The Lazarus Job

“Help! Fire!”

The scream cut through the evening air, sharp and raw, bouncing off the concrete of the marina. Nobody nearby knew whose voice it was, only that it belonged to someone desperate. A cluster of onlookers froze, their drinks halfway to their lips, their laughter dying in the chill of fear. Flames licked the yacht’s hull, black smoke curling into the crimson sunset, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

Victor Lazarus’ yacht, the Ophelia, a floating palace of polished teak and glass, rocked violently. The fire on the lower deck flared, sparks dancing across the rigging. A few brave hands jumped into the water, pulling at the slick sides, trying to reach the chaos above. Emergency sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, muffled by the cries and the roar of the flames.

Someone shouted, pointing: “The master cabin, he’s inside!”

The crowd flinched. A lifeboat splashed against the hull, its occupants straining against the waves. They reached, and for a heartbeat, it seemed as though Lazarus might be saved. Hands stretched, ropes swung, a body lurched forward, then the yacht shuddered. A sudden, horrific crack, and a part of the deck gave way. Flames erupted like a living thing, and the water below seethed with heat and chaos.

By the time the first emergency responders arrived, the yacht was half submerged, smoke curling into the sky like black ribbons. Fireboats sprayed torrents of water. Shouts mingled with coughing and splashing. But no Lazarus emerged. His attendants, frantic and soaked, combed the wreckage. Nothing.

In the following hours, reporters arrived. Phones captured the smoke-streaked skyline. Helicopters hovered. The name “Victor Lazarus” filled every news ticker, every anxious whisper. By the next day, rumors solidified into headlines: Billionaire Collector Perishes in Yacht Fire.

Five days later, the marina had returned to its quiet hum, the tragedy already becoming background noise. The world had moved on. But somewhere, inside a modest apartment miles away, a man sat in the dim light, alone, drinking from a chipped glass.

Ethan Cross sat in a chair that had long ago stopped being comfortable. His apartment smelled of stale smoke and unwashed dishes, a pungent mix of old liquor, leftover food, and the faint scent of his own neglect. Empty bottles littered the floor; the windows were streaked, the blinds half broken. The world outside moved on, but Ethan had stayed behind, drowning in a life that no longer made sense.

He was a ghost. Once, he’d been a respected FBI agent, his name spoken with a mixture of fear and admiration. Then, a partner he trusted framed him, and everything he’d built crumbled. Every attempt to clear his name had only twisted the knife deeper, turning exoneration into scandal, honor into disgrace.

He rubbed his temples, groaning. The apartment felt heavier today, the air thicker. He poured another drink, staring at the amber liquid as if it might hold answers he didn’t deserve.

The mail arrived just as the evening light was fading. A plain envelope, no return address, neat handwriting. Ethan eyed it suspiciously, letting it sit on the cluttered table while he sipped another drink.

Inside, a folded card. Nothing more than a phone number and the words:

“You’re still breathing. Call this number.”

He frowned, tossing it back onto the table. He didn’t want to get involved. Not with anyone. Not after everything.

But curiosity, buried beneath layers of frustration and alcohol, gnawed at him. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he dialed the number.

The voice that answered was calm, deliberate. “Ethan Cross?”

“Yes.” His voice sounded rough even to his own ears.

“You received the package?”

“I did. Why?” Ethan’s suspicion was thick. “I don’t… I don’t know you.”

A soft pause on the other end. Then:

“You’ve been left with nothing but a world that lied to you. Nine o’clock. This café, the side street off 52nd. That’s all I’ll say for now.”

Ethan hesitated. His thumb lingered over the phone. His gut told him to hang up, to ignore it like he did everything else. But something in the calm certainty of that voice, something unshakable, made him pause. It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t fear. It was… inevitability.

Finally, he said, “Fine. Nine o’clock.”

The café on 52nd was a dim little corner shop tucked between a pawn store and a tailor’s shop, its neon sign buzzing faintly in the night air. By the time Ethan arrived, the streets had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against the ears and made every footstep sound heavier than it should.

He paused outside the glass door, staring at his own reflection. His shirt was wrinkled, collar unbuttoned, jacket thrown over one shoulder. He looked like what he had become, someone who no longer belonged anywhere. For a long moment, he considered turning back.

But the voice from the phone echoed in his head: You’re still breathing.

Ethan sighed, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

The café was almost empty, save for a young couple in the corner, their laughter hushed, and the barista yawning behind the counter. In the back, near the window, a woman sat alone. She had dark hair pulled into a knot, her posture sharp, her eyes already fixed on him as though she had been waiting longer than he had.

“Ethan Cross,” she said quietly when he approached. Her voice was the same calm certainty he had heard over the phone.

Ethan slid into the booth opposite her, his gaze narrowing. “You want to tell me why I’m here? Because right now I’m not seeing a good enough reason.”

Instead of answering, she slid a folded newspaper across the table. The headline glared back at him in bold print:

“Victor Lazarus Presumed Dead in Tragic Yacht Fire.”

Ethan’s brows furrowed as he picked it up. “Lazarus?” He muttered the name like it tasted strange. He read the lines once, twice, his mind snagging on the words as though they couldn’t be real. He leaned back slowly, the paper crinkling in his grip. “How the hell does a man like Lazarus, Victor Lazarus, die like this?”

“You knew him,” she said.

“Knew of him,” Ethan corrected quickly. He rubbed his jaw, thinking. “I worked a case once, his name came up. Nothing that put me close, but I was invited to his gallery a couple times. The man was… untouchable. Controlled everything around him. He wasn’t the type you imagined going down in flames on a yacht.”

Her eyes flickered, sharp with meaning. “And yet, here we are.”

Ethan let out a bitter laugh, setting the paper down. “So? Why drag me here to show me yesterday’s headline? You think I care what happens to the rich? He had more art than God, more money than the system could count, and now he’s gone. That’s life.”

“That’s not life,” she said evenly. She leaned forward, her fingers steepled. “That’s theft. And not the kind that ends with a bank vault.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’re going to have to do better than cryptic metaphors if you want me to stay.”

Her lips curved into the faintest smile, though there was no warmth in it. “I will. But not tonight. Tonight, I want you to understand that Lazarus’s death wasn’t an accident. And that there are people, my people, who know why. People who are planning something. Something you might care to be a part of.”

Ethan shook his head immediately. “No. Whatever this is, I’m not interested. I told you, I don’t know Lazarus, and I’m done sticking my neck out for strangers. I’ve been burned enough.”

She didn’t argue. Instead, she studied him with unnerving patience. Then, very softly, she said, “Think about how you spend your nights. Alone. Drowning in cheap whiskey. Ask yourself if you’re ready to fade out with dust on your furniture, or if you still want to matter.”

Her words cut deeper than he wanted to admit. Ethan’s jaw tightened, his hand balling into a fist on the table. He hated how much truth there was in her voice, how it pried into the cracks he had tried to ignore.

Ethan dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slow through his nose. “You think you can stroll into my life, drop a newspaper on the table, and expect me to jump in line. That’s not how I work.”

The woman didn’t flinch. She stirred the untouched coffee in front of her, watching the swirl as though it carried more weight than his words. “You’re not wrong. But I didn’t bring you here to beg. I brought you here to show you a door. What you do with it is your choice.”

“That supposed to impress me?” Ethan leaned back, arms crossed, his chair creaking under his weight. “Because I’m really not the type that goes chasing mysteries anymore. I’ve had enough of those.”

Her gaze sharpened. “No. You’re the type who used to chase them down, tear them apart, and drag the truth into the light, no matter who it burned. You were relentless, Ethan. You had a name in the Bureau people whispered about.”

His jaw flexed. “What I was.”

“You don’t just stop being that man,” she said, her voice almost a whisper now. “Not because someone fed the press lies. They buried your name, yes, but they didn’t kill you. You’re still breathing. Still here. Which means you’re unfinished.”

Ethan stared at her, the words hitting harder than he wanted them to. He hated the part of himself that recognized truth when it came dressed in conviction.

“Suppose you’re right,” he said slowly, bitterness curling his tongue. “What then? You going to give me a mission? Hand me a gun and a neat little file? Because I’ve seen that movie before. And it doesn’t end well.”

She leaned in, her eyes locked on his. “I’m not here to hand you anything. I’m here to offer you a place among people who know more than the Bureau ever told you. About Lazarus. About the world he touched. About the things that didn’t burn with him on that yacht.”

For the first time, something flickered in Ethan’s expression. Not trust, but curiosity. He masked it quickly, shaking his head. “You’re dancing around whatever it is you want. And I’m not signing on just because you know how to give a speech.”

“Good,” she said simply, sitting back. “I don’t want you to sign on. Not tonight. I want you to leave here and think. Think about what you saw when you looked in that mirror before you came in. Then ask yourself if you’re ready to die with whiskey in your veins, or if you want to matter again.”

The words lodged in his chest like splinters. He wanted to throw them back at her, to laugh, to dismiss it all. But instead, he found himself staring down at the newspaper again, the bold headline glowing under the café’s yellow light.

Victor Lazarus. Presumed Dead.

Something about it gnawed at him.

He pushed the paper aside and stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “You’ve had your say. I’ll think about it. But don’t expect me to come running.”

She didn’t move, didn’t blink. Only nodded once. “Nine times out of ten, Ethan, people run from the truth. It’s the tenth time that changes everything.”

He didn’t answer. He shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets as he left the café behind. The streets were nearly empty, washed in the pale glow of flickering lamps. His footsteps echoed off the cracked pavement, steady but heavy, like he was carrying more than just his own weight.

He lit a cigarette he didn’t even want, inhaling just to fill the silence in his chest. The smoke curled into the night, and for a fleeting second, he thought about going back in, demanding answers, tearing through the vague lines she had dangled in front of him. But instead, he kept walking.

By the time he reached his apartment, the city had gone quiet. He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and was greeted by the stale air he knew too well. The stench of liquor and dust clung to him like a second skin. He tossed his jacket carelessly onto the couch, knocking a bottle to the floor. It rolled under the table with a hollow clink.

He poured himself another drink, downed it in one go, and sank into the same chair he’d been wasting in for months.

The woman’s voice lingered in his head.

Do you want to fade out with dust on your furniture, or do you still want to matter?

He gritted his teeth, grabbed the glass again, and stopped, catching his reflection in the darkened window.

For a moment, he didn’t see himself at all. He saw the man she’d accused him of still being, the man who had once made people whisper his name.

He closed his eyes and leaned back, the room tilting gently around him. Sleep wouldn’t come easy tonight.

And even if it did, he knew the question would still be waiting for him in the morning.