"Kill me,"
Brianna tilted her head back, speaking to the dark muzzle of the gun Morando was aiming at her. She was sitting on the very sofa she and Morando had picked out together.
"At least if you kill me, I won't be decomposed by the Nest. I won't give birth to its residents."
Morando lowered the gun for the second time, then raised it for the third.
She was a shooter famous for her calm, steady, and precise hands. Brianna had never seen the gun in them tremble like this.
By then, their conversation—the arguments, the crying—had already gone on for over an hour. The future felt like the sky outside the window: pitch-black, with no sign of dawn.
"I really am Brianna," she said, lowering her head.
"...Impossible," Morando said, her voice pleading as she covered her face with her free hand. "Tell me the truth. What did you do to her?"
There were a thousand pieces of evidence to prove she was Brianna.
