One by one. Not together. Never together. They understand group cohesion is a threat.
They do mine last.
Valentine is there when I sit in the chair.
No restraints. No need.
The clinician wipes my neck with antiseptic. The smell makes my stomach twist.
Valentine speaks without looking at me. “You can make this easier.”
I bare my teeth. “By cooperating.”
“By not killing my staff,” he says calmly. “The others look to you for their cues. You could lead by example.”
My laugh is low. “You keep calling Kayla an objective. Don’t pretend you care about your staff.”
Valentine turns his head slightly. “This isn’t about caring.”
“Then what is it about?”
Valentine’s eyes meet mine. For the first time, there’s something raw behind the control – faint, fast, immediately buried. “Not losing her twice,” he says.
The words hit me like a fist.
Before I can speak, the clinician injects. Pain blooms at the base of my skull – sharp and white – then fades into a deep ache. A leash clicking into place.
I breathe through it, slow, controlled, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.
Valentine watches.
When it’s done, the clinician steps back.
Valentine leans closer, voice low enough that only I can hear.
“You will get one thing straight,” he says. “You are not the only one who will burn the world for her.”
My pulse hammers.
He steps away as if he never spoke.
As if he never revealed anything.
And that’s how I know I can’t trust him.
Because he just proved he is capable of feeling.
And yet he is still choosing function.
They moveus through private corridors. Service lifts. Locked doors that open with Valentine’s access, not Seytan’s.
We emerge not onto the roof, but onto a lower landing where a helicopter waits behind fencing and floodlights.
Not the same pad. Not the same theatre. This is extraction, not escape.
The wind hits my face like a slap. Salt air. Cold metal. Rotor wash. Freedom-shaped. But still a leash.
Guards funnel us toward the chopper in pairs.
