Body disposal.

You need to hide him.

Thankfully, the Bolt was built for people who sometimes need to make inconvenient problems disappear. Rear compartment drops deeper than stock, panels pop out to fit cargo no one needs to ask questions about. Like now.

You crouch, drag him by his collar. Dead weight is worse than living weight. Limbs go slack in ways you can’t quite get used to. He’s too big to fold up neatly, so you break him down into the smallest shape he’ll go. A knee bends until it pops. The sound barely registers. You keep your breathing steady and keep working until he’s crammed into the rear compartment.

But the body isn’t the only problem.

You know this garage. You’ve cased the cameras already. You know exactly where they are, and more importantly, the model. Local storage only. NA event did you a huge favor there. One by the stairwell, another pointed at the exit, and one that would’ve caught him following you in.

They come down easy. You pull them, pocket the drives, wipe your prints.

But you know better than to feel safe.

This isn’t the dead zone. This is a city crawling with surveillance, most of it you can’t see. And he wasn’t some random street rat.

You pat him down, first for obvious things. Wallet. Keys. Watch. All go into a separate bag. Then you go deeper. Pockets you might miss on a lazy search. Seams. Ankles. Collar. Anywhere someone could have stashed a tracker that can be used to identify him later.

His shoes go too. Belt follows. Jacket. If it’s got seams thick enough to hide a chip, it doesn’t stay.

You do it twice. You’ve made that mistake before.

Then there’s the blood. Not much, but enough. A few drops where the blade caught your side. A few more from where you put the knife through his heart. You wipe them down with the spare rags you keep in the Bolt, then pour water over the spots, spreading them until they blend into the filth of the concrete.

You check your hoodie. Dark fabric hides most of it, but you peel it off anyway and shove it into a disposal bag. Swap it for the spare shirt in your trunk. Another habit you never stopped keeping.

When you’re done, you stand there in the dim light of the garage, looking at the neat, quiet problem you’ve made of him.

You drive out slow. Not too slow. Not too fast. Just another commuter leaving the gym, not someone with a corpse in the trunk.

The garage spits you onto the street with a green blink, and you slip into traffic like you didn’t just end a man three floors down.

You don’t turn the radio on.

Instead, you think.

You replay the fight in your head, frame by frame. He wasn’t random muscle. Too clean. Too sharp. The kind of man who sends updates to someone who expects them. Someone who’s going to notice when he goes dark.

That gives you a clock you can’t see.

Wallet. PocketWatch. Those things are dead weight unless they’re jacked into a line. No one’s tracking him through the air. For now, he’s invisible.

The Bolt hums under you, smooth on its upgraded cells. The rear compartment stays quiet. Nothing to hear. Just a car like any other, hauling groceries or gym bags or, in your case, a problem that can’t stay yours for long.

Next steps.

You can’t dump him in the city. Too many cameras, too many people eager to report anything that looks off.

Southeast, towards Houston, there are stretches where no one looks too hard. Old industrial pockets left to rot, half‑claimed by scrub and rust. You can make someone disappear there.

But it has to be thorough.

Wallet. Phone. ID. Anything that makes him someone. Strip it all. Burn it later. He doesn’t get to have a name anymore.

You flex your hand on the steering wheel. Your knuckles ache. You didn't know you were gripping the steering wheel that hard.

You exhale.

It’ll be fine.

You’ve done worse. And you'll do worse again.

The door sticks when you push it open. Everything feels heavier than it should.

The house smells like soap and whatever Mariana last cooked. Homey. Ordinary. Too ordinary for the day you’ve had.

You shut the door quietly and pull off your boots. You don’t drop them by the mat like usual. Instead, you line them up, neat, deliberate. Something to focus on.

The lights are low. Mariana’s at the kitchen counter, folding dish towels. She looks up when she hears you.

Her eyes flick over you. Hair damp from sweat, shirt rumpled, jaw tight. You can tell she sees it.

“Yeah,” you say, voice flat. “Long day.”

She tilts her head, studying you. You know that look. The one where she’s trying to decide how much you’re willing to give her.

“You’re… tense,” she says finally, testing the word.

You **** a shrug. “Rough day at work. I’m fine.”

You’re not. Your skin still feels too tight. There’s grit under your nails, a phantom weight in your hands where the knife had been.

You head for the bathroom without waiting for her reply. The tile is cool under your feet. The mirror catches you as you pass: your eyes carry that hollow look you know too well.

The shower runs hot enough to sting. You scrub longer than you need to, like you’re trying to wash something off that isn’t there.

You barely register her come in.

You just feel the shift of air, the cooler draft against the back of your legs before Mariana steps into the steam. Silent. Certain.

Her hair’s up in a loose knot, damp already from the humidity. She meets your eyes briefly, then drops to her knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She doesn’t ask. She just opens her mouth. Her eyes never leaving yours, a silent invitation that sends a shiver down your spine. You watch as her tongue flicks out, wetting her lips, preparing herself for what's to come.

You rest a hand on the back of her head, fingers threading through her damp hair, and guide her forward. She takes you into her mouth, her lips wrapping around your cock, her tongue swirling over the sensitive head. You feel the heat of her mouth envelop you, the wetness, the pressure as she sucks you deeper.

You close your eyes, a groan escaping your lips as you lean back against the cool tile, letting the spray pound your shoulders. The hiss of the water drowns out everything except the sounds of her, the steady rhythm of her head bobbing as she takes you in, her mouth working you expertly.

When you reach for the shampoo, she doesn’t stop.

You lather it into her hair with one hand, slow and methodical, keeping the other where it is, keeping her where you want her. The scent of coconut fills the steam, your grip tightening as you massage her scalp, working the suds through her hair as you work your cock deeper into her mouth.

Her throat flutters as you push deeper, each slow thrust smearing pre-come across her tongue. She lets out a muffled whimper when you tug her head back, arching her neck under the hot water—rinsing the soap away as you fuck her mouth in steady, shallow strokes. The contrast is obscene: tender care above, filthy use below.

Her fingers creep up your thighs, nails biting as you **** her down harder, watching her lips stretch, tears mixing with the water on her cheeks as she gags around you. Every time she pulls back, gasping for air, you drag her right back—shampoo running down her shoulders, your cock glistening in her spit-slicked mouth.

She doesn’t fight it. Just moans, throat working, hands braced on your hips as you use her, the water washing away everything but the heat of her lips and the greedy way she takes you.

You rinse her hair, still holding her steady, the water running in clean rivulets over her shoulders, tracing the curves of her body. She doesn't break her rhythm, her focus unwavering, her mouth and tongue working you relentlessly.

You don't try to hold back when it comes.

You grip the back of her head, fingertips pressing into her scalp as you push deeper, and **** her to take every inch. Her throat convulses around you. Wet, tight, ****, as you grind against the back of her tongue. The water beats down, steam swirling between you as her muffled whimpers vibrate against your cock.

She swallows, eyes fluttering shut, her hands twitching helplessly by her side as you spill hot and thick down her throat. Her muscles clench, working to take every pulse, every shudder of your release. The sound is obscene. A choked, guttural moan as she drinks you down, her lips sealed tight, not letting a single drop escape.

When you're done, you pull her up and towel her off carefully, as if she might break if you weren't deliberate. You wrap her in the towel, tucking her against your chest for a moment, feeling her heartbeat against yours.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. Every movement says it: this isn’t about her.

It’s about you.

And maybe a little bit about making sure you know exactly who you’re coming home to.