"Then that's what we'll do."
We stayed there, two damaged things learning wholeness through each other. In three hours, we'd paint Pier 47 red. But for now, in the morning light with tears drying on my cheeks and choices blooming in my chest, I was just Bunny.
Not his Bunny. Not anyone's.
Mine.
10
Hunters
The salt-rot stench of Pier 47 brought phantom memories: other docks, other kills, other versions of me who thought she knew what control meant. But tonight was different. Tonight I had backup who saw me as more than a weapon.
Nathan moved through shadows beside me, his presence recalibrating my tactical awareness. Solo operations had made me forget what it felt like to trust someone at my six.
"Two guards at the east entrance," he murmured through comms. "One's smoking. Sloppy."
"The smoke break will kill him." I palmed my ceramic knife, its weight familiar as breathing. "West side has a service door. Rusted lock."
"Together or split?"
"Together." The word tasted strange. Gabriel would have sent me in alone, watched through scopes while I painted walls red. "I'll take point."
"Copy that."
We moved like water finding cracks, silent across rotting wood and broken concrete. The warehouse squatted against the harbor like a cancer, its windows painted black, industrial fans grinding to mask whatever sounds bled from inside.
The smoking guard never saw me coming. My hand covered his mouth as the blade found the sweet spot between C3 and C4 vertebrae, severing his spine with surgical precision. Nathan caught the body before it hit ground, lowering it into shadow while I wiped blood from my fingers.
"Clean," he said, and something in his voice made my chest tight. Not disgust or fear. Appreciation.
The service door's lock crumbled under my picks, rust flaking like old blood. Inside, the warehouse revealed itself in layers: shipping containers stacked like children's blocks, the copper tang of fear-sweat, and underneath—antiseptic and latex. Medical smells that made my shoulders lock.
"Laboratory setup in the northwest corner," Nathan breathed. "Three heat signatures in the containers."
The women. Inventory. Product. The words cycled through my mind in voices that weren't mine.
"Guards?"
"Six that I count. Plus whatever's in the office up top."
Dmitri Volkov. The name tasted like battery acid. Gabriel's old contact, the one who'd brokered deals for bodies for Institute experiments, the one who ran the transport system for the Institute and the buyer. He'd know. He'd have answers.
"I need five minutes with Volkov," I said.
"Understood."
We split without discussion, Nathan heading for the containers while I ghosted toward the metal stairs. Two guards flanked the office door—Bratva tattoos visible at their throats, prison ink and bad decisions.
I let them see me. Sometimes visibility was its own weapon.
"Chto za khuy?" What the fuck—the taller one reached for his gun.
I smiled, the expression I'd practiced in mirrors until it could stop hearts. "Dmitri will want to see me. Tell him Bunny's here."
Recognition flickered. Every Russian who'd worked with Gabriel knew that name, knew what it meant when his rabbit came calling. The shorter guard's hand trembled as he reached for the door.
"Boss—"
