"To control her," I cut him off. "There's the difference, Kirill. I kill. You're right about that. But I've never taken someone's mind. Never stole who they are and replaced it with something else."
His jaw tightens.
"You think we're the same because we're both killers?" I shake my head slowly. "We're not. You wanted to destroy the woman I love and replace her with a puppet. That's a different kind of evil."
"And you think your way is better?" Kirill spits. "At least she wouldn't remember the fear. Wouldn't wake up screaming from nightmares about bullets and blood. I would have given her peace—"
"You would have given her nothing, because she wouldn't exist anymore. That's not saving someone. That's murder disguised as mercy."
Kirill's breathing quickens, the drugs and rage fighting for control.
Ruslan steps forward, syringe in hand. Kirill's eyes lock on the needle, then back to me. Still defiant.
"She would have loved me," he says quietly. "Given time. The right conditioning. I would have made her forget this world exists. Forget you exist."
"You wanted Fee's mind." I watch Ruslan connect the syringe to the IV port. "Now you get to experience what you planned for her. Only worse. Much worse."
Ruslan pushes the plunger slowly, deliberately. The drug slides through the IV line. Kirill's eyes widen, then narrow, then widen again—his brain already fighting the chemical invasion.
"Every minute will feel like an hour," I tell him as his pupils begin to dilate, swallowing the color. "Every hour, like a day."
A strangled sound escapes his throat. His mouth works, trying to form one last sentence.
"Worth it," he manages. "All of it."
I move to the instrument table and take the drill. Heavy. Purpose-built.
I nod once. Two men step in, pinning Kirill's shoulders and forearms, forcing him back against the restraints.
Kirill fights them for half a second before the drugs steal his leverage. He can't move anymore.
When I turn back to him, his eyes track me, despite the chemicals flooding his system. Still calculating.
"This is going to be very unpleasant," I tell him. "By the time we're done, you'll think you've been here for years."
I position the drill at his knee joint, fine-tuning the angle until it's right.
Joints are precise things. Rush it, and you lose access. Torture isn't something I do often. Men usually die too fast. But here we are.
His breathing stutters when he realizes what I'm lining up. The drugs keep him present, aware enough to understand what's coming, not enough to stop it.
I lean in just enough for him to hear me over the whine of the motor.
"Enjoy drowning in your own mind, Kirill," I say quietly. "It'll make what follows feel endless."
Kirill:
I float through a crimson haze, consciousness ebbing like dirty water through a rusted drain. Time slips. Pain, bright, screaming pain—then darkness. Then light again.
A girl materializes before me. Young. Trembling. Real? Not real? Her dark hair falls across tear-stained cheeks as she kneels, hands bound with plastic zip ties that bite into her olive skin.
"Por favor, señor. Tengo familia. Mi madre está enferma." Her Spanish echoes through my skull. Mother sick. Family waiting. Always the same excuses.
"Shh." I press a finger against her lips. They're chapped from dehydration. "You are important. Special merchandise," I tell her in Spanish.
The dignitary from Qatar has specific requirements. European features. Virgin. Exactly 110 pounds. I'd measured her myself, slapped her when she was two pounds over, withheld food until she complied. Blue eyes that would look up at him in terror. Those always cost extra.
"You go to someone important," I explain to her. But her sobs intensify. I grip her jaw, forcing her to look at me.
