An audience sat behind the portion we could see, but the camera never panned over them. We only knew they existed from the chantedAll hail the Commanderthat accompanied every execution.
Lucas approached the podium dressed in military finery, as if this was something to be celebrated. His unsmiling face peered at the camera, a mask of ice as he read the verbiage of the executive order that forced him to do this.
To me, the tightness of his mouth and tension in his body were obvious signs of his discomposure, but the people around me disparaged him, told stories of times they’d witnessed him on missions.
“…kills without mercy…”
“…soulless…”
“…cold-blooded…”
“…inhuman…”
Lucas’s calculated ability to steal life with minimal effort had garnered him a reputation of detached viciousness.
“Iced bloodlust,” Tekqua had once whispered when his silver scalpel ended yet another dozen lives. As I watched him walk offscreen that day, not a speck of blood marring his skin, I couldn’t help but agree. The man was nothing but ice and blood.
Now, I knew those eyes, that face—scorched with grief.
Not cold-blooded, after all.
Lucas’s voice whispered through my head.When I close my eyes, I hear voices begging me not to kill them.
The man was a chameleon, able to wear whatever skin he needed to survive in the moment. I turned away as he stepped toward the condemned, the scalpel already in hand, unable to watch him do it.
At the Evanston house that night, I’d barely stepped inside when the color of his eyes caught my attention, gleaming like polished aquamarine. He stood in the middle of the living room, skin ashen, his movements slow and hesitant, like he thought I might be afraid.
Should I have been afraid?
He was dangerous. He’d ended lives not three hours ago. But he stood still, holding himself back, his hands useless at his sides.
No fear surfaced.
Instead, I forced a smile. “I’ve been told remorse is a sign of a healthy mind.”
“Yeah? Who said that?” His voice was different. Strained.
I took a few steps closer. “My father.”
“And where is your father, Sophia? Why didn’t he keep you from running into the house of a murderer?”
A silence passed. “He died trying to cross the Ohio River.”
Lucas’s throat bobbed.
“As did my mother.”
He studied me a moment. “What else did your father say?”
“When you’re faced with a choice between two bad options, you can only choose the better one. Remorse is a sign you understand there’s a wider context to your decisions than the obvious right or wrong.”
His face drained of color. “Are—are you trying toabsolveme, Sophia?”
“I could see you didn’t want to do it. I can see the pain on your face now.”
He shook his head. “You’re reading into things.”
I’d considered that. All afternoon I’d argued I was excusing his actions to make my time with him more palatable, but my instincts told me otherwise. I took another step closer. “It wasn’t your turn. Why’d they make you do it?”
