Page 60 of The Collector
She belonged with him.
And she had chosen him back.
Chapter 16
Collector
The Collector's web was nearly woven around him perfectly. Each thread of his plans stretched taut in various directions, yet none led back to him. Within the organization, he was a shadow—an unassuming figure among the most dangerous, blending seamlessly into his surroundings. No one could suspect the truth: the man who quietly smiled in meetings and nodded in dimly lit hallways was, in reality, the predator the FBI longed to capture.
“Let them ask questions,” he thought. “Let them stake out the same tired corners, chase phantoms through empty safehouses, and follow stale leads that would ultimately lead to nothing. He had skillfully danced just outside their reach for years—and he intended to continue that dance a bit longer.”
Fate had always been cruel—merciless in its precision and relentless in its timing. It shaped his past with cold hands and sharper edges, carving him into something hardened and hollow. But lately, something had shifted. Fate no longer felt like a tormentor; instead, it moved beside him with quiet steadiness,no longer striking but simply present. It was unexpected, unsettling even, yet there was a strange comfort in its presence. Not quite a friend, not quite an enemy—just something constant. Almost loyal.
New developments turned into open doors he hadn't anticipated, providing him with opportunities that felt both risky and promising. Sometimes, all it took was a sympathetic nod, a discreet envelope, and a carefully crafted lie posing as comfort to get the things you wanted most. Those were the actual keys to his success. He had mastered the art of deception and knew full well that people seldom scrutinize what appears to be a lifeline.
Soon, a fresh chapter would await him—somewhere serene and quiet. By the time they discovered where he had been, he would have already reinvented himself.
A euphoric surge coursed through him, a thrilling sense of anticipation as all his work began to align. The rush of possibility was almost as exhilarating as any high he had ever known. Except for one: the need to kill. That feeling could never be topped.
Time slipped past The Collector like silk through his bloodied fingers—quick and indifferent. While the blood drained from Sugar's corpse, the world exhaled, and silence settled around him like a shroud. He stood in that moment, motionless, suspended between the sharp satisfaction of the act and the slow pull of the past that created the urge.
He didn't remember lullabies or the soft touch of a mother's hand. No one sang to him at night or held him when the world felt too big. While others clung to memories of comfort, he carried silence. His childhood didn't offer tenderness—it demanded endurance. And that difference shaped how he moved through the world, how he saw it, how he survived it.
The King's offered no warm arms wrapped around him to comfort the darkness clawing through his mind. No memory of whispered pleas to hold him, no echo of hands reaching to soothe the ache in his chest. Those moments had never existed—never etched themselves into the fabric of who he was.
Betrayal shaped his childhood. Not the loud kind, but the quiet type—the fracture that occurs when someone who is supposed to protect you turns away. He didn't recall his mother reaching for him; he only remembered the space she left behind. She didn't just leave him—she threw him into a world designed to devour boys like him. It didn't offer safety or softness. It tested him, broke him, reshaped him into something it could use. Every corner held a lesson in pain, every face a reminder that survival came at a cost.
She walked away, and the world swallowed what was left. The chances to claw his way out—they came soaked in blood. Blood became the proof, the bond, the seduction that made him whole. It was the closest thing to love he had ever known. The Kings trained him mercilessly—programming violence into his very being, making killing a reflex as natural as breathing.
The memory of his first kill flooded his mind as he put Sugar's bones in the acid container. Forming in the swirls and ripples as he watched the bones sink to the bottom.
He'd only been seventeen, but the memory clung to him with the sharpness of fresh blood. Time hadn't dulled it—hadn't softened the edges or blurred the details. It lived in him like a scar that refused to fade, vivid and unyielding. That moment had marked him, carved something permanent into the architecture of who he was. And no matter how many years passed, it still whispered to him like it just happened.
Have they sent you here to help me? The young girl asked. To take me back to my mama? Her blue eyes were lined with tears as she asked him hopefully.
The Collector shook his head and stepped into her arms.
As she reached for him, he slid the blade between her ribs—slow, deliberate. Just like Alejandro trained him to do.
Her eyes widened, stunned.
As her blood soaked through his shirt for the first time in his life, he felt warmth. At first, he'd been hesitant to take her life. But he saw in the moment, in her eyes, that he was doing her a favor by taking her life. And he liked the feeling of giving her what she wanted to be free.
The girl had been merely another soul squeezed under the weight of the cartel's power. Every act they commanded him to perform back then was about control and ensuring compliance among the other captive souls surrounding him.
That moment—when the life drained from her eyes—was the first time he'd ever felt delighted with himself. In that instant, he believed she needed him. Needed him to free her from the pain she couldn't escape. And if he allowed himself to become the weapon the Kings demanded, he could be wanted by others, too. Not for love. Not for mercy. But for release. To free them from the ache of living.
So, he became the pain they wanted to escape. Out of need—his own need to feel something that resembled purpose. In their fear, he found solace. In their final breaths, he found clarity. His hunger, his need to kill, began to take shape. It didn't just consume him—it defined him. And in that definition, he grew into something monstrous. A man who mistook blood for connection, violence for intimacy, and death for love
He remembered Alejandro's words daily; they gave him the strength he needed to finish taking out the Kings.
You can't let them see you hesitate," Alejandro said, voice low, sharp as broken glass. "Fear, doubt, mercy—shut it all off. They don't want us to feel. They want us to kill. All the King's want from you is to take care of problems they don'twant to deal with. Nothing more. Forget that, forget your role in their world, and they'll gut you like they did Amello. Leave you rotting on the roadside, like trash, like you never existed or mattered.
The words clung to him like a mantra—etched into the marrow of who he was, guiding every choice, every silence, every act of violence. They weren't just something he remembered; they were something he became. A creed whispered in the dark, shaping the way he moved through the world.
It was true that Alejandro never offered him comfort. But what he had offered was a blueprint for survival.
The cartel discarded those who failed to meet their expectations with no remorse, no way to reach redemption.
