Tor's voice cuts through the tension, quiet but commanding.
He's stepped away from the wall, into her line of sight.
His hands are empty, raised slightly, non-threatening.
Solveig's head turns toward him, her brow furrowing. "Who?—"
"Remember me?"
Something shifts in her expression.
Recognition, maybe.
Or the ghost of a memory she can't quite place.
"I knew your mother," Tor continues, his voice eerily calm. "Knew her very well, actually. She used to keep me in a room not unlike this one. Used to visit me at night, when she was feeling lonely." He takes a step closer, and Solveig's grip on the knife falters, just slightly. "She made the same mistake you're making now. Thought she was untouchable. Thought her hatred made her invincible."
"You..." Solveig's voice wavers. "You're one of them. One of her?—"
"One of her victims. Yes." Tor's eyes are hard as flint. "I was twelve years old when she took me. Fourteen when I finallyescaped. And I spent every day in between learning exactly what kind of monster she was." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "You want to talk about suffering? About having your childhood stolen? I wrote the book on that, little girl. And your mother was the author."
Solveig's composure is cracking.
The knife wavers at Dalla's throat, her attention split between Tor and the rest of us.
Her guards are shifting nervously, unsure what to do.
This is the moment.
"She thought she was special too," Tor says softly. "Thought she'd live forever on the blood of innocents. But in the end, she died just like anyone else. Scared and alone and begging for mercy."
Solveig snarls, her focus locked on Tor, the knife pulling slightly away from Dalla's throat as she turns to face this new threat?—
I take the shot.
The bullet hits her square between the eyes.
Her head snaps back, a spray of red misting the air behind her.
The knife slashes across Dalla's throat as Solveig falls—a shallow cut, but enough to spray blood across the floor.
Everything happens at once.
The guards open fire, but our men are already moving.
Gunshots explode through the room, deafening in the enclosed space.
Bodies drop. Someone screams. Glass shatters.
I don't see any of it.
I'm already at Dalla's side, my knife out, sawing through the ropes that bind her to the chair.
She's gasping, her hand pressed against her throat, blood seeping between her fingers.
But she's breathing. She's alive.
"I've got you," I say, and my voice is shaking. My hands are shaking. Everything is shaking. "I've got you, love. You're okay. You're going to be okay."
