Footsteps echo from around the corner, and I press myself against the wall in an attempt to appear as nonchalant as an Enforcer standing next to a prison can be.
Two men appear, deep in conversation. They barely glance at me as they pass, assuming I’m just another recruit on assignment. Once they’re gone, I approach the keypad, fingers hovering over the numbers.
This is so risky. If I’m caught, it’s not just me who pays the price. My family will be discovered. Mother will be sent back to a facility. Father and brother will be executed. All because I couldn’t stand by and do nothing this one time.
But if I do nothing, I’m complicit. I become the exact thing I’m pretending to be.
Rolling to the tips of my feet, I peer through the cracked window on the door. It’s a small antechamber with another door at the far end, likely leading to the cells themselves. A desk sits to one side, currently unmanned. On it, a tablet displays orders, luckily close enough that I can make out letters if I squint.
SUBJECT W-7249
DESTINATION: RIVERTON
DEPARTURE: 0400 HOURS
Dawn. They’re moving her at dawn.
Voices emerge at the whirring of elevator doors—I need to leave. Scanning frantically, I slip into the closest room, knowing I won’t make it to the stairwell before the men catch me. Their footsteps grow louder before fading a minute later. Once they’re gone, I exhale a ragged breath, my back sliding against the wall to the floor.
It’s only now that I can’t stop the emotions from tormenting my body. Grief, rage, shame. They twist together inside me, toxic in their nature.
Those men didn’t deserve to die; they were merely trying to protect someone they loved. Their only crime was basic human decency—something so rare in this world that it’s punishable by death.
And Mira…
Tears slip free and coat my cheeks. Men own her body once again and will use it for pleasure and breeding. She’ll never have another say or choice, never experience the freedom of smiling or sleeping in a bed where she feels safe.
I scramble to my hands and knees, rushing to a far corner of the room as I shove my mask off and retch repeatedly. Nothing butacidic bile emerges.
The convulsions don’t stop until I’m heaving from the force of my sobs. It’s torture to swallow around a burning throat, but I manage, shoving my mask on and rushing back to my room. I don’t run into another soul, thank the stars, and wash my mouth several times until I taste nothing.
Hollow, haunted eyes catch mine in the small mirror.
Is this what becoming an Enforcer does to you? Strips away your humanity piece by piece until there’s nothing left but a shell that blindly follows orders?
I hate them. I hate all of them. The Syndicate, the Enforcers, my team, my leaders, and every fucking man on this disgusting planet.
But most of all, I hate myself for not being able to do more.
My heart struggles with the weight of another failure—walking away, choosing my safety over Mira’s freedom.
And I’ll have to live with that choice for the rest of my pathetic life.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CASSIA
The Training Center is wrong at four in the morning. The quiet sits heavy, like it’s waiting for something, and my steps click against the floor as the sound runs ahead of me and returns to accuse me of things.
You don’t belong here.Step.You’re an impostor.Another step.
I shove the constant thoughts away as I count the cameras.
I know the sweep pattern now. West corridor rotates every eight seconds; the junction by the laundry is dead and has been since my first week here; the service stair on the north side breathes cold air from the lower levels as the ventilation kicks higher before shift change. I keep my head angled and my pace steady as I move, and do not peer up when a lens passes over the crown of my mask. I time my steps with that soft mechanical hum and the far throb of generators two levels below.
The showers are empty—they always are at this hour. The room smells like bleach and damp towels and metal. I slide the curtain closed, only then slipping the mask off. My cheeks are damp where the rubber sealed, the cool air relieving the sweat along my hairline as I hook the strap on the peg and turn the water.
Cold first. It shocks the skin and gives me something simple to hold on to. The pipes rattle and settle while the spray needles my scalp. Scrubbing my skin clean is no longer relaxing as the soap bites each cut along my knuckles, and my shoulder pulls as I raise my arm and stretch under the stream. The sound is steady. I breathe with it.
