Clare’s grip tightened on mine. Anchoring me to the present while I recounted the past.
“I don’t remember much of that period. Strapped to chairs. Electrodes. Chemicals burning through my veins. Daily injections. Electroshock when I resisted.”
Dropped my tone to barely above a whisper.
“You are Blackout. You have no past.”
Clare’s breath hitched. But she didn’t let go.
“I tried to fight it.” The admission tasted like failure. “But the pain... the chemicals... they broke me. Piece by piece. Until there was nothing left but obedience.”
Forced myself to look at her. To see her reaction.
She was crying. Silent tears streaming down her cheeks. But she held my stare. Didn’t look away.
“I killed so many people for them, Clare.”
The statement landed between us like stones dropped in still water.
Clare didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
“I don’t remember all their names. But I remember the kills. Every single one. Following orders without question. Target neutralized. No witnesses. Efficient. Professional. Emotionless.”
My palms wanted to shake. The tremor that had plagued me for weeks wasn’t there anymore, but the urge to tremble, to physically manifest the horror crawling under my skin, was overwhelming.
“I was good at it.” The self-loathing in my words was sharp. “That’s what makes it worse. I didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question. Just executed orders like the perfect weapon Dresner built me to be.”
“Not in war. Not for my country. For Dresner. For Oblivion. For a man who stole my identity and turned me into a monster.”
“You’re not a monster.”
“Fifty-five people would disagree. If they could.”
“They can’t. Because someone stole your choice.” She leaned forward, forcing me to meet her stare. “You didn’t choose this, Xavier. They broke you. Rebuilt you. Used you.”
“My palms. My skills. My training. Their deaths.”
“Their choice to break you. Their choice to condition you. Their choice to use you as a weapon. Not yours.”
Wanted to believe her. Wanted to accept that absolution.
“Does it matter? The dead don’t care who made the choice. They’re still dead.”
Clare didn’t have an answer for that. There wasn’t one.
We sat in silence. Her palm still holding mine. Both of us processing truths too big to fit comfortably in the space between us.
“Who am I now?”
Clare searched my features. “What do you mean?”
“Who I was. Soldier, brother, protector. Who they made me. Assassin, weapon, killer, Blackout.” Gestured vaguely at myself, at the body that remembered how to kill but was trying to learn how to be human again. “Who I am now... I don’t know. Xavier Hale. But which version?”
“The one sitting here. The one who fought the conditioning. Who’s choosing what to do next instead of following orders.”
“What if I can’t separate them? The soldier and the killer? What if they’re the same person and I just didn’t want to see it?”
“Then you don’t separate them.” Clare shifted closer, her free palm coming up to cup my jaw. “You accept both. Soldier who believed in something. Weapon who was used. Man who’s choosing what comes next. All of it. All of you.”
