The doctor's voice rings through the hall.
"Told you—she's one of us."
I can't take my eyes off Steven's body.
Those brown lashes—so long I'd always wondered how they could be real.
The burn scar on his neck...
I had just fired at the man who once threw himself between me and death.
I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself
I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself
I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself
I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself
I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself
I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself
I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself
I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself
I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself
I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself
I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself
I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself
I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself
I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself
I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself.I hate myself
I've killed my dearest friend. The blood in my veins feels like venom; I'm poisoned down to the marrow. A crazed smile stretches across my lips.
I spin on my heel. Patrick is studying me, squinting.
Whom should I shoot first? Patrick? The doctor? ...Or myself?
Something he sees in my stare fades his grin.
I turn back to the doctor—smug, bright-eyed. Inside I'm ash, but I keep the smile.
"I'd give my life for this organization," I say.
"Just as easily as I take lives—or save them."
His lips curl wider; he rakes his gaze over me.
"That's exactly what I wanted to hear."
He pats Patrick's shoulder. "Told you I was right."
Patrick only glowers, soaked in doubt.
I clasp my hands behind me, nails digging into palms to hold the mask in place.
"I trust you can trust me now."
"Indeed."
The doctor heads for the door. "See you in an hour."
He steps right over Steven's corpse; each footfall leaves a red print on the pristine tiles. My gaze follows the trail, breathing ragged. The door closes. Fever seems to burn beneath my skin.
Patrick moves closer, whispering in my ear,
"Play all the roles you like—I don't buy it."
Sweat beads along my temple. I burn.
Staring at the blood trail, I bare my teeth in a grin more devil than human.
"One day," I whisper, eyes locking on his, "I'll remind you of those words... And by the way—sharp eyes are useful."
Still smiling, I turn, stride past Steven. I don't even have the luxury to bend and close his half-open eyes. My spirit snags on him while my body walks out.
Straight-backed, under every camera, I reach the lift and ride to my quarters. Inside, trembling hands tap the card, door shuts.
I'm panting. The cup by the sink isn't tilted anymore. The closet I left open is now shut. They've been here. Watching.
I sit on the bed, unzip the yellow suit, lie down in tank and briefs, stare at the ceiling.
Have you ever cried with dry eyes, sobbed without moving your lips?
That night I screamed—but no one heard. I pictured a room without cameras, a room where I could howl, where there were no guards, no batons—only Steven in my arms, his body cooling.
My lashes dampen; silent tears flow inside.
But the cameras see only a calm girl who completed her task and went to sleep.
No one knows the hell raging beneath that still surface.Only one thought soothes me:
revenge.