright, reflecting off the snow that blanketed Chicago.

The penthouse was a ruin. Glass dust coated everything like glitter. The windows were gone, the furniture shredded.

Julian sat on the remains of the sofa, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Paramedics were packing up their gear. They had checked him out—chest soreness, minor burns, but alive.

Sasha stood by the elevator, her duffel bag packed. She had a bandage on her cheek and a bruise blossoming on her jaw, but she looked immaculate.

"Leaving?" Julian asked, standing up. He winced, clutching his chest.

"Job's done," Sasha said. "Threat neutralized. Client secure."

Julian walked over to her. He stopped a respectful distance away. "You killed me."

"I revived you," Sasha corrected. "The killing was just a loophole."

Julian smiled. It wasn't the arrogant CEO smile. It was softer, humbler. "You saved my soul, Sasha. Literally."

He reached for his checkbook on the side table. "I'll wire the bonus. Double, like you said. Plus hazard pay. Plus... whatever you want."

Sasha put her hand over the checkbook.

"No," she said.

Julian blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The contract was for protection," Sasha said. "But the client died. Technically, I failed the primary objective."

"Sasha, you stopped a demon."

"I stopped a heart," she said. "I don't take money for jobs where the client flatlines. Bad for the reputation."

She picked up her bag. "Call it a pro-bono exorcism."

She hit the elevator button.

"Wait," Julian said.

Sasha paused.

"I don't have a wife anymore," Julian said. "And I don't have a bodyguard."

"You don't need a bodyguard. The Bride is gone."

"I know," Julian said. "But I'm starving. And I know a place that makes terrible coffee and great eggs. And I... I'd really like to not eat alone."

Sasha looked at him. She saw the man who had offered himself to the monster to save her. She saw the man who had fought his way back from the dead because she asked him to.

The wall around her heart, the one she had built with protocol and distance, felt a little less structurally sound.

"I hate eggs," Sasha lied.

"Pancakes?" Julian offered.

Sasha looked at the elevator doors, then back at Julian.

"Pancakes work," she said.

Julian smiled, and this time, the reflection in the shattered remains of the hallway mirror smiled back, just him, just a man, finally free.

"After you," he said.

Sasha stepped into the elevator, and for the first time in years, she didn't check the exit strategy. She just held the door open.