He did this to me. He wanted me enough to leave evidence.
I think about Moore. About the careful, clinical way he hurt me, always mindful not to leave marks that would show, always preserving my market value. His violence was calculated, impersonal. I was an object to be used and maintained.
Jace's violence is different. Possessive. Personal. He marked me because he wanted to, because I asked him to, because something in him needed to see his claim written on my skin.
It's not healthy. I know it's not healthy.
But it's the first time anyone has wanted me enough to be unhealthy about it.
I turn off the water and stand in the steam, dripping, thinking.
What happens now?
He delivers the intel to Abernathy. He buys us more time. We get to exist in our own version of happily ever after, keep existing in this strange bubble where a monster makes me breakfast and fucks me until I forget my own name.
I'm getting dressed when I hear the footsteps.
Thump, thump, stutter, thump.
Not Jace. I know Jace's footsteps by now, the controlled cadence, the deliberate weight. These are different. Multiple sets. Moving fast.
My body freezes before my brain catches up, muscles locking, breath catching in my throat.
Don't answer the door.
I'm not going to answer the door. I'm going to stay quiet, stay hidden, wait for them to leave.
But they're not at the door.
The sound is coming from the hallway. From inside the building. From the service steps that are usually locked.
And then I hear the locks.
Not knocking. Not asking for entry. The soft, precise sound of a lock being picked, tumblers clicking, deadbolts disengaging one by one.
I have maybe thirty seconds.
I move.
The knife. Second drawer. I grab it, the paring knife I didn't take before, the one Jace left for me like he knew this moment would come.
The bathroom. Lock on the inside. I can barricade myself, buy time, wait for—
The door opens.
Three men in grey. Tactical gear. Faces blank, eyes flat, moving with the synchronized precision of people who've done this hundreds of times.
Erasure.
I know what they are the moment I see them. Not Acquisition, not a welfare check, not some bureaucratic formality. These are the ones who make people disappear. The Disposals.
I run.
Not toward the bathroom. There's no point. They'll break through the door in seconds, and then I'll be cornered, trapped, finished.
I run toward the bedroom window. The one Jace said was weak enough to break.
I don't make it.
