“They ran a private research clinic. One of those high-end, cutting-edge institutions where the rich go to buy miracles.” He scoffs. “Except their miracles weren’t miracles at all. Just experiments. The kind that didn’t care if their subjects survived. Quite similar to what was happening here, ironically.”
“Is that how you know what happened here? You worked there?”
“Not for long,” he replies. “I was young. Talented. Thought I was saving lives.” His fingers flex against his knee. “Until I realized how many we were taking instead. I left and went to work for them.”
Well. Damn.
I swallow hard.
“What kind of experiments were they doing?”
His eyes narrow.
“The kind you don’t get consent for.”
For the first time, something cracks through that perfectly smooth, well-practiced voice. Something simmering, buried deep.
Rage.
It’s old and well hidden. A quiet, lethal kind of fury that has long since burned away the need for dramatic outbursts or reckless vengeance. It's the kind of anger that molds a person into a monster.
“I've killed before, too,” I say. It’s one of those things I don’t really want to share, but I do anyway.
His eyes widen, and his pretty lips part in surprise.
“Really?” He leans back in his seat, a little stunned. “You don’t seem like the type.”
Maybe I don’t. Maybe the universe doesn’t even see me that way. But it happened. I killed a man with my own two hands.
I rest my hands on my knees and lower my head to scrutinize them. My skin is pallid and clean, not bloodied like it was back then. But I can still recall the sensation of blood on them. It was warm and sticky, the scent metallic, cloying in the air.
My ex-husband buried me with that blood still on my hands. He let that little vestige of my sin follow me, decompose with me, as though it had seared itself into my very being, as though absolution was beyond my reach.
The heavens disagreed.
Probably that’s why I don’t have it on me still.
“It was self-defense,” I mutter, the words sour on my tongue. “Apparently the universe likes to make people die like this—using the hands of other mortals to uphold its precious equilibrium.”
Nathaniel hums. “Isn’t that just convenient for them?”
“I know, right?”
He tilts his head, watching me. “Do you regret it?”
I inhale slowly, letting the question sit. Regret is complicated. Should I regret it? Maybe. Probably. But the truth is…
“No.”
Something shifts in his face, a flicker of understanding—or maybe approval. He doesn’t pry for details. Maybe he already knows that some things are best left unspoken.
Instead, he leans forward just a little, resting his forearms on his knees, his fingers loosely tangled together. “Then you get it.”
“Yeah. I think I do.” I nod. “I'm still with you guys, right?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s fighting off a smirk.Another one. And I know what he’s thinking—that in the end, I don’t really have a choice. That if I tried to leave, they’d just whisper into my skull again and drag me back like some cursed stray.
But I wonder if he underestimates just how deeply petty a Grim Reaper can be. If I really wanted to be rid of them, I’dsink into the earth, lingering just out of reach—close enough to haunt but never close enough to be useful. I could knock over their cups, whisper nonsense in their ears at night, move their weapons just slightly to the left so they miss every throw. I could be unbearable. And if I truly wanted to be left alone, I would’ve done it already.
