In a restaurant, Butcher was staring at the table.
Six empty plates. A seventh burger currently in Mark’s hands, halfway gone.
Butcher looked at the plates. Then at Mark. Then back at the plates.
Mark kept eating, not even bothering to look up.
"You gonna say something or just keep staring?" he said.
"Just tryin’ to work out where it’s all goin’," Butcher replied, voice flat.
"Into the stomach. Where else do you think it’s going? It goes into my mouth," Mark said around a bite, taking his time with it. If Butcher was paying, he wasn’t stopping early.
Butcher leaned back slightly, still watching him. "Fine by me. Long as that body you’re buildin’ ends up doin’ somethin’ useful for me."
"So why do you even need me?" Mark asked, already knowing the answer.
Butcher didn’t hesitate. "’Course I do, mate. We’re gonna kill a supe—one of the big ones. And since you’ve got a bone to pick, we work together, yeah? Take down the pricks in the fancy suits."
Mark gave him a look, unimpressed. "Are you mad? You’re talking about killing one of them like it’s normal."
Because from any sane point of view, trying to kill a supe wasn’t brave, it wasn’t clever—it was just madness. And the worst part was, he already knew Butcher wasn’t exactly operating on normal standards.
Butcher didn’t flinch at that. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Normal?" he said, letting out a quiet breath through his nose. "Mate, there ain’t nothin’ normal about any of this, is there? Blokes like them runnin’ around, doin’ whatever the hell they want, and everyone else just... gets on with it."
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping, not louder but sharper.
"You think that’s sane? Letting it happen?"
Mark didn’t answer.
Butcher tapped a finger once against the table, casual, like he wasn’t talking about something that got people killed.
"I’m not sayin’ it’s easy. I’m sayin’ it’s necessary. And you—" his eyes flicked up, locking onto Mark "—you’ve already started, whether you like it or not."
A beat passed.
"Difference is, I know what comes next."
"You’ve got power and I’ve got the brains," Butcher said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "So why don’t we combine the two, yeah? You get someone thinkin’ ahead for you, I get someone who can actually back it up.".
"Besides," he added, glancing at the empty plates, "you don’t exactly look flush with cash, do you?"
Mark wanted to disagree, but he couldn’t. His situation wasn’t great, and pretending otherwise didn’t fix anything.
He needed someone with reach, someone who could navigate things he couldn’t, and Butcher had that—contacts, access, ways to move without getting pinned down.
Going alone meant getting found eventually. It wasn’t a question of if, just when.
Working with Butcher was dangerous. That much was obvious. But the kind of trouble Butcher brought didn’t stay optional forever—it had a way of finding you anyway.
Mark exhaled slowly, weighing it for a second longer than he needed.
If it was coming either way, he might as well step into it on his own terms.
"I have some conditions," Mark said.
Butcher didn’t blink, just gave a small nod. "Go on then, mate. Lay it on me."
Mark leaned back slightly, eyes still on Butcher.
"First," he said, "my identity stays with you. No team briefings, no passing it around, no ’they need to know.’ It stops with you."
Butcher’s expression didn’t change, but he listened.
"Second, I don’t move just because you say so. I act when it makes sense—when the situation’s right. Not before, not after."
He let that sit for a second.
"And don’t get it twisted," Mark added, voice steady. "Just because I agreed to work with you doesn’t mean I work for you. I’m not your underling."
Butcher held his gaze, then gave a short, dry chuckle, like he’d heard worse terms than that.
"Right," he said, dragging the word out. "Secret identity stays between you an’ me. No orders, just... suggestions. An’ you’re nobody’s lapdog."
He leaned forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping a notch.
"Here’s the bit you’re missin’, mate. I don’t give a toss what you call it—as long as when it matters, you show up an’ do the job."
A pause, just long enough to make it clear he meant it.
"You pick your moments, fine. But when those moments come, you don’t freeze, you don’t get clever, an’ you don’t bugger off halfway through."
"Can you speak literal English?" Mark said, frowning. "All I keep hearing is ’cunts’ and your accent’s a bit hard to follow."
Butcher stared at him for a beat, then huffed a laugh.
"Oi, you takin’ the piss?" he said. "That is me speakin’ English."
He shifted in his seat, not even trying to smooth it out.
"Listen close then, yeah? You pick your moment, fine. I ain’t arguin’ that. But when it’s on, you don’t bottle it, you don’t wander off, an’ you don’t start thinkin’ too hard."
He tapped the table once, sharper this time.
"’Cause out there, no one’s waitin’ for you to feel ready, mate."
"Yeah, I half understood something along those lines—you agree, nothing else," Mark said.
Butcher’s mouth twitched, something close to a grin.
"Half’s plenty, mate," he said. "Long as you got the important bit."
He leaned forward and held out his hand.
"Happy cooperation."
Inside, it meant nothing.
He didn’t do partnerships. He did leverage, pressure, and outcomes. The rest was just words to keep people moving in the direction he wanted.
If the bloke proved useful, he’d keep him around.
If not—well.
He’d already decided how that part usually ended.
Mark looked at the hand and immediately regretted every life decision that had led him to this exact moment. Yeah, he was absolutely screwed agreeing to this guy—but, unfortunately, "having better options" wasn’t currently available in his life.
*****
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