The Case of the Vanishing Men (Patreon)

Wind rattled my window and rain beat against the glass.  It was warm enough inside — it’s an old building and, say what you will, they knew how to build radiators back then.  A solid chunk of steel cast off heat under the flicker of a bare bulb.

The rent’s too expensive, but at least it’s a bad neighbourhood too.  The kind of place that’s supposed to drum up business for a private investigator.

A fancier office wouldn’t do me much good, not that I could afford it anyway.  These past few years it’s been cheap divorce work and the occasional cheating boyfriend.

I spend my days dodging creditors and my nights taking photos from a distance.  Cameras are pretty good these days — the photos are crisp, even when my hands shake.  The booze will do to you, and maybe the pot.  I can’t sleep without it.

Maybe if Freddy was still here…

He was my partner in both senses of the word.  Days at the office, nights on the mattress.  Smart, kind, caring…  I miss him every day.

There’s justice in the world, but there wasn’t any for Freddy, and it’s got nothing to do with me.

----------

He showed up late in the afternoon.  A young man pushing thirty, dressed in a suit that cost more than my rent.  He was private security — even if I didn’t recognize him, you can always tell.

But I knew this face already.  Bradley Martinez, working security for the Moneyworth family.

“Hi,” he said, poking his head in my door.  “Is this a good time?”

“Oh, hey,” I said.  “C’mon in.”

“Sorry, your receptionist wasn’t out front,” he apologized.

“We’re looking for someone new,” I shrugged.  “The last guy didn’t like working for free.”

“Then it sounds like you’re ready for a case,” he said, slipping into the chair across from mine.  “I’ve got a big one.  Missing person.  My employer will offer fifty-thousand dollars for his safe return, plus expenses.”

“Who’s gone missing?”

“Young guy,” Martinez said, passing me his phone.  He had a photo of a twenty-something man.  “Billy Keaton.  He works at the Mayflower Diner.  Two days ago he went missing, and my employer wants to know why.”

“Who’s your boss?” I asked.

“Samuel Jones,” Martinez lied.  “You wouldn’t know him.  He’s in his 70s, retired a while back, between stocks and a pension he’s set for life.  He was a regular at Billy’s diner, and he always enjoyed their chats.”

That didn’t add up.  I knew Martinez’s real employer — Charles Moneyworth — which meant he was lying to me.  And what 70 year old retiree wants to spend his hard earned money tracking down someone who quit his job.  The kids don’t want to work anymore, isn’t that what we’re supposed to believe?

On the other hand… I needed the cash.

“I’ll think about it,” I promised.  “Can I reach out to you tomorrow?”

We swapped numbers and my phone buzzed.  Martinez had texted me a half dozen photos of Billy and a short list of people.

----------

I stayed late, turning it over in my mind.

The Moneyworth family had been prominent for generations.  You couldn’t pass a charity event without seeing their name all over it.  They had to have a PI on retainer.

Wealthy people don’t come to guys like me, not unless they want something handled quietly.

On one hand, I needed the money.  Fifty big ones, plus expenses.  That was more than I made most years.  It would sure be nice to put some cushion in the bank account.

But on the other hand, the case reminded me of Freddy.

We never solved the last case we worked together.  It was ten years ago, a string o young men had gone missing.  Baristas and bartenders and that one kid from the cupcake shop.  All guys in low level service jobs.  Nobody missed them, but Freddy insisted it was our job to look.

It felt like we were getting close too, but then Freddy had vanished.  I couldn’t risk it.  I’d returned the merger fee we’d collected and called the cops.  The cops didn’t do a damn thing — they added Freddy’s name to the list of the missing and went back to eating donuts.

I told myself this wasn’t the same case, but I couldn’t shake the snake in my gut.

----------

I dropped by Henry Carter’s apartment.  He’s a retired cop and an old friend of mine.  Don’t tell his former employer, but he’s been my source more than once.

“It’s late,” he said, but he opened the door anyway.  “What brings you around?”

“Did the department ever find anything on Freddy?” I asked.

“C’mon Drake, you know we would have told you,” Henry sighed.  He sat in his easy chair and slumped down.  “The cops aren’t your enemy, even if you act like we are.”

“I know,” I said softly.  “I just… anything.  A fingerprint.  A phone number.  The tiniest detail that maybe… maybe… could be a clue.”

“Drake…”

“Something you didn’t want me chasing on my own?” I pressed.

Henry grunted and stood again.  He walked past me to the other side of his tiny apartment and pulled a file from his desk drawer.

“Just one thing,” he admitted.  “A voicemail.  Right before Freddy disappeared, we had one hell of a fight.  I wanted him off that case, too many things were starting to stack up, but… well… listen to this…”

He took a CD out of the folder and slipped it into his stereo.  I froze.  I hadn’t heard Freddy’s voice in almost a decade.  Hearing his baritone made me want to break down and cry.

“Henry, it’s Freddy,” his voice crackled through the speaker.  His voice had that slightly flat sound cell phone calls used to have.  “I know you said to drop it, but I followed him.  He’s in The Stained Glass, and he’s been there a while.  I’m going in.  We’re gonna get this guy, and tomorrow we tell Drake everything.  Call me when you get this.”

The recording ended with a beep.  I sat down on Henry’s desk chair and tried to steady myself.

“What did he mean?” I stared at Henry.  “Tell me everything?”

“Freddy had this crazy theory,” Henry said carefully.  “He thought Charles Moneyworth was involved in the disappearances somehow, but he didn’t have a shred of proof.  Drake… he was going in circles.  Those missing guys were driving him crazy.  I don’t —“

“Why didn’t he tell me,” I interrupted.

“He knew you wouldn’t want to cross someone that powerful,” Henry sighed.  “You’ve always been the sensible one.  He came to me for a wiretap, figured if he had some proof then we’d get into it, but… I told him we couldn’t get a warrant.  I never even tried.”

Henry paused and sipped from a beer can.

“So Moneyworth had to be involved…” I said slowly.  “He followed him, and he vanished too.”

“Don’t go looking for trouble,” Henry warned me.

But when I left Henry’s apartment, I texted the client.

“I’m in.”

----------

The Mayflower Diner was dark when I got there, chairs up on the tables and the neon in the window switched off. A hand-lettered sign said CLOSED.

I tried the door anyway. Locked.

An older man in a paper hat was mopping behind the counter. I knocked on the glass, put on my most harmless expression, and gave him a little wave. After a moment he sighed, shuffled over, and cracked the door.

“We’re closed,” he said.

“I can see that,” I told him. “I’m looking for Billy Keaton. I’m trying to help.”

That got me inside.

The manager’s name was Frank. Late sixties, tired eyes, the kind of face that could pretend not to notice a woman crying into her coffee. He leaned on the counter and told me Billy was a good kid. Young, hardworking, easygoing. Showed up on time, covered shifts, never made trouble.

“No enemies I ever heard of,” Frank said. “Kept his personal life to himself, but that’s his right. I think he had a boyfriend maybe, but he never talked about him.”

I asked about Samuel Jones, an older regular who liked to chat.

Frank shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. But we get a lot of customers.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll let you head home.”

----------

Billy’s apartment was in a building even worse than mine. The hallway smelled like bleach fighting with mildew.

I knocked on the door, then knocked again.

“Yeah, what do you want?” his roommate finally answered.  He was a skinny guy in sweatpants and a baggy tanktop.  Aspiring to be a twunk, I guess, but very much in his twink era.

“I’m here about Billy,” I said.  “I’m trying to help find Billy.”

He gave me a doubtful look, but opened the door enough for me to step inside.

“My name’s Drake Nightstorm,” I said.  “Private investigator.”

“KInd of on the nose, huh?” he snorted.  “Whatever.  I’m Alex.”

He perched on the arm of a battered couch and picked at a loose thread while we talked.

“Yeah, Billy was seeing somebody,” he said. “But he never said who.”

“He keep everything that close to the vest?” I asked.

“I dunno, we only lived together a year,” Alex shrugged.

There was nothing in Billy’s room that looked out of place. Just the usual clutter of a young man trying to get by. Clothes on the chair. Video games stacked under the TV. A couple of old-school porn magazines half-hidden in the bottom drawer.

Alex said he didn’t have a laptop.  I couldn’t find a phone.

“Did Billy have any favourite spots to hang out?” I asked.

“You know how things are,” he laughed.  “Money’s tight. He went to work and came home. I guess he hung out at the boyfriend’s place.”

“He ever mention where?  A subway stop even?”

“Sorry man.”  Alex thought about it more. “He mentioned The Stained Glass a couple times though. But I don’t think he was a regular or anything.”

“The Stained Glass?” I said. “I’ve heard the name, but…”

That was enough to make Alex turn bright red.

“High-end strip club,” he admitted. “The drinks are stupid expensive, but the guys are so hot.  I don’t know where they find that many muscle dudes.”

“Billy’s type?” I asked.

“Y’know, not really,” Alex grinned sheepishly. “But… I guess you know what I like.”

----------

The rain eased off on my way back to the office. I took off my coat and dug around my filing cabinet for the good scotch.  The twenty dollar stuff.

I poured two fingers and sat down under the jaundiced glow of the bulb.

The Stained Glass.

Freddy had said the name on that voicemail.  He’d gone in there, and by morning he was gone.  Now Billy Keaton had been hanging around the same place. Something about the name was tapping me on the shoulder.

The Scotch burned all the way down and settled in my gut like bad news.  I needed courage to pull the old files.

The cabinet shrieked when I yanked open the bottom drawer. Freddy and I had worked the first disappearances before everything got scanned and digitized. I stacked them on the desk and started digging.

Bartender. Busboy. Barista. Host. A kid from a bakery with frosting on his sleeve.  We had photos of them all. The kind of people who vanished every day in a city like this, and nobody cared until the rent came due.

I searched for the club name in our notes.  In witness statements, on receipts, in Freddy’s impossible handwriting. Most of it was nothing.  Then I found it.

A glossy photo of a broad-shouldered young man in a tight black tank stepping out under the coloured light of The Stained Glass sign.  Muscular.  Polished.  He was youth and vanity personified.

On the back, in Freddy’s absurd handwriting, was one word.

“Scott?”

I frowned and pulled out a file.

Scott Weller. Twenty-two. Coffee shop barista. Last seen walking home after a closing shift. His picture showed a lanky kid with narrow wrists, messy hair, and a smile that made my chest hurt.

Not the same man. Not even close.

I tossed back the rest of the Scotch, grabbed my coat, and headed home.

----------

The next morning I woke up in my clothes with a dry mouth and a crick in my neck.

Grey light leaked through the window. The radiator hissed. For a long few seconds I sat there on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall while my brain crawled back into place.

Charles Moneyworth.

The thought came down hard and clean. Freddy thought Moneyworth was involved. Bradley Martinez had come to me with a made-up client. On a hunch I checked the city property records.  The Stained Glass was owned by an LLC, but that LLC was owned by Charles Goddamn Moneyworth.

He was in this up to his manicured elbows. He had to be.

I splashed water on my face, sanded off the stubble, and drank a truly terrible cup of coffee. But I was at my desk in record time.

I pulled up Moneyworth’s Wikipedia page. Rich men love two things — being feared and having someone write their biography.

Charles Moneyworth. Sixty-eight years old. Founder of a technology company that struck gold in the eighties, back when men got called visionaries for inventing new ways to make money. He’d sold at the right time, rolled the profits into real estate, and spent the next few decades buying up pieces of the city until half the skyline had his name on it.

There was the usual charity garbage. Hospitals. Museums. Scholarships for underprivileged youths he would’ve crossed the street to avoid.

Two sons. Greg and Nathan.

Nathan had no public presence worth a damn. No company bio, no recent photographs, nothing but stale mentions in old society columns and one blurry shot of him on a yacht from ten years ago. Probably scuba diving in the Maldives.

Greg was different.

Executive vice president at Moneyworth Properties. Public-facing. Quoted in business journals. Shaking hands in ribbon-cutting photos. Standing beside his father with the stiff smile of a trust fund kid.

I chewed my lip.

And every fortress has a weak spot.

----------

The Moneyworth building had its own weather.

Glass and steel shot up into the grey, making the city look cheaper in the reflection. Men in long coats drifted through the revolving doors with their heads down and their backs up, all of them in a hurry to help rich people get richer.

I waited across the street with a paper cup of cold coffee.  Greg Moneyworth left for lunch at twelve-thirteen.

He was younger than the photos made him look. Mid-thirties maybe, but soft around the jaw. He didn’t have security with him. Either he liked the illusion of being ordinary, or he thought nobody in the city had a reason to tail him.

He headed three blocks south, cut past a florist, and stopped at a hot dog cart on the corner. He bought a dog and a soda, then crossed to a little park wedged between office towers. The grass was winter-dead and the benches were slick from last night’s rain.

He sat down, unwrapped the hot dog, and lifted it toward his mouth.

I sat beside him before he could take the first bite.  He went rigid.

“Jesus Christ,” he snapped. “What is wrong with you?”

“Plenty,” I said. “You’re Greg Moneyworth.”

“Who’s asking?”

“Drake Nightstorm,” I grinned.  "Private investigator.”

“That’s not a real name,” he chuckled.

“Believe what you want.” I shrugged.  I nodded at the hot dog. “Go ahead. I’m not here to rob you.”

He set it back in the foil instead. “If you want money, talk to our legal department.”

“I don’t want money. I want a conversation.”

“I don’t.”

“Humour me.”

“Fine,” he said at last. “Thirty seconds.”

“Ever heard of Billy Keaton?”

“No,” he said too quickly.  His face disagreed with his words.  “I think you should leave.”

“I think your father has something to do with these disappearances.”

Greg turned and stared at me. For a second all the polish fell off him and I saw something raw underneath. Fear, maybe. Or guilt. Hard to tell the difference in rich men.

“No way.” He gulped and looked down at his untouched lunch. “No. You leave Dad out of this.”

“You’re not in any trouble,” I told him. “I just want to find Billy.”

He stood so fast he knocked his soda onto the grass.

“I’m calling my lawyer,” he said. “I don’t want to see you again.”

----------

I let Greg Moneyworth get ahead before I followed.

He walked quickly, his hands clenched hard enough to turn white at the knuckles.  Hecut through the noon crowd like a sword.

I tailed him south past a bank, then east through a stretch of rundown storefronts. He never glanced back. Rich men never do.

He crossed the avenue and turned down the narrow side street.  My stomach dropped a floor.  Tucked between a shuttered tailor shop and a boarded-up florist was The Stained Glass.

Black-painted brick. Heavy red door. Windowless, except for a strip of coloured glass above the entrance. Greg slipped inside.

I stopped under the awning across the street and lit a cigarette.  Five minutes, I told myself.  I didn’t want to spook my prey.

I crushed the cigarette under my heel and crossed the street.

The room was nearly empty.  Two old guys sat at the bar sharing war stories.  They both gave me a look when I walked in, but I guess I wasn’t their type.

Behind the bar stood a mountain of a man in nothing but a jeweled thong and a practiced smile. He had shoulders like a prizefighter and abs carved by a vengeful god. The gems on his underwear caught the light when he moved.

“Show doesn’t start till seven,” he said wearily. “What’re you drinking?”

“I’m looking for Billy Keaton,” I said.

The bartender paused. Just for a second.

“Don’t know a Billy Keeton,” he said.

“Keagan,” I corrected.  Then, on a hunch, I added, “Mr. Moneyworth asked me to check in.”

The bartender reached for a bottle of Jamison, poured a shot, and slid it across the bar.

“Downstairs,” he whispered, leaning close.

“Uh, sorry,”  I frowned.  “It’s my first time on this run.”

“Take the stairs,” he said and tipped his chin toward a door near the end of the bar.

EMPLOYEES ONLY.

I downed the shot in one gulp.

----------

It was a narrow stairwell that dropped into the guts of the building.

The music from upstairs thinned out with every step. The air changed too. Less booze and sweat, more metal and antiseptic.

At the bottom of the stairs was a long room washed in blue-white light. Half of it looked like a workshop — tool benches, coils of wire, carts full of glass tubes and polished steel housings. The other half looked like a dressing room designed by a mad scientist with a pornography problem. Mirrors ringed with bulbs. Racks of tiny costumes. Shelves lined with oils and powders and enough hair product to survive a hurricane.

Billy was at one of those mirrors, but it took me a second to recognize him.

Only it took me a second to know it was him.

The kid from the diner had been all soft edges and narrow shoulders. The man standing in front of me had been carved out of a fantasy and buffed to a shine. His chest swelled against a cropped mesh tank

His arms were thick and smooth and indecently defined, every line of muscle enhanced by the cold light. His waist was trim, his thighs powerful, his face sharpened into something prettier and bolder than before. His mouth was fuller. His lashes darker. Even the way he stood had changed — one hip cocked, chin lifted, his pose oozed confidence.

“Well,” he said, voice lower and silkier than I expected.  “Did someone lose their way?”

“Billy Keagan?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he spread his arms. “Surprise.”

The sound of our voices brought two other men running.  Greg Moneyworth rounded the corner, white as milk. Another man followed — it had to be Nahan.  He had Greg’s eyes and Charles’s jaw. Handsome in a pallid way.  He stopped beside a machine the size of a walk-in freezer

The machine was all curved glass and chrome, with cables spilling from the back into a bank of humming cabinets. There was a padded chamber at the centre and a control panel lit up like the church organ from hell.

“You’re Drake Nightstorm,” Nathan said. “I’ve heard all about you.”

“Want to tell me why a missing busboy looks like he’s more at home dancing on a bar for tips?”

Billy laughed. Actually laughed. He was delighted at the idea.

“Nathan invented it,” he said, patting the side of the machine like it was a favourite dog.

“A decade ago,” Greg added miserably. “Jesus, Nate, I told you this would happen.”

“I was young,” Nathan said, ignoring his brother. “Brilliant, but young. I built a biometric restructuring engine. Endocrine, neurological, muscular, cosmetic. It can take a man and turn up all the dials.”

He looked at Billy with naked pride.

“The string of disappearances back then,” I said slowly. “All those young men.”

“I went a little wild at first,” he admitted. “I kept testing it on guys around the neighbourhood. Thought I’d get caught, but Dad covered it up for me. Got those guys new identities, apartments, work. Not like any of their families or friends would recognize them afterward. And back then…” He winced, almost nostalgic. “Back then I was frying their brains so badly they couldn’t handle much. Most of them needed simple lives. Bar backs, strippers, go-go boys. We started The Stained Glass so they’d have somewhere to go.”

“Freddy was onto you,” I said.

“I haven’t used the machine in a long, long time,” Nathan said. “Not until Billy.”

“We’ve been dating for a while now,” Nathan said.  Billy came to stand beside him. “In secret, y’know?”

“My parents would never approve,” Billy said.

“My dad evicted them when Billy was a baby,” Nathan said. “A building sale. Aggressive turnaround. They’ve never forgiven him.”

“And I don’t expect them to,” Billy said. He was staring at Nathan.. “But what we’ve got… that’s between me and Nathan. Not our parents.”

“And so I turned the machine back on,” Nathan said. “Tuned it up. Billy went first. Now it’s my turn. We’ll run away into the sunset, and Greg will destroy this thing when we’re gone.”

“But I was hired to find Billy,” I said. “By your family, even if they tried to hide it.”

“That was me,” said a voice from the stairs.

I turned.

Charles Moneyworth stood at the bottom of the stairway. Bradley Martinez was beside him, hand near his jacket, eyes flicking across the room for threats. Charles looked older up close than he did in the papers.

“When I got news of another disappearance, I started to worry Nathan was up to his old tricks,” Charles said. His gaze moved from the machine to Billy and then to his son. “But this…” He exhaled through his nose. “I never expected this.”

“Dad…” Nathan flinched.

“You know…” Charles Moneyworth said.  “You don’t have to run.”

“Dad, I want to start a new life with Billy. Him and me. None of this trust fund stuff.  A couple of hot guys taking on the world together.”

For a second I thought Charles was going to laugh, or forbid it, or order Martinez to drag them upstairs and bury the whole thing in lawyers. Instead his shoulders dropped, as if thirty years of being Charles Moneyworth had become too much to carry.

Charles crossed the room and pulled him into a hug. Nathan froze, then slowly hugged him back.

“I’ll always come visit,” Charles said.

Nathan swallowed. “I’d like that.”

He pulled away, wiped at his eyes like he was annoyed to find them wet, and then turned to Billy with a grin sharp enough to cut glass.

“Your turn to do the honours.”

Nathan stripped off his shirt, then climbed into the chamber. Billy moved to the controls with confidence.

The chamber sealed with a hiss.

Blue light flooded the glass. Nathan arched inside it, fingers spread, mouth opening in a silent gasp. The machine began to sing — a high electrical whine that climbed and climbed until my teeth hurt.

And Nathan began to change.

Shoulders broadening first. Chest swelling. Arms thickening under skin that seemed to tighten and gleam. His waist drew in while his thighs packed on sleek, theatrical muscle. His face sharpened, lips fuller, eyes darker, everything about him pushed past handsome.

Billy watched through the glass with excitement.

By the time the light dimmed, Nathan and Billy were meant to be. Matching studs. Matching hunger. A pair of young gods.

“So I guess your case is wrapped,” Martinez said. He stepped forward and handed me a cheque. Fifty thousand dollars. It hardly seemed real.

I looked at it, then folded it once and slipped it into my coat.

“There’s still one loose end,” I said.  “My partner, Freddy. He was investigating the first string of disappearances.”

“Yes,” Charles said at last. “He caught us. Nathan was reckless back then, and Freddy saw too much. We didn’t know what to do.” He turned to Martinez. “Go get him.”

Martinez hesitated, then disappeared up the stairs.

When he came back, Freddy was with him.  But not the Freddy I remembered.

He was broader, thick through the chest and arms, packed into a tight black shirt that was barely holding on. The same eyes, the same crooked mouth — but simpler. Emptier behind the gaze.

“Drake?” he lit up.

My throat closed.

He grinned, warm and familiar and wrong all at once.

Ten years of waking up alone, ten years of whiskey and bad weed and talking to his ghost in empty rooms.  I took a step toward him, then stopped.

Freddy had always been handsome in that easy, broad-shouldered way that made men lean closer, but this was different. He looked sculpted now. His shirt clung to his chest and arms like it had been painted on. His jaw seemed sharper. His waist tighter. Somebody had taken the man I loved and redrawn him with flourish.

But he still had Freddy’s eyes.  Brown and soft and fixed on me with open affection. Only now there was a haze behind them, like somebody had wiped away half the writing on the page.

“Drake,” he said again, and laughed softly. “You look awful.”

The words made my chest ache.

Nathan and Billy were kissing by the machine. Billy had one hand on Nathan’s new chest, admiring the workmanship. Nathan kept catching his reflection in the glass and grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Can you believe this?” Billy said. “We actually did it.”

“I told you it could be perfected,” Nathan said, glowing with triumph.

“Do you remember what happened?” I said, looking at Freddy.

“I remember a club. A fight, maybe. Then a lot of lights. Then Mr. Moneyworth gave me a job as a gogo boy.” He shrugged those enormous shoulders. “It’s been pretty good, mostly.  I missed you, but… he said you wouldn’t recognize me no more.”

I thought about all the nights I’d spent imagining him in a ditch, in a river, in a shallow grave. All that time, and he’d been here. Smiling and shaking his ass.

Billy came drifting over, radiant and changed and unbearably young. “You should be happy,” he said. “You got him back.”

I looked at Billy, then Nathan, then Freddy.

Freddy reached for my hand and I let him take it.  Because I still loved him. Because I always would.

I looked at Freddy’s hand around mine, at the thick fingers and familiar knuckles, at the body some madman had built around the man I loved.

Then I looked at the machine.

Its glass still glowed faintly, cooling after Nathan’s transformation. The cables along the back gave off a low hum.

“Don’t destroy it,” I said.  “It has one more job to do.”

Every head in the room turned to stare.

Greg barked a laugh that had no humour in it. “Absolutely not.”

I squeezed Freddy’s hand and felt him squeeze back, easy and trusting. He smiled at me. God, he smiled at me.

“I want to be together with Freddy,” I said softly.  “You can destroy it after, just… I need one more run.”

Billy’s eyes widened, then brightened with understanding. Nathan looked delighted. Greg looked sick.

Freddy tilted his head. “You mean… you wanna come work here?”

I laughed once, rough and joyless and maybe a little hysterical. “Something like that.”

“Drake,” Charles said carefully. “You do understand what this machine does?”

“I spent ten years missing him,” I let go of Freddy’s hand and rubbed at my face. My stubble grated under my palm.  “Ten years drinking myself stupid.  And now he’s alive.  Alive.”

Freddy gave me a soft, apologetic shrug. His chest and shoulders shifted under that tight black shirt, a body built for spotlight and applause.

“I’m still me,” he said. “Mostly.”

“It doesn’t have to be like it was before,” Nathan said quickly. “The older versions were crude. There was neurological degradation, yes, but now the process is far more stable. Adaptive. We can guide the outcome.”

“Guide it toward what?” Greg snapped. “A stripper with a concussion?”

Billy rolled his eyes. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is a bad thing.”

“For you maybe,” Billy shot back. He turned to me, voice gentler. “What do you want?”

Nobody had asked me that in a long time.

What did I want?

I wanted Freddy laughing beside me again. I wanted warm nights instead of empty ones. I wanted my head to go quiet for once.

I wanted to stop being Drake Nightstorm, Private Investigator.

“I want to go with him,” I said.

“Really?” Freddy’s face lit up with uncomplicated happiness.

“Yeah,” I said. “Really.”

Charles looked at me for a long moment. “You’re choosing this freely?”

“Does that make you feel better?”

“No,” he said. “But I’m asking.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’m choosing it.”

Billy pointed me toward the chamber. Up close, the glass looked thicker than a bank vault. The inside was lined with padded panels and silver fittings that curved around the body like a lover’s hands. The air inside smelled cold and sterile. Ozone.

Nathan studied me with clinical interest. “What configuration are you envisioning?”

I glanced at Freddy. At Billy. At Nathan’s ridiculous fresh-from-the-oven perfection. Then back at Freddy, broad and handsome and simple and sweet.

“Himbo gogo boy,” I said. “If we’re doing this, let’s not half-ass it.”

Billy actually cheered.

Nathan grinned. “Excellent taste.”

When I settled back back, cool supports slid against my spine and thighs, fitting themselves to me with insect precision. Above, the curved lid hung open like the jaw of some glossy animal.

Freddy appeared over me, blocking out the lights for a moment.

“You’re gonna look so hot,” he said, full of boyish certainty.

“Thanks,” I said. “Try not to fall in love with me all over.”

He laughed, that same low baritone, and kissed my forehead.

Then the chamber sealed.

The sound vanished first. The room outside dulled to shapes moving behind thick glass. Nathan at the controls. Billy watching avidly. Freddy smiling at me with both hands pressed to the chamber wall.

Blue light bloomed.  It started in my teeth.

A hard bright ache sang through my jaw, my cheekbones, down my neck and into my chest. Then the rest of me lit up with it. My back arched off the padding. My fingers spread. Every joint in my body seemed to loosen at once, as if invisible hands were pulling me apart.

My chest tightened, then broadened. Shoulders rolling wide. Arms thickening, heavy with new weight. My stomach pulled in hard, muscles locking into place one after another beneath my skin. My thighs swelled against the supports, dense and strong. Heat flooded me everywhere, a deep thrilling rush that made my pulse hammer.

I tried to swear, but it came out as a gasp.

My face felt strangest of all. Bones shifting with tiny crackling pops. Lips tingling, cheeks tightening, eyes prickling as lashes grew heavier. My hair spilled warm over my forehead and neck. Even my skin seemed to wake up, smoothing, tightening, taking on a new sleekness.

And then the other change came.  It wasn’t painful.  More like when a chiropractor releases a knot from your back.

All the old thoughts that had lived in me for years — the debts, the grief, the booze, the guilt, the files, the names, the stale anger, the nights alone under that bare bulb — their sharp corners melted. The noise in my head thinned out, drifting away like smoke through an open window.

I should be scared.  But even that thought was pleasantly fuzzy around the edge.

The light faded.

The chamber hissed open.

Cool air touched my skin, and I sat up grinning without knowing why.

“Bro,” Freddy moaned.  “You’re so fuckin’ hot.”

----------

We were in his apartment above the bar.

Low lamps. A couch with a blanket tossed over one arm. Framed prints of old movie stars and one ridiculous poster of a shirtless gladiator holding a spear. There was a sweetness to it, a softness, as if Freddy had built himself a little nest in the rafters of a sinful church.

The bedroom door stood half open.

Inside was a big bed, rumpled sheets, and a window looking out over the alley.  The city glowed in wet neon. Freddy shut the door behind us, smiling at me like he still couldn’t believe his luck.

“I kept thinking about you,” he said.

The simple honesty of it almost broke me.

I stepped closer. My new body was filled with confidence. Every shift of muscle drew his eye. I could feel the shape of myself now — the broad shoulders, the carved chest, the narrow waist, the heavy strength in my thighs. I felt vivid and exaggerated.

Freddy reached out, almost shy for once, and touched my arm.

His fingers wrapped around thick muscle. His eyes went wide with mischief.

“Drake,” he murmured. “You’re built like a tank.”

I laughed and he kissed me.

I kissed him back with all the years between us pressing close. The lost nights. The bad scotch. The empty mattress. The ghosts. They vanished as Freddy’s arms wrapped around me.

I felt everything in bright, ringing detail. The pull of his hands across my back. The strain in my chest when he kissed me. The delicious certainty of strength when I lifted him.  Iit felt as natural as music finding a chorus.

My shoulders. My chest. The line of my waist. The hard sweep of my back. Every pass of his hands seemed to teach me the shape I’d become.

We fell onto the bed tangled together.  Freddy traced my face with both hands, studying me with those soft brown eyes.

“You’re still you,” he said.

“Fuck me,” I whispered in his ear.  “Please.”

He rolled me over and gave my ass a long squeeze.  My cock got hard as he buried his face between my cheeks, darting his tongue inside me.  I felt myself open up easily, ready to take my lover again.

“That’s right baby,” he moaned.  His cock was slipping between my cheeks, pushing into me inch by inch.  It made my toes curl.  Even my simple thoughts devolved into static.

It felt like forever, him moving his hips, pounding my ass while I shuddered with job.  After a long while I felt his cock jerk inside of me, pulsing as it filled me with cum.  I soaked his sheets with jizz.

Then I held him there, forehead to forehead, and the laughter quieted into something gentler.

“I love you,” I said.

Freddy’s whole face opened.

“I love you too,” he said.

Later I lay against Freddy with the sheets around our waists and his arm across my chest. The city hummed below us. Somewhere downstairs, the bass beat on like a second heart.

Freddy kissed my shoulder, lazy and affectionate. “You know,” he said, half asleep, “we’re gonna look insanely hot together at work.”

I stared at the ceiling a moment, then laughed into the dark.

----------

I debuted two nights later.

Billy picked my outfit himself — black leather shorts cut scandalously high, a cropped mesh top that showed off my chest, and boots that made my legs look even more obscene. Nathan kept circling me with the eye of a sculptor admiring his own work.

“You were wasted in low light,” he said. “You need a spotlight.”

Freddy leaned in the dressing room doorway with his arms folded.

“You’re gonna kill out there,” he said.

The bass from the club travelled through the floorboards and into my bones. I felt the beat in my chest. Ten years ago, I would’ve been terrified.  Not now.  That’s not who I am anymore.

The club opened below me in a wash of red and blue light. Men leaned over little round tables nursing expensive drinks. Everybody looked up when I stepped onto the stage.

I moved without thinking. Maybe the machine had left something behind in my muscles, or maybe there had always been some buried animal in me waiting for permission. I rolled my hips, dragged a hand over my chest, and turned slow around the pole with a natural grin.

The crowd went wild.

Bills started raining onto the stage. Somebody shouted, “Jesus Christ,” like a prayer. The lights were hot on my skin.

At the edge of the stage, Freddy stood watching me with that soft, dazzled look.

Case closed.