My heart dropped with a hard thud. I could feel Patrick's fear bleeding into me.
Ashur took another step.
Patrick jammed the gun harder into my temple and yelled, "Don't come closer!"
My shaky gaze stayed on Ashur—and only then did I realize how much time we'd burned. Red Ward reinforcements would hit the lab any second.
"The agents are coming… we have to—"
Patrick crushed his arm tighter around my throat, cutting me off. I stared at Ashur through pain, face twisted, and he suddenly locked on my eyes and said, clear as a blade:
"Base Drill Seven. Camp D… two thirty-f… four."
I froze, pupils fixed on his. The drill snapped back into place: we slammed our heads into stone without flinching—kept going until the blood ran.
That's when I noticed his empty hands. No gun. No clean shot at saving me—
unless…
In a single snap motion, I smashed the back of my skull into Patrick's face. He staggered, balance broken, just far enough—
—for Ashur's fist to crash into him.
Patrick face-planted on the floor.
The door banged open; four red-clad men surged in. Ashur met them head-on. Patrick groaned, clutching his face, and pushed himself up. I clawed backward, fingers dragging at my wounded leg.
I scanned the room—there, the doctor sprawled unconscious, a gun on the floor beside him. I lunged—
Patrick's boot slammed into the back of my leg. I dropped to my knees; my fingers clipped the weapon, sending it skittering several meters across the tiles.
I bared my teeth, spun on him, and drove my good leg into his face.
He grabbed his bleeding nose with a snarl—then wrapped a hand around my thigh and jammed a finger into the bullet wound.
My vision went black for a beat. I dropped onto my side, fists clenching.
I was furious. Spent. Packed with hate. Brimming with manic energy.
Patrick clawed his way on top of me, straddling my hips, breath ragged. I was pinned. Both his hands cinched tight around my throat. Blood leaked from his nose and mouth; his nose was smashed and purple.
Fire burned in his eyes; his face trembled with rage and spite. His grip crushed my windpipe. His features blurred.
I hammered weakly at his chest with numb, clenched fists, but he only smiled—mean, victorious—and squeezed harder.
I flicked my gaze to the left. Everything smeared, but I caught Ashur's tall shadow—fighting three men at once. I knew no one had permission to fire and the new units hadn't been issued guns… but why wasn't Ashur grabbing the fallen guards' weapons to gun the rest down?
He didn't look like he had a second to spare for me anyway. He couldn't help me now. I was alone. Like always.
Alone in the womb.
Alone in my midnight sobs.
Steven's face flashed—offering me a mug of hot chocolate, that gentle smile. That strange feeling of being important. I hadn't always been alone; with him, the loneliness vanished.
A tear slid from the corner of my eye. I realized I hadn't drawn a breath in a while.
I blinked; the shadows cleared to Patrick's hateful face. He didn't care whether I lived or died—only that he killed me so easily before I slipped away. Veins stood out in his neck; his hands tightened and tightened.
I stared into his eyes and saw myself—small, pathetic, nothing. He was going to kill me easy, and I was going to watch it happen inside those eyes?
His bruised lips moved. "Say hello to your friend in hell."
I stared back—and saw not myself but Steven's last moments. These same vile eyes had watched him die.
I stopped struggling. My hands fell. I just looked, blinking in disbelief—until Patrick's face dissolved and I saw Steven's sky-blue eyes instead, his features barely recognizable beneath the wounds. Those eyes blinked once, calm, in assent—right before the shot. He wasn't weak. He wasn't pitiful or afraid. He was brave to the end. And I killed him—because he asked me to.
And me? I was dying under Patrick's hands—the bastard who murdered Steven.
A surge lit my veins. I lifted my hands and poured everything into them. My heart beat in my palms; everything I was funneled there.
Steven's image slid away. Patrick's hateful face filled my world. I drove both thumbs into his eyes.
I'd been without air for two minutes. I could hold for four.
Two minutes to take his eyes—would that be enough? Then I could die content.