It belongs to the man in the doorway. The man whose chest exploded when I squeezed the trigger.
I squeeze my hands into fists, trying to hide the stain, but I can still feel it. It burns. It feels like branding iron.
"Ivy."
Silas is there. He’s crouching in front of me, blocking out the harsh fluorescent lights of the bunker. He has shed his tactical vest and his rifle. He’s just in his black t-shirt and cargo pants, both stained with grime and other men’s blood.
"Look at me," he commands.
I shake my head. I can't look at him. If I look at him, I have to acknowledge what I did. I have to acknowledge that I am a killer.
"I shot him," I whisper. The words feel jagged in my throat. "I just... I didn't even think. I just saw him and I shot him."
"You survived," Silas says. His voice is hard, stripping away the panic. "He came to kill you. You killed him first. That is the law of nature."
"I’m a murderer."
"No. You are a victor."
He grabs my wrists, forcing my hands open. He looks at the blood on my palm. He doesn't look disgusted. He looks reverent.
"This washes off," he says. "The memory won't. But the blood... we can get rid of that."
He stands up and pulls me to my feet. I stumble, leaning against his solid chest. He wraps an arm around my waist, supporting me completely.
"Come. Let’s get you clean."
He leads me deeper into the bunker.
It’s not just a concrete box. It’s a fully functional apartment, albeit a stark, industrial one. There is a small kitchenette, a living area with a leather sofa, and a wall of monitors that are currently dark.
He guides me into a bathroom. It’s tiled in slate gray, with a large, open shower area.
"Strip," he says.
I stand there, frozen. My fingers feel like clumsy sausages. I can't undo the buttons of the shirt I’m wearing—his shirt, which I stole this morning. It seems like a lifetime ago.
Silas sees my struggle. He brushes my hands aside.
"Let me."
He unbuttons the shirt. He peels it off my shoulders. It falls to the floor with a soft rustle.
I am naked. The platinum anklet on my left leg glints under the bathroom lights, the only thing adorning my body besides the dirt and the guilt.
Silas turns on the water. Steam begins to rise instantly.
He steps in with me, fully clothed.
"Silas, your clothes..."
"Use the soap," he orders, ignoring me. He hands me a bar of white soap that smells of nothing. Clinical.
I try to wash my hands. I scrub at the dried blood on my palm. It flakes off, swirling pink down the drain. But I scrub harder. I feel like it’s seeping into my pores.
"It’s not coming off," I panic, my breathing hitching. "Silas, it’s not coming off!"
He takes the soap from me. He takes my hand.
