Aequitas

Rumours insist Lazarus is self-created, a mercenary who made good deals with rare objects and provided protection until his reputation—and pocketbook—enabled him to go legit. Known for being cutthroat, ruthless, and unforgiving of those who betray him, Lazarus is, paradoxically, also known for his honesty and strength of character. The word “honourable” is used ad nauseam. Those he employs do not speak out of turn, and they are ridiculously loyal. Some say it is because those he surrounds himself with are people he’s helped, although this is hearsay and not something easily demonstrable. Only one consensus appears to exist about Cian Lazarus Ahearn: he is someone with whom one does not fuck.

“Hoser,” she added.

Because it had to be him. Had to.

Didn’t it?

The one who’d appeared out of nowhere, like a ghost solidifying from mist. The one who’d arrived one day, his words a shocking trespass as they’d scrolled across one of her flat screens.

I know who you are.

She hadn’t responded. Not at first. No, she’d destroyed her equipment and re-routed her connections. She’d told herself it was inevitable, that she’d known someone would find her eventually, and she’d rebuilt her security.

And then it happened again. And again. So often, she came to know he would be there, no matter what she did, no matter how deeply she hid, no matter how far she fled, which was infuriating.

And terrifying.

Because he stalked her with devastating skill, relentless and unwavering. He repeatedly infiltrated her security, finding her even when she was nothing more than a faint curl of smoke, the tiniest digital signature. He signed himself Lazarus, and he came and went like the ghost he resembled, and he drove her batshit crazy with his unwavering and—damn him—incredibly expert persistence.

He talked to her, and his words were familiar—as though they were friends, as though he knew her.