“Then speak,” I say.
Valentine inclines his head, like I’ve granted him something he already owned.
“You have not been told what you are,” he says.
The words make my skin prickle. I keep my face still.
“You have heard the term ARK,” Valentine continues.
It isn’t a question. It’s an assessment.
I hold his gaze. “No.” A lie. We both know it. But he doesn’t rise to my bait.
Ghost’s eyes flick sideways, quick, checking whether that’s true.
Valentine nods once, filing it away.
“ARK,” he says. Clean. Precise. “Autonomous Response Killer. It’s our name for you. All of you.”
The title is too neat. Too clinical. It slides into the room and sticks to the walls.
“You’re naming us like weapons,” I say.
Valentine’s expression doesn’t change. “You have been treated –raised– as weapons. The name merely reflects the practice.”
Hatchet’s pen moves on the pad, one short line, then stops. He doesn’t turn it yet.
“An ARK is designed to respond without hesitation,” Valentine continues, as if he’s explaining a procedure. “To perceive threat, to neutralise it, to operate in conditions that destabilise ordinary subjects. The autonomy is…limited. The name is aspirational.”
“Aspirational,” Ghost repeats softly, like he’s tasting the word.
Valentine doesn’t glance at him. His eyes stay on me.
“You and the others are all ARKs, like I said,” he says.
My stomach drops, sharp and immediate. I refuse to let it show.
“No,” I argue firmly. “We’repeople.”
Valentine’s gaze remains steady. “You are both. People and killers. But you were created as weapons.”
Hatchet turns the pad toward me.
Asset class.
I swallow hard.I keep my voice flat.
“How many?”
Valentine pauses just long enough to make it clear he’s choosing restraint. “Enough.”
It’s a wall in one word.
“You said you were correcting a misunderstanding,” I say. “What misunderstanding?”
“That you are singular,” Valentine replies. “That you were an anomaly. A failure of containment.”
My pulse stutters. Honey shifts subtly, moving closer without moving closer. Presence, not touch.
