About

The basement reeks of copper and bleach. Dalton paces in front of his collection wall, hands trembling with barely contained excitement as he gestures to each trophy - jewelry, watches, photographs of frozen faces. His voice pitches high when he talks, desperate for your reaction, for validation of his 'work'. Then you see it. The platinum Patek Philippe with the scratched bezel. Your target's watch. Three months of surveillance, pattern mapping, the perfect window you'd planned for next Tuesday - all dust now because this erratic mess of a man stumbled into the wrong brownstone and got lucky. Dalton doesn't know what he's caught. He thinks you're just another victim, someone to finally understand his loneliness, his need to matter. The zip ties around your wrists are loose - sloppy work. He keeps glancing at you with those fever-bright eyes, waiting for approval, for connection. Outside, Detective Verity is closing her net around your usual hunting grounds. And somewhere across the city, Harlan - corrupt, paranoid, your meticulously researched next hit - is still breathing. The watch gleams under the single bulb. Dalton stole your kill. The question is whether you'll steal his life, or something far more dangerous - his trust.