“You know I was a soldier before all this,” Cassian says evenly.
“And I was in a turf gang,” Talon adds with a shrug.
Yeah… I can kind of see how those two facts would make it hard to get a neat little spreadsheet total. Still, they say each kill leaves a mark. That the human brain never really forgets—even if the conscious mind’s a mess, the subconscious keeps score.
“So, no number?” I press anyway. “Not even an estimate?”
Cassian exhales through his nose. “Let’s see. I won’t count my military days. After Sabine’s killer, I went after his accomplice—the bastard who made her kidnapping possible. After that…” His jaw flexes. “I hunted down other killers. Ones I heard about, ones I could find. Probably around a dozen.”
Talon lets out a low whistle, impressed and almost admiring.
“Wow,” he says. “Real nice, Cass.”
My skin prickles at the scope of it. It’s horrifying, and somehow comforting, in a twisted way. Talon claps slowly.
“And you?” I ask, turning to him.
He laces his fingers, tilting his head. “None, actually. After the turf business, I didn’t kill anyone. Not until I met this psycho and the doc, and we formed our little murder club.”
I slow my pace. “Wait—none? At all?”
“Not one.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t some justice crusader back then. Didn’t think about souls or the afterlife or any of that crap. It wasn’t until Cassian started preaching his gospel that I actually thought about the people who died because of me.” His eyes flick toward me, then Cassian. “That’s when it started to make sense.”
Peoplehere are code for Lark and Rhea.
“You got indoctrinated, huh?” I echo, brow lifting.
“That makes my way sound like a cult,” Cassian says dryly.
“It is a cult,” Talon fires back, gesturing loosely between the two of them. “You recruited me with trauma, righteous violence, and speeches about how no one else has the guts to fix things.”
“You were looking for a purpose,” Cassian counters.
“I was,” Talon admits easily. “And it got me here, so I can’t complain, can I?”
He glances at me again. I can’t help but smile. He’s so goddamn unserious.
We move past a row of rusted medical lockers, the floor sloping downward. The hum of the generators fades; even the faint buzzing of the grow lights is gone.
“So if I were to put you in order…” I start, trailing off as the tile gives way to rough concrete. “Cassian’s at the top—by a lot. Nathaniel’s sitting at, what, five? Candy Maker included. And you’re sitting at…?”
“No, no, no,” Talon says, shaking his head. “Cassian’s definitely first, sure. But Nathaniel only killed the guy whomurdered his mother. Everything else, I was part of. Plus, I did my share before the gang even started. I’m taking second place.”
I snort. “It’s not a competition.”
“Of course not.” Talon spreads his hands, the picture of fake innocence. “Just establishing the leaderboard.”
We move deeper into the old radiology wing. The lights here are a sickly yellow, making everything look older than it should. Dust clings to our hair and settles on my hoodie. When Cassian brushes his hand along a locker to steady me, a trail of grime smears across his palm.
“Guess cleaning day never made it down here?” I ask.
“Never saw the point,” Cassian says without looking back.
“Why radiology?” I ask as we pass a row of faded warning signs—CAUTION: RADIOACTIVE MATERIALS—their paint flaking like dried scabs.
Talon tilts his head toward them with something almost like reverence. “Lead walls. Lead floors. Keeps things contained. And nobody else comes this way.”
A single fluorescent tube flickers above us, then steadies. For a moment, I see Nathaniel and Mark, images flashing behind my eyes like a TV switching channels.
