I forced my pulse into the cadence we'd been drilled on for years—master even the beat of your own heart.
"We've sniffed out plenty of rats in this outfit," the doctor said, strolling toward Steven.
I ground my teeth, refusing even to breathe through my mouth. Patrick's narrow stare never left me.
"But this rat—" he yanked a fistful of Steven's blond hair, the hair I loved—"this one was almost the craftiest of them all."
Thump-thump-thump.
Thump-thump-thump.
Thump-thump-thump.
Deep breath. The doctor's voice drummed inside my skull:
"Smart enough to climb all the way to my admin slot."
Steven's eyes met mine—exhausted, but when was he ever allowed to be tired? Those blue oceans looked like a dying sunset.
I flicked my gaze around: cameras, doctor, Patrick, three guards at the door. I could drop them all, cut Steven free—then what? His ankle was mangled, ribs probably cracked, spine bowed; he couldn't stand, let alone run.
Our eyes locked—he read my thought and flashed the silent warning: Don't. My molars creaked; every bone felt ready to splinter.
"Thanks to Patrick," the doctor went on, smirking as he let Steven's hair fall, "we finally snapped the trap."
Steven's head sagged forward. The doctor fussed with a handkerchief, wiping imaginary dirt from his fingers.
"Took four near-death sessions; he wouldn't squeal. But amber gas loosened his tongue."
Part of Steven's ear was torn; nose broken; wrists bound, nails gone—maybe even fingers.
The doctor stepped to me, calm as ice. I held his gaze.
"I trust you," he said, lowering his voice. His hand settled on my shoulder; he leaned to my ear like the devil itself. "But your admin says otherwise..."
My heart lurched—then I forced it back into rhythm.
I cleared my throat, answered in a steel-edged growl:
"What does he say?"
The doctor blinked at my tone, then sneered.
"He says he suspects you, too—that maybe you're another spy."
My pulse hammered, sweat pasted my shirt to my spine—yet I managed a crooked smile so I wouldn't break. I flashed the admin a quick look; Patrick's ugly face was lit with pleasure, watching me squirm.
I locked eyes with the doctor.
"Did your new prisoner mention my name?"
He flicked a glance at Steven.
"No. He gave none."
A bright grin.
"So we cut out his tongue."
My heart stopped.
Spirit ripped from body, time frozen.
Over the doctor's shoulder I stared at Steven—battered, blood at the corner of split lips, blue eyes heavy with sorrow. I'll never hear that voice again?
–– Four Years Earlier ––
I was on a rooftop, assembling my rifle. Steven's whisper drifted over.
"What are you humming?"
He laughed, still sweeping the street through his scope.
"Just a song."
Loading a round, I smirked. "What song?"
Sunlight made his blond hair look like liquid gold.
"Some Russian singer—you wouldn't know him."
Then, half-dreaming: "If I weren't a spy, maybe I'd be a singer."
I snorted. "Stage concerts and all?"
He grinned, hope sparkling in those eyes.
"Sure. You'd cheer me on."
He sighted in. "Target arriving. Get ready."
I set the bipod on the ledge.
"Ever feel guilty for killing these people?" I asked while tracking the black Benz easing to the curb.
"Never," he said, still humming. "Why?"
"Because they don't die in pain." I fine-tuned the crosshairs.
He chuckled under his breath.
"So if it ever comes to that... I hope it's by your hand, Viuna. At least then, I'll have a souvenir bullet from you—buried right between my eyes."
I pulled the trigger.
****
He stands before me—ruined, silent. Something inside me shatters.
I force my voice steady. "How do I prove myself?"
Patrick lets out a loud sneer. The doctor's lips curl; he removes his hand from my shoulder, steps back, and says—soft as a knife:
"Kill him."
My stomach flipped.
My eyes burned, the way they do when something's caught beneath the lid and you ache to blink—
but I didn't.
They could not see tears.
The doctor's breath brushed my ear.
"Do it. Now."
He stretched a hand back toward Patrick.
The admin drew a side-arm from his belt, laid it in the doctor's palm.
I watched, hollow.
The doctor moved to my shoulder.
I closed my eyes once, opened them, and took the pistol from him.
Why did it feel so heavy—like a ton of iron? Since when had I grown this weak?
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
Through Steven's matted, blood-stiff hair I locked on his eyes.
He blinked—slow, tired.
I studied every inch of his face—hair, sorrow-blue eyes, the bruised line of his lips.
I could shoot them both right now...
Steven's gaze said no, a single silent flutter.
Damn him. Damn us.
He was bleeding inside; he could barely stand. Pain swam in his eyes.
Was he asking me to end it quickly?
How could I?
He was everything—the only person who had ever tried to understand me.
I raised the gun.
Pressed my lips together so no sound would leak.
Scenes reeled past like an award-winning tragedy:
Steven and me in the sparring pit;
Steven smuggling carrot cake from the commander's office, whisper-celebrating my birthday under a bunk by flashlight;
our shadow-puppets dancing on canvas walls while we stifled laughter.
I memorized the way his gaze held mine, so I'd never forget what it felt like. He saw the shake in my hands, the swell of tears. He managed a broken smile, blinked once
His blood-slick fingers twitched an almost invisible sign: do it.
I blinked. The tear stayed caged in my lashes.
He had to die—and the part of me that was still alive would die with him.
I squeezed the trigger.
The shot thundered—but my eyes didn't close.
Blood sheeted from the crown of his head; his body collapsed backward.
Blue eyes—now flat, staring—shone through the curtain of gold hair. A single tear slid from the corner, tracing his cheek.
It felt like suicide.
Killing him was killing myself—ripping off a piece of me with my own teeth—
and bleeding out, slow and silent.