"Get out of my head," I hiss through gritted teeth.
CRASH.
The door explodes inward.
It’s not just opened; it’s demolished. Splinters the size of daggers fly across the room. A dark shape fills the broken frame—a Hunter in full tactical gear, gas mask on, rifle raised.
I don't have time to think; the survivor takes the wheel.
I rack the shotgun.Clack-clack.
I pull the trigger.
BOOM.
The recoil kicks hard against my shoulder, bruising the bone, but the result is absolute. The spray of buckshot catches the Hunter in the chest plate. His armor shatters. He flies backward off the porch as if yanked by a cable, disappearing into the night.
"Target neutralized," I pant, the smell of gunpowder filling my nose.
I scramble to pump the slide again, my hands slick with sweat.
A second shadow dives through the ruined doorway before the shell ejects.
He’s faster. He’s bigger. He hits me low, tackling me to the floor with the force of a falling tree. The shotgun skitters away, sliding under the table, out of reach.
I hit the wood hard, my breath leaving in awhoosh. Stars explode in my vision.
The Hunter is on top of me instantly. He’s heavy, smelling of stale tobacco, unwashed sweat, and fear. He grabs my throat with one hand, pinning me, and reaches for a serrated combat knife on his belt with the other.
"Got you, bitch," he grunts, his voice muffled by the mask.
He squeezes.
My windpipe compresses. Air cuts off. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
I thrash, bucking my hips, clawing at his arm. It’s like hitting a concrete wall. He’s too heavy. He laughs, a wet, ugly sound, and raises the knife.
"Matilde wants you alive," he sneers, bringing the blade down slowly toward my shoulder. "But she didn't say you had to be in one piece. I’m gonna carve the fight out of you."
Fear flares—white-hot and blinding. But it’s not the freezing panic of a prey animal. It’s the furious, molten panic of a cornered predator.
Something inside me unlocks. A safety valve blows.
Kill him.
The command screams through my nervous system.
My vision shifts. The dim cabin sharpens into high-definition clarity. I can see the scratches on his gas mask lenses. I can see the pulse fluttering wildly in his carotid artery beneath the skin of his neck.
The heat in my blood reaches a flashpoint.
My limbs feel light, charged with a kinetic energy that defies physics. My bones ache, a sharp, growing pain in my fingers.
I reach up and grab his wrist—the one holding my throat.
I squeeze.
Crunch.
