Both of us spun to the cube. I doubted my ears: a rasp scraped from vocal cords unused for years.
More frightening than the voice was the face: sharp cheekbones, blood-drained skin, eyes black as night—and a smile that promised horrors.
The doctor's baton slipped from limp fingers.
I gasped, "Y-you spoke!"
Ashur dipped his head once.
"H-how?" the doctor croaked, mouth hanging open.
Ashur ignored him, eyes fixed on me, that wicked grin widening.
"B-because," he rasped, "I f-found a n-new t-toy to p-play with."
I froze where I stood, staring at him.
Ashur suddenly cocked his head, pinning the doctor with a dangerously direct gaze.
His eyes were twin black holes, ready to swallow a man's soul.
His voice came out cold, commanding:
"Only... talk... to the... girl."
The doctor swung his incredulous eyes to me.
I straightened despite the pain.
He looked back at Ashur, stunned—uncertain whether to be thrilled or furious. After all, he'd waited years for this moment and had no idea a Rose code had unlocked the man.
Excitement flickered across his face. Finally he growled, voice low:
"Wait outside."
He strode over, seized my arm—not gently—and bent to hiss in my ear:
"I don't know how you did that, but you'd better keep him talking. Turn this to your advantage—or else..."
His hot breath scorched my skin. He let go, spun away, and left, clearly rattled.
I smoothed my hair, stomach hollow with hunger and dread, and faced the glass.
Ashur lifted his head—slow as a serpent. Every movement looked pre-calculated.
I cleared my throat.
"Seems you'll need some speech therapy. Years of silence gave you a stutter."
He smirked, eyes narrowing.
"G... gonna give a s-speech?"
"No."
"Th... then no need t-to t-train my tongue."
I almost admired—and hated—him at once. This mission had just cost me the person dearest to me.
Arms folded, I studied him.
"I wondered how you survived five years of physical and mental torture. Anyone else would've gone insane."
His stare pinned me; the icy glint froze me in place.
"Hm... Who s-said I'm not i-insane?"
I clenched my fists.
"So tell me—how many have you killed for your organization? They don't hand out those scary nicknames for nothing, do they?"
He looked through half-lidded eyes, voice slow and broken:
"D-do you c-count the s-stars in the sky?"
He smiled cruelly.
"I d-don't count c-corpses."
I blinked—so the tally was endless? He was far more complex than I'd guessed.
I leaned closer to the glass.
"When they killed your mother in front of you—didn't it hurt? You're the reason she died."
No flicker of emotion. His eyes were those same black pits—like the bunker cells I'd spent nights in as a child, convulsing with fear.
He blinked calmly and whispered:
"Mother... a k-kind, s-selfless, l-loving w-woman... r-right?"
He smiled.
"When will p-people drop s-such s-stupid ideas?
That woman was a t-tool to b-bring me into the w-world... a m-machine."
I stared, speechless.
"She s-sold me! Had a c-ontract with Rose—just l-ent her w-omb for n-ine months to c-arry an o-wnerless fetus... then l-eft me."
A slow grin stretched over his lips.
"They d-id me a f-avor k-illing her."
He chuckled, low and rough.
"Any m-more q-questions?"
He leaned so close his breath fogged the glass; he licked a clear patch and murmured, taunting:
"B-because... w-when you a-ask q-questions... you g-get even p-prettier."
Honestly?
I wanted to wrap my hands around his throat and choke the life out of him.
This depth of madness was unreal. A moment ago I'd believed I was the one who controlled every nerve and emotion—beside him, I felt like a sentimental child.