He studied me in the dim light of the van, and I knew what he saw. Hollow eyes. Hands that shook until I gave themviolence to do. The careful distance I'd been maintaining since the nightmares got worse.
"Bunny—"
"Don't." I checked my weapons for the third time. Knife. Gun. The surgical kit I'd started carrying. "Let's just get this done."
The entry was textbook perfect. We'd gotten good at this dance—Nathan handling electronic security while I dealt with the human element. The first guard went down silent, my knife finding the gap between his vest plates before he could draw breath to scream.
I felt nothing. That was the problem. Each death should have meant something, should have satisfied the hungry thing growing in my chest. Instead, they were just meat. Obstacles between me and answers that never came.
The main floor was a maze of cages. Some empty, some not. The occupied ones held girls in various stages of breaking—bruised, vacant-eyed, past caring who came through the door. They didn't even look up as we passed.
"Get them out," I told Nathan. "I'll handle the office."
"We stick together. That was the rule."
"Rules change." I was already moving. "They need medical attention. Call the cleanup crew."
I heard him curse but didn't stop. The office was up a flight of metal stairs, voices drifting down. Male laughter. The sound of it made something in my brain shift sideways, like a train switching tracks.
Three men inside, playing cards around a desk covered in money and product samples. Pills. Restraints. Photo portfolios of their "inventory." They looked up when I entered, more annoyed than alarmed.
"You're early," one said. "Delivery's not till—"
The knife was in his throat before he finished. Blood sprayed across the poker chips, turning them all the same color. The other two scrambled for weapons, but I was already moving. Already empty. Already gone.
The second man got his gun halfway out before I broke his wrist. The sound was wet, organic. He screamed, and I grabbed a metal folding chair, bringing it down on his face. Once. Twice. The facial bones gave way on the third strike, but I kept going. Four. Five. Six.
"Jesus Christ!" The third man had his hands up, backing toward the window. "Take the money! Take whatever you want!"
"I want names." My voice didn't sound like mine anymore. Too calm. Too flat. "Everyone in your network. Suppliers. Buyers. Everyone."
"I can't—they'll kill me!"
I smiled then, and he flinched. "What do you think I'm doing?"
Nathan appeared in the doorway, took in the scene—me standing over the destroyed face, blood splatter painting the walls, the third man trying to become one with the window glass.
"Bunny." Just my name. Careful. Like talking to a wild animal.
"He was about to give us names," I said conversationally. "Weren't you?"
The man nodded frantically. "Yes! Yes, I'll tell you everything!"
I duct-taped him to the chair, methodical and precise. His eyes darted between me and Nathan, trying to figure out which one might save him. He chose wrong.
"Please," he said to me. "I'm just middle management. I don't make the decisions—"
"Neither did I." I opened the surgical kit, laying out tools in a neat row. "Funny how that works. Following orders. Doing what you're told. Being a good little cog in the machine."
"Bunny," Nathan said again, a warning now.
I ignored him, selecting a scalpel. The man had tattoos up both arms—gang markings, territory claims, little trophies of his rise through the ranks. Skin came off easier than most people thought, if you knew the right angle.
He screamed when I started with the first tattoo. High, breathless. The sound should have bothered me. Instead, it felt like music. Like balance being restored. All those girls who'd screamed in these cages, and now him. Mathematics of suffering.
"Names," I reminded him between cuts.
He gave them. Babbled them between sobs while I worked. Nathan wrote them down, jaw tight. I focused on the task, peeling away his history in strips. Each tattoo a choice he'd made. Each one leading him here.
