But that wasn't why I was here.
I was here because Klaus threatened Alena. Because I had no choice. Because this was the price of keeping her safe.
I dragged him out of the chair. Heavier than he looked. Deadweight. His head lolled as I pulled him across the floor toward the office.
The office was down the hall—dark wood desk, leather chair, computer still glowing. I dropped him into the chair. His head fell forward onto the desk with a thud.
I pulled out the tourniquet. Tied it around his upper arm. Tight. Found the vein—blue line under pale skin, easy to see.
Pulled out the syringe.
Clear liquid inside. Death in a tube.
My hand shook.
I saw my mother's face. Pale. Cold. Dead. The note in her hand: You killed me by being born.
I saw Alena on that kitchen floor—broken glass, wine on the walls, crying alone because I couldn't tell her the truth.
I saw Klaus smiling. Blood on his teeth. Good boy.
I pressed the needle to the vein.
And pushed.
The plunger slid down smoothly. Liquid disappeared into his bloodstream. Irreversible.
I pulled the needle out. Set it on the desk.
Waited.
His breathing changed first—short, wet gasps. Chest muscles locked, rigid, fighting for air that wouldn't come. Skin grayed at the edges, lips tinting blue.
Four minutes.
Then stillness.
I checked his pulse. Wrist first, then neck.
Nothing.
I stood there, looking at the body. At what I'd done.
The room was silent except for the hum of the computer. The TV still playing downstairs. The city breathing outside the windows, oblivious.
I'd just killed a man.
And I felt… nothing.
No guilt. No horror. No soul-deep revulsion at what my hands had done.
Just cold efficiency. Just the quiet satisfaction of a job completed.
That's what terrified me.
Not the act itself—but how easy it was. How natural my hands had been. How quickly the shaking had stopped once the needle was in.
And somewhere in the silence, I could still feel her fingers tracing my name over my heart, hear her whisper "okay" like it was a vow.
