It was winter and Gabe enjoyed pumpkin spiced lattes.

He had always had something of a sweet tooth, and as he counted out the money to the barista, he added an apple strudel to his bill. That much hadn’t changed.

Everything else had.

Even now, two months from his imprisonment, using actual money was strange. He held the coins contemplatively, their weight and colour as alien as moon rocks in his palm. He felt differently about money now. Before it had been something he enjoyed having, making sure he always got as much out of a deal as possible. Now it was merely a means to an end. He sort of hated it; it was an encumbrance.

The same went for much else in his life. Clothes were something to cover oneself with; his money didn’t go to brands anymore. He hadn’t even replaced the furniture in his apartment. He got rid of anything he didn’t actually need and left the rest, even though the stuffing was spilling out of the couch pillows. He had replaced the bed though. He wasn’t there often enough to care much, but if he was, he wanted a decent rest.

Seven months had altered him. Or maybe catalysed him. Maybe it was a change coded into his genes, how else could he have become someone so different ? Seven months was hardly any time at all, in the greater scheme of things.

But he had killed a man, and he hadn’t even thought twice about it.

So then. He went on as best he could, a wild thing wearing sheep skin for the sake of normality.

He walked slowly along the streets, watching people huddle in their coats as he sipped his drink, then taking an enormous bite of his strudel. Some of them caught his eye then looked away as if it burned. Gabe wasn’t pretty anymore now, his face was a collection of brawls and bore the stamp of fists. His nose had been broken twice and healed well enough, but the kink was there.

The scar he’d let heal badly in prison was a raised line streaking from his forehead down to his cheek. It cut a path through his eyebrow that would never grow hair again. He was also sporting a nicely purple bruise on his left eye, where an elbow had clocked him so hard, the blood vessels in his eye popped, so now he had a slightly demonic look. Bright red had replaced the white of his eye, and blurred the edges of his brown iris.

He looked on the outside how he was on the inside. It seemed fitting. He was determined to be cheerful as fuck about it, because it made people uncomfortable.

By the time he reached his destination he had finished his breakfast, and had lit up a cigarette to round it off. He only had to stand on the corner for another minute before a sleek silver Audi pulled up beside him.

“Put that out.” Xero told him when he had closed the door of the passenger side, and pulled away from the curb.

Gabe cracked the window and tossed the unfinished stick out without any protest.

They drove in silence for some time before Xero informed him of the day’s work. “We’re meeting with Mr. Richardson. Good thing you look the part.” He said.

Gabe said nothing, kept staring ahead, watching the cars pass by. Xero knew he went to underground clubs to throw himself at illegal fight rings. The violence that had become like air to him in prison was not common place in the real, civilised world. It had taken Gabe a few days of walking through peaceful parks, speaking to telemarketers and buying fucking soap from the dollar store before he thought he would tear the skin off his face if he had to force his way through one more minute of it.

The only cure for the itch was fighting. The scent of sawdust and blood, the rush of adrenaline, the satisfaction of a good fight. These things were real. These things were Gabe.

He wondered idly how long he’d been bottling up all this rage.

“Must you worsen your face every time?” Xero asked in a bored way.

“I thought you liked me to look the part?” Gabe replied.

“I’d also like you not to collapse from a brain haemorrhage. I can’t look after you if you wilfully seek out death.”

“Do you look after me?” Gabe asked, though he wasn’t actually curious.

Whatever odd interaction the two of them had had when Gabe was still imprisoned had vanished the moment Gabe had picked up the phone to call him. They were employer and employee. And all Gabe felt for Xero was a resentment that bordered on hatred. He railed against his debt. After he had struggled so hard to make himself needless, he was still caught in Xero’s web. The man had manipulated him and his circumstances perfectly, so much so that when Gabe let himself really think on it, he saw that he was still in prison, albeit one with more leg room.

Because the fact was that Gabe had nothing. No business, no allies, no yard to be lord of and now that the Eye of Xero was on him, he had no doubt it would remain so. Xero had cut off any chance of escape, leaving Gabe with only one choice, other than going back to prison. Xero didn’t care that it meant Gabe hated him, he was merely a tool to be used.

He brought Gabe along to meetings, and Gabe suspected it was because he looked like a convict now. Just Gabe’s presence was usually enough, his nature clearly written on his face. The fact that he never batted an eye at any of the muscle that clients usually brought along was a factor; Gabe didn’t care about getting hurt. He only had to keep people in line. He was a dangerous creature, brought to heel and set loose when it suited Mr. Xero.

If it wasn’t for the threat of Drake hanging over him, he would leave. He probably wouldn’t get far, but he would take the chance.

But they had a deal. Xero would help him with Drake, and Gabe would continue to work for him. Gabe had no doubt the spidery criminal had engineered this exact situation. He wasn’t even sure if he could trust Xero to keep his end of the bargain, since Gabe doubted his skills were so rare that Xero wouldn’t find another animal to follow him around when Gabe became too annoying.

“If I have to explain the ways in which I make sure you aren’t dead, then I overestimated your intelligence.” Mr. Xero told him tiredly.

“So when you talk about looking after me, you mean how you told Drake where I was so he could send his pet to come find me?” Gabe said, finally angling an acidic look at his new boss.

Xero didn’t look away from the road, but his tone became chilly. “I am not one to repeat myself so listen carefully. Drake, and Antoine, was not my doing. Though it rid you of some of your demons, so if it had been me, you should be thankful, and watch your tongue.”

Gabe clenched a fist, looking at Xero fully this time. “How am I supposed to believe that? That stunt brought me straight to you, you got what you wanted.”

“Convenient for me, certainly. Nonetheless, I had nothing to do with it. I simply did nothing to stop it.” The older man replied in a blase tone. “I’m not sure how you expected him not to find you, Gabriel. You never changed your name, you didn’t do a very good job of hiding. When your name entered the police directory, a red flag likely came up. Either you were extraordinarily careless, or you wanted him to find you.”

Gabe glared at the dashboard. He had been stupid not to change his name when he’d had the chance, though over fifteen years, his hackles had settled and he had become lax. He should have realised the moment he’d seen his cell that Drake would eventually come find him.

But maybe he had wanted to face his nightmare. Though he doubted it of himself then, he didn’t now.

“We’re here.”

It was a gentlemen’s club. Gabe had been to some, in a former life, never as a member, only as a guest.He was standing outside his door, still, looking at the heavy wood of the entryway doors, and the bronze banisters that led up to it. It was an old building, and the inside probably involved leather and cigars.

Mr. Xero turned briefly, and narrowed an annoyed glance at him. It said, come.

“Woof.” Said Gabe, knowing Xero had heard it and not caring. He closed the car door and followed.

He had been right about the interior. He stifled a laugh that people did this kind of thing, sitting on plush armchairs, filling the air with sweet smelling smoke and reading newspapers. It felt like the posturing of the rich and bored.

But these were the waters in which Mr. Xero swam. Even from behind, he was an impressive form. Not the way Gabe was intimidating; with Gabe it was more like he gave the impression that he was a bomb waiting to go off. Mr.Xero moved the way sharks would swim languidly through the reef, appearing as if he wanted nothing, but the fish still darted out of his path.

He led them to a back corner, where there was a small collection of plush, green velvet covered high backed chairs. They had bronze studs and curved, clawed feet. A short, rotund man was already sitting there, and even though he reminded Gabe of a toad, he wore clothes that screamed ‘money’. Behind and to the side of his chair stood a tall, lithe looking man in a plain black suit; a bodyguard. Gabe observed all this with no expression at all.

Mr. Xero would often ask him for a relay back on what he had seen after a meeting, discussing with him the purposes for the meetings, using his words to add to his own already collected information. While Xero played, Gabe watched.

Unlike his counterpart, when Mr. Xero sat down Gabe leaned one elbow on the chair back and slouched against it ostentatiously. Then he caught the bodyguard’s gaze and winked with his demon eye.

“Hey handsome.” He grinned.

The guy blinked then frowned, while internally Gabe crowed. Life was too short to waste not pissing people off.

The round fat man, with his bulging belly make his belt do an awful lot of work, spared him a beady-eyed glare. “Mr. Xero, muzzle your dog.”

Xero shrugged. “I tried that, it only makes him worse. I suggest you ignore it, as I do.”

The other man was not pleased. “I thought this was supposed to be a business meeting?”

Xero sighed audibly and turned a questioning gaze to Gabe. “Do you think you can behave for the next thirty minutes?”

“Do I get donuts?” Gabe said, but he looked away from them, settling himself more obviously against the heavy seat and rolling his shoulders. The other bodyguard took note from the corner of his eye.

Mr.Xero enjoyed the banter because it set his clients on edge, and it told them that ultimately, he was the one in power, because he cared very little about their opinions. Xero gestured graciously at the man to speak. He rolled himself around in the seat, then took a sip from the brandy tumbler beside him, ice clinking softly against the glass.

“I wanted to discuss the liability.” He said the word ‘liability’ like a title.

“Mr Richardson, which liability is this? You have so many these days.” Mr. Xero replied.

“The one in prison. I heard he got out recently.”

Gabe stilled inwardly, though on the outside he was still staring boredly out of the window at the street. His was listening acutely now.

“So he did.” Mr. Xero replied calmly. This answer did not placate Richardson. Gabe could see the sweat around his neck where the collar chafed the skin, and the pout of his mouth was ugly, dotted with stubble he hadn’t caught with the razor. He was kind of revolting, the way a bead of moisture was at the corner of his mouth left from the drink, with flaccid, unhealthy looking skin. He had a good head of hair though, Gabe could give him that.

“Are you telling me, you’re just letting that little fucker walk around, knowing what he knows?” Richardson hissed at him. “What do I pay you for?”

Mr. Xero folded his hands in his lap gracefully. “You pay me for discretion. You don’t need to worry.”

“I told you to kill him.”

Gabe’s world stilled.

“So what I fail to understand, is why he is walking around at all.” Richardson went on.

“I believe we came to an understanding that it wasn’t necessary.”

“And I believe that I changed my mind on that.”

Mr. Xero spread his hands slightly, long fingers elegantly dismissive. “I do not believe that was your call to make. You pay me to make the best choices, with regards to your…liabilities. Murder was not needed in this case.”

“You do what I tell you to do.” Richardson hissed, and red splotches grew on his cheeks.

Xero raised an admonitory finger. “Now now, we both know that is not true.”

Richardsson, revolting toad that he was, puffed his lips in frustration. He knew the taller man was right, that Mr. Xero was the nexus point, and he answered to no one but himself. Even if Richardson wanted to hurt him, it would be a monumentally stupid move. The Spider had contingency plans for his contingency plans that wrapped him in layers of protection of his own making. That’s what came from being secret-keeper to the rich and criminal.

It probably makes a lot of people want him dead too, Gabe thought.

Fat Man was not done. “If you don’t take care of him, I’ll do it myself.”

“And make more work for me.” Mr. Xero sighed. “If that is why you called this meeting, you can rest easy. He’s been taken care of.”

“You mean he’s dead?”

“We have already gone over this, Mr Richardson.” Mr. Xero replied coolly.

“What he saw could ruin my life, my career-“

Gabe smirked and the movement wasn’t missed. Richardson turned to him with a vitriolic expression.

“You know nothing, whelp. The grownups are talking, why you don’t go find something to play with before I add another stitch to your ugly face?”

Gabe levelled a laconic gaze at him. “And miss the pleasure of your sweaty company?”

“Gabriel.” Mr. Xero spoke sternly.

“He started it.” Gabe protested mildly. He pushed his hands into his pockets and decided to amuse himself by winking at the bodyguard again, who looked furious about it.

“You should train your pets better, Mr. Xero.” Richardson sneered, and Gabe stiffened.

“He’s not my pet, he’s my employee. I don’t own him.”

“Is that why he follows you everywhere then?” Richardson replied sharply, then to Gabe;

“Does his ass smell good, pup?”

Gabe was already tensing, but Xero went on unphased. “I suggest you curb your tongue Mr. Richardson. As I said, I don’t own Gabriel. And he has a rather thin streak of politeness.”

Richardson settled back but still looked like the smug toad he was. “If he has a problem, he can take it up with me on his own time then.”

“Please don’t make more work for both of us, Mr Richardson.” Mr. Xero told him tiredly. “You already owe me more than most.”

That finally seemed to halt him, the reminder that even though money exchanged hands, the main currency Mr. Xero dealt in was ‘favours.’ The austere man stood, re-buttoning his jacket.

“I think we are done here. Please do not contact me again unless it’s urgent.”

“You’re a bastard.” Richardson told him with absolute certainty.

“Goodbye.” He said and turned to walk out again. Gabe followed, but not before saluting both Mr Richardson and his dog, and then walked behind Xero with a jaunty step.