The first sense that trickles back into my body is taste. Bitter, acidic, corrosive. My tongue tries to shove it out, rolling clumsily in my mouth as a groan claws its way up my throat. It’s the taste of betrayal fused with pain.
Then, a moment later, two more senses creep in with my next inhale, dragging stale oxygen into my lungs.
Smell and hearing. I wince as they slam into me—an assault of cheap, overpowering cologne tangled with the sharp sting of medication. Muffled voices seep into my ears, their tones so grating they scrape across my mind like a fork dragged over an empty plate.
Slowly, cautiously, I crack my eyes open. I squint hard, turning my face away as artificial light spears directly into them,its brightness adding to the swell of overwhelm crashing through me.
With more care, I try again. Blissful numbness keeps my body sunk in stillness, but my consciousness is clawing its way upward, whispering warnings that pile up, overlapping, insistent.
Something is wrong.
I blink, trying to clear the blur clinging to the edges of my vision. A chill ripples through me when a shadow drags itself into shape. A man. Leaning in, studying me.
“She’s awake,” he murmurs.
Whatever I’m lying on shudders, and so does my body. Only then do I register the vibration beneath me, the soft hum of an engine. I’m in a moving vehicle.
A heavy exhale comes from the opposite side. “You think we should give her another dose?”
Panic cracks through the numbness like lightning through glass. I flex my fingers, my feet, testing what parts of me I still command, gathering whatever scraps of control I can.
“I think it’s fine,” someone replies. “We’re almost there. We need her awake.”
Memory fragments begin crawling back, disjointed at first, then stitching themselves into shape. Flashes hit me—my files scattered across a table, a map with a red pin stabbed through my photo, Dante’s terrified eyes.
The recollection hits hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs, and a sob claws up my throat, nearly tearing free. A single tear escapes, slipping past my lashes as my lip trembles uncontrollably.
Like the flickering lights in that strobe-light room we visited, the images blink in and out. Then, anger surges through the cracks.
This is his fault. All of it. He ruined everything, and now I’m paying for it.
I’m in a car with people who kidnapped me, and I don’t know who the fuck they are. The Order? Dante’s enemies? His betrayers? My mind leaps to what he said—that someone has turned against him. Is he even looking for me?
The last thought sparks another memory, one that makes me flinch.
I stabbed him. Even if he wants to find me, he can’t.
Heat rises slowly through my veins, licking up my throat until it forces out another quiet, furious sob.
Fuck him. I’ll get out of this myself. I always do. I’ve survived worse. I just need a plan, and I need it now.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes, blurring the world for a heartbeat. I blink them away, irritated at myself. Anger burns through me in violent waves, yet beneath it, the hollow in my chest yawns wider—a silent void that whistles with a pain growing sharper by the second.
But pain has always been my ally. I was shaped in it, raised inside it. Without it, I wouldn’t be what I am. I just need time to rearrange it, to mold it back into something useful. Something strong enough to hold me upright again.
“Goddamn, I can’t believe we have her,” one of the men says, a dry, disbelieving laugh scraping out of him. “It’s a fucking Christmas miracle.”
A muscle jumps beneath my eye. The anger coils, spiraling into something colder, more precise. They talk about me like I’m some rare toy they could never win—limited stock, impossible prize—and now I’m finally theirs.
But their words also remind me of the truth beneath their idiocy. I’m not just anyone. I’m The Order’s greatest assassin, their most valuable asset, their masterpiece of blood and control. I never treated it like a job; I lived it like a religion.
A spark flickers in my mind, cutting through the helplessness like a blade through fabric. I lick my dry lips and shift slightly in place, just enough to draw their eyes. As expected, they snap their attention to me instantly, puppets tugged by invisible strings.
My gaze drifts lazily between them, and I exaggerate the sluggishness in my movements, feigning a level of sedation that isn’t quite real.
Now that they’re close enough, their features come into clarity. Both in their forties, stubble scattered across their jaws, military cuts, rough skin. One with hair black as soot, the other a ginger whose freckles vanish beneath the dim light. Their eyes gleam with excitement, like this is the highlight of their pathetic careers.
They wear black uniforms with Glocks that sit tucked in their waistbands.
