Gackt met You in a shitty little bar not far from the lakefront, the same shitty little bar they always met at. Gackt had been there at least twenty times now, maybe more, and for the life of him he still couldn’t remember the place’s name.

You sat at a table near the back, his usual table, smoking a cigarette. An untouched beer sat in front of him. You always ordered a Miller and never drank it. Gackt wondered why he bothered.

He pulled out the other chair and sat down. You’s eyes flicked over him, quick, taking everything in with a glance. He exhaled smoke and leaned back in his chair.

“You look like shit,” he said at last.

Gackt shrugged. To anyone else’s eyes, he knew, his appearance would be perfectly normal; only You ever noticed anything awry. Gackt wondered, briefly, what it was that You saw—some difference in Gackt’s posture, some hint of weariness in his eyes? Did You really know him that well?

Gackt flagged down a waitress. The woman sauntered over, hungry eyes sizing him up, and as always Gackt felt vaguely uncomfortable, knowing he was being mentally undressed. Sometimes his pretty face was a damned hindrance.

While he waited for her to return with his vodka, Gackt watched You from the corner of his eye. The other man was fiddling with an unlit cigarette, twirling it between long fingers. His gaze was unfocused and far away until, apparently sensing the scrutiny, he looked up. He smiled at Gackt, lopsidedly. “Sorry, man. Some date I am, huh?”

Gackt snorted. “Buy me my drink, and I’ll forgive you.” He saw the waitress coming back to their table.

“I always buy for you,” You retorted. “You make more money on one job than I make in a year, and I’m always buying the drinks.”

Gackt accepted his alcohol and knocked half of it back in one gulp, ignoring You, knowing he’d buy the drink anyway. The vodka was a pleasant burn down his throat.

You sighed dejectedly. “Whatever.”

Gackt gazed into his glass, pensive. Finally he said, “What’s the job, You?”

You rolled his eyes, even though by now he was more than used to Gackt’s unwillingness to make pleasant small talk. He pulled a small envelope out of the pocket of his jeans and slid it across the tacky surface of the table.

Gackt stared at it for a moment, face blank. Spacing out. You couldn’t help but wonder what thoughts went through that pretty head when that eerily distant look crept into his eyes. Then again, considering Gackt’s profession, maybe he didn’t want to know.

Gackt blinked, and seemed almost to shake himself. He picked up the envelope and broke the seal, then slid out the piece of paper inside.

It looked like a floor plan for a house. A large house. Rooms were labeled in neat, precise print. One of the bedrooms—the master bedroom—had been noted with a red ink X.

Gackt gave it a long once-over, then looked up at You. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s a floor plan,” You said. His tone was teasing, but his expression was closed off, distant. It was the look he always got when he didn’t like something but didn’t want to show it.

Gackt glanced at it once more. “Really,” he said. He set the paper down and fixed You with a glare.

You avoided those suddenly too-intense eyes. “Look,” he began, “I’m not sure about this one—“

“But you called me anyway,” Gackt said.

You shrugged. “They gave me two grand just to mention it to you. Which is why I’m not sure. They sound desperate, and you know I hate dealing with desperate people.” He frowned and picked up his beer, then set it down again without drinking it.

“How much is the offer?” Gackt asked.

You’s mouth twitched, as if he wanted to grimace but had checked himself in time. “Fifty grand in advance and another fifty after the job’s done, plus a hefty bonus if it’s done by tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?” Gackt just stared at him. “Who would take a job with a time limit like that?”

“For that much? A lot of people. But as far as I’ve been able to tell, the client has only asked you.”

“I’m the best,” Gackt said, and he said it with such a bizarre lack of pride that You almost laughed. But then, it wasn’t like boasting was necessary—it was just the truth. You stayed silent.

There was a long, uncomfortable moment where nobody said anything. Gackt stared into infinity and You fiddled with his glass of beer.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” Gackt said suddenly, and You started nervously. He looked up to find Gackt’s eyes on him, bright and intent. You hated that look. He wondered if it was the same look Gackt’s victims saw before they died. Not that it mattered. It was creepy anyway.

“Girl,” You corrected. “Lucky girl. Anna Kroller, wealthy heiress and owner of the house on the map.” They always used the term “lucky guy” rather than “victim”. Once upon a time, You had thought the term was rather ironic, rather darkly humorous. For some reason, it just didn’t sound that funny right now.

Gackt nodded, expression blank. If the thought of killing a woman bothered him at all, he didn’t show it. But then, if it had bothered him, You supposed, he’d have never gotten into this business in the first place.

Gackt pushed away from the table abruptly and got to his feet. You looked up at him. “Where are you going?”

“Research. No time to waste, after all. Call me later.” And then he turned and walked away, leaving You with his untouched beer and the bar tab.

You just shook his head. “I have a bad feeling about this.”