“You have five minutes,” the man in the chair said, clearing his throat.

“Well, okay… I… you… alright…” Dan stammered, struggling to steady himself. After a deep breath, he continued. “Let me just say, that’s a fine dagger you have there. Exquisite, really. I love the wide, slightly curved blade, and the emerald green cracked-skull engraving—quite inspired. And is that blood on the tip? Hmm. Look, I don’t know what you plan to do with me, but let me offer some friendly advice. Clean your murder tools. Keep them sparkling after each… deed. Every professional maintains their tools, whether a barber, a musician, or a surgeon. And you seem to be a master in your profession.”

The man, who called himself Bloodgore, or just "B," stared at Dan with a gaze that softened slightly at his words. B sat slumped in a metal folding chair in the corner of the 7x7, windowless room—if it could even be called a room. His brown robe and hood were clean and neat, almost new, a stark contrast to the dirt, dust, and dried blood staining the bare floor and walls. His gloved hands held the dagger, the blade pointing upward.

Dan stood in the opposite corner, fighting for his life the only way he knew—with words. He was a short, quiet software engineer, diffident by nature, who worked at Googly—a small company with delusions of grandeur, evident in its choice of name. For years, he’d toiled there without so much as a raise or a word of praise. And now here he was, face to face with his potential killer, without a keyboard or trackpad to save him.

“Why would I clean it if it’s just going to get dirty again in a few minutes?” B said, glancing at his watch and giving a playful wink.

Dan hesitated, uncertain how to read the gesture, but pressed on. “That’s the point. Before you use your weapon on your next… job, it needs to be clean. Otherwise, people will talk. They’ll say you don’t take your craft seriously. You could lose respect from your next… client. They might see you as an amateur. Worse, others might see an opportunity to encroach on your territory, to take advantage of what they perceive as weakness.”

B paused, considering Dan’s words. Sensing an opening, Dan pushed harder. “Think of a famous painter who didn’t clean his brushes, or a Michelin-star chef who left old food on his knives. Impossible, right? It would never happen.” He smiled, sensing his argument was making an impact.

B slowly rose and moved toward Dan, raising the dagger to chest height, his eyes still thoughtful. Then, without warning, he handed the weapon to Dan. Dan, stunned, stood frozen, clutching the dagger.

“All right, you convinced me,” B said. “Here’s what you’ll do. There’s an outdoor sink about twenty feet from this shed. Wash this dagger, bring it back, and you have my word I won’t kill you.”

Dan blinked, hardly daring to believe his luck. For a moment, he stood rigid, the cold steel of the dagger heavy in his grip. He was contemplating the worth of a killer’s word when he noticed a shift in B's expression—something impatient, dangerous. Dan bolted. He dashed past B and out the door, into what he quickly recognized as a storage unit.

He sprinted in the direction of the sink as instructed, his breath ragged, his heart racing. But as he reached the spot, he realized there was no sink in sight. Confused, he continued his search, until he heard shouting from all directions.

“Drop the weapon! Hands behind your back! Now! Now! Now!”

Dan turned, still holding the knife, trying to speak, trying to explain. “Wait, no, you don’t understand—”

But the officers were on him in seconds. The cold metal of handcuffs bit into his wrists, and he was shoved to the ground, the knife clattering from his hand. His protests were drowned out by the noise as they dragged him away.

Inside the garage, B listened to the fading wail of sirens. He waited calmly until the sounds of chaos faded. Then he slipped out of the shed and moved quickly to another unit. Inside, a man in dark clothes, face hidden behind a mask, waited.

The masked figure nodded as B entered. “Did he take it?”

B smiled, satisfied. “Yes, in less than five minutes. The police have him now.”

The masked man grinned. “I saw that. Five minutes? Well done. The knife’s been in his hands. It’s covered with his prints. They won’t have any reason to look further.”

B removed his gloves and sat down across from the masked man. Chuckling softly, he asked, “And what about me?”

The masked man—the real "B"—turned away, already thinking of his next move, content to remain in the shadows while his scapegoat was taken away. “Here’s your money. Now tell me why I should let you live long enough to use it. You have five minutes.”

The impostor “B,” whose real name was Stu, widened his eyes, trying to compose himself. The words felt eerily familiar, the countdown echoing back at him.

“Well, B… can I call you B? First off, I did what you asked. Five minutes, right? I did it in under five. Second, I haven’t seen your face. I don’t know who you are. And I don’t want to know. Third, I mean, c’mon, I’m harmless. I’m a drunk with a family. You know where I live. I wouldn’t do anything to risk my wife and kid. And if you need someone for a job like this in the future, I’m your guy.”

Stu stood there, nerves frayed, unsure if he had said the right things. The masked man remained silent, his stillness more terrifying than any threat.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, B spoke. “Here’s what you’ll do…”