Jax was still reeling, the fork halfway to his mouth for another bite of the miraculous carbonara. The taste of it was the taste of victory, of a future he could finally grasp. The elation was a warm, powerful current running through him.
Then, a sharp, unpleasant pang lanced through his mind. It was cold and jarring, like a dissonant note in a perfect symphony. The delicious flavor in his mouth turned to ash. The warm current froze solid.
"That was the appetizer," Kazimir's voice said. All traces of witty amusement were gone. It was now flat, cold, and utterly professional. "Now it's time to pay the bill, Chef. There's a soul that's past its expiration date. I want you to collect it for me."
Jax put the fork down. The reality of the contract crashed down on him with the force of a physical blow. This wasn't just about cooking. The magic had a price, and the first payment was due.
"Already?" Jax asked the empty kitchen, his voice hoarse. "You said one a month."
"The first month's payment is due on signing," Kazimir replied coolly. "It's in the fine print. You should always read the fine print. Now, stop stalling. We have work to do."
A grim resolve settled over Jax. He had known this was coming. He had agreed to it. "How am I supposed to find this person? You going to give me an address?"
There was a dry, humorless chuckle in his mind. "My methods are a bit more esoteric than that. You won't have to look for him, Jax. You just have to… smell. Focus. Extend your senses beyond the physical. Push past the smell of garlic and old grease in this kitchen. Feel the moral decay of this city."
Jax closed his eyes, skeptical. He was a man of concrete realities. He understood the feel of a fist connecting with a jaw, the smell of gunpowder, the taste of cheap whiskey. This was something else entirely.
"It's all around you," Kazimir guided, his voice a low hum in Jax's thoughts. "Most of it is just a dull, gray miasma. Petty jealousy, minor greed, casual cruelty. It's the background radiation of the human condition. But some stains are darker than others. Some souls are so rotten they put off a stench. And one, in particular, is practically screaming for my attention right now. Reach for it."
Jax pushed his senses outward, following the strange command. At first, there was nothing. Then, slowly, a new layer of perception began to form. It was a smell, but not a physical one. It was an impression in his mind, a psychic stench. He could perceive the city not as a collection of buildings and streets, but as a landscape of sin. And there, a few miles to the east, was a spike of pure foulness. It was a rancid, overpowering scent, like rotting meat mixed with the cloying sweetness of cheap cologne and old, greasy money. It was nauseating.
He recoiled, his stomach turning. "I smell it."
"Good," Kazimir said. "That is your target."
As Jax focused on the foul scent, information began to flow into his mind, fed to him directly by Kazimir. It was like downloading a file. A name, a face, a history of casual evil.
The target was Silas "The Leech" Croft. He was a loan shark who operated out of a grimy office above a pawn shop. His clients were the city's most desperate. He'd give them small loans at impossible interest rates, and when they couldn't pay, he'd send his thugs to break their bones as a warning to others. The scent now pulsing in Jax's mind was tinged with the recent, acute misery of his latest victim: a single mother who had taken a loan for her child's medical bills and had just lost her apartment.
"He's a bottom-feeder, Jax," Kazimir explained, his voice clinical. "A perfect starter ingredient. Simple, pungent, and utterly devoid of redeeming qualities. No one will miss him. It's a public service, really. You're just… taking out the trash."
Kazimir's framing was deliberate, Jax knew. It was designed to make this easier. And it worked. The thought of what this man did, of the family he had just destroyed, hardened something in Jax's chest. He had known men like Silas Croft his whole life. They were parasites.
"What do I do?" Jax asked.
"Go to your apartment. Change your clothes. Black is always a good choice. And bring the tire iron from under the bar. It seems… appropriate."
An hour later, Jax was moving through the city's industrial district. A cold rain had started to fall, slicking the asphalt and turning the streetlights into blurry halos. Dressed in black jeans, a dark hoodie, and a worn leather jacket, he was a shadow among shadows. This was familiar territory. He had done this kind of work before, but never for himself. Never with a demonic voice acting as his dispatcher.
He didn't need a map. The Sin-Scent was his beacon, a foul psychic landmark pulling him forward. His old skills, the ones he had tried so hard to bury, came back to him with an easy, terrifying grace. He moved silently, his footsteps making no sound on the wet pavement. He used the reflections in shop windows to watch the street behind him. He stayed close to the walls, melting into the deep shadows of doorways.
"He's on the second floor of that building," Kazimir's voice whispered in his mind. "The one with the flickering 'Cash for Gold' sign. Two guards. One is by the front door downstairs, trying to stay out of the rain. The other is watching the back alley from a fire escape."
The voice was a perfect tactical overlay, a spotter with a god's-eye view. Jax felt a strange sense of detachment, as if he were a character in a video game and Kazimir was the player.
He circled around to the back alley. It was narrow and filled with overflowing dumpsters. Sure enough, a beefy figure was huddled on the rusty fire escape one story up, smoking a cigarette.
"The one in the alley is a brute named Marco," Kazimir supplied. "Not too bright. He's more worried about his cigarette getting wet than about watching his boss's back. He'll be your way in."
Jax sized up the situation. A frontal assault was clumsy. He needed a distraction.
"A bit messy, but efficient," Kazimir commented as Jax picked up a half-empty glass bottle from a trash can. "Try not to get blood on your apron, Chef. It's unbecoming."
Jax ignored the jibe, his focus absolute. "Just spot," he thought back, the mental reply sharp and instinctive.
He tossed the bottle against the far wall of the alley. It shattered with a loud crash. The guard on the fire escape, Marco, cursed and leaned over the railing to see what the noise was.
It was the only opening Jax needed. He moved with explosive speed, scaling the dumpster and leaping up to grab the bottom rung of the fire escape. He hauled himself up in one fluid motion, his boots barely making a sound on the wet metal. By the time Marco turned back around, Jax was already on him. There was no fight. Jax's hand clamped over the man's mouth, stifling his shout, while the heavy tire iron came down in a single, brutal arc against the back of his skull. The guard crumpled without a sound.
Jax stepped over the unconscious body and moved to the grimy window of the office. He peered through. Silas Croft was inside, sitting at a large, cluttered desk, counting a thick stack of cash. The psychic stench was almost unbearable this close. It was the smell of pure, unadulterated greed.
"The door is locked, obviously," Kazimir whispered. "But the window latch is old and rusted. A firm, upward shove should do it."
Jax slid the tire iron into the gap at the bottom of the window frame. He braced himself and pushed. The old wood groaned in protest, and then the lock gave way with a sharp crack.
He slid the window open and slipped inside, as silent as the falling rain. Silas didn't hear a thing. He was too busy caressing his money.
Jax stood in the shadows of the room, watching him. This was the moment of truth. He was no longer just a failed chef. He was a hunter. An executioner. He took a step forward, the floorboard creaking under his weight.
Silas Croft looked up, his piggy eyes widening in terror. His hand shot toward a drawer in his desk.
"Weapon," Kazimir's voice stated calmly in his mind.
But Jax was already moving. He crossed the room in two long strides, the tire iron held tight in his fist. He was no longer the man who burned sauces. He was the man who broke bones. And this was a debt that was long overdue.