I could hand this off to Jason—give him the script, the questions, the pressure, the final cut. But I don’t trust him to close it out. I can’t give it to Lucia either; this placegives her the creeps, as she always liked to say.
The endgame has always been mine. Not because I’m a nutjob who gets off on killing people, but because I prefer the burden. I’d rather carry the worst part alone. It doesn’t make me noble; it makes the logistics easier for everyone else. It keeps their hands cleaner. It keeps the team moving.
I let him stew longer, watching the way his chest rises and falls, the way his eyes lose focus and then sharpen on nothing. Psychological collapse isn’t immediate—it creeps and crawls. And it’s that crawling that makes people trade secrets for the smallest scrap of comfort.
“Where is Ezra Thompson?” I ask, doing my best to keep my voice steady. The white lamp above the cage drills into my skull, its merciless glare pounding in rhythm with my heartbeat.
Scott’s eyes lift to mine. His face is drained of color, skin pulled tight over sharp bones, as if fear itself has hollowed him out. Something flickers in his gaze—a flash of defiance, a tremor of fear, the instinctive spark a trapped animal gives just beforethe fight leaves its body. I try to read it, pin it down, but my vision wavers.
The world tilts at the edges, blurring into a smear of glass and light. Exhaustion rolls through me in slow, punishing waves, crashing hard, slipping back, then crashing even harder. Each impact drains something vital, stripping away another layer of focus, composure, and patience. It feels like standing knee-deep in a tide that keeps pulling, dragging, demanding something I no longer have the energy to give.
And still, I hold his stare, waiting for the wave to recede enough for me to breathe again.
I try to redirect my thoughts, to reach for something steady—anything that might anchor me before the exhaustion drags me under. The reward, I remind myself.
I rebuild it in my mind piece by piece: a bath steaming in a dim hotel bathroom, porcelain glowing under soft light; a bed with sheets that swallow you whole; a vinyl record spinning slowly in the background, its crackle soft as breath; one of Estella’s trip-hop tracks filling the room in pulses; her voice slipping through the air like smoke, threading under my skin, wrapping around places in me that haven’t known warmth in years…
My eyes snap open. A chill splits down my spine, sharp as a needle, and goosebumps rise in its wake like a second skin. My breath stutters and quickens. The fatigue that was dragging me under a moment ago vanishes instantly, burned away like mist under a sudden sun.
What the fuck was that?
Why did my mind dragherinto this place, into this moment?
I slap my cheek lightly, more to jolt myself back into reality than to feel pain, and shake my head hard.
It’s nothing, I tell myself. Stress. Too much work. Too little sleep.
But her soft, lethal voice won’t let go. It slips beneath my skin, deeper and deeper, blooming through my veins like a drug meant to ruin. And for a moment, I hear her in the basement’s corners, her whisper weaving through the lamp’s electric hum.
Thin. Ghostlike.
Impossible to silence.
What would she do if she were here?
Maybe she’d drive a blade just deep enough to make him scream but not die. Maybe she’d put on one of her masks and turn the moment into theater. Or maybe she’d take his hand, give him that unreadable smile, and lead him straight into the fog of her own making.
“Did you fucking hear what I said?!” Scott’s voice tears through the haze, and I blink, attempting to focus. He’s as close as he can get now, with the glass between us gleaming like ice. His breath fogs the barrier, his eyes gleaming with a wide, furious, desperate glimmer.
“Yes,” I answer, nodding slowly. “I heard you, Scott. But do you know what I believe in?”
He frowns—not in defiance, but confusion. My calm tone catches him off guard.
“I believe you’re just a man caught in the crossfire,” I say evenly. “All I need is information about Ezra. You tell me where he is, and you walk out of here.” I tilt my head slightly, studying him. “You’re twenty-two, right? A kid trying to keep his family afloat.”
He freezes. A lock of hair falls into his eyes, but he doesn’t even flinch to move it away. I’ve memorized his file, but it’s better when the truth sounds a bit like intuition.
“So young,” I murmur, softening my voice, lacing it with feigned sympathy. “So desperate. You didn’t mean to get yourself tangled in this kind of shit, did you? You were just trying to help.”
He snorts. “Oh, so now you know how I feel? Spare me the fucking bullshit.”
“Idoknow,” I press, letting the words hang for a moment. “How do you think I ended up here, Scott? Sick mother, just like yours. Drowning in debt. No way out, not enough money, and no one giving a single fuck.”
Something sparks in his eyes—this time, a fragile glint of soft emotion cutting through the panic. His gaze wavers, lashes quivering like delicate wings.
Pain lingers there. Recognition. A thin, trembling thread of connection, the one I’ve been waiting for, weaving its way through the chaos of fear.
The reflection.We’re the same.
