“Good?” he asks.
I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak.
He feeds me piece by piece. Cheese, then bread, then a sliver of meat that tastes like smoke and pepper. Between each bite, he offers water.
I watch his hands as they work. These are the same hands that mapped me with a scalpel. The same hands that restricted my breathing while I gasped out account codes.
Now they are feeding me.
When the tray is half empty, my stomach is protesting. He removes the folding table, setting it aside where I can’t see it. He knows my limits better than I do.
“The codes have been transmitted,” he says. “Ivan has confirmed receipt. Asset seizure operations are underway in Zurich and Geneva.”
I absorb this information with a detachment that surprises me. My father’s money is being stolen. His insurance files are being compromised. The Petrenko empire is collapsing, and I handed over the keys.
I feel nothing.
“How did Ivan take it?” I ask. “The news that you’re keeping me alive?”
His expression doesn’t change. “I submitted a report indicating that the subject has demonstrated potential long-term intelligence value. Extended observation is required.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Yes.”
“You already have everything. There’s nothing left to extract.”
“Yes.”
The silence stretches between us. He’s lying to Ivan to keep me alive.
“Why?” The question is a whisper.
He doesn’t answer directly. “Ivan accepted the report,” he says. “For now. If I can’t justify long-term value by week’s end, he will order disposition.”
The words hang between us. Ivan is waiting.
“The Kennel,” I say. “You told me it was a training facility.”
His jaw tightens.
“How old were you when they took you?”
Silence.
“You don’t have to answer. But I’m asking anyway, because you know everything about me, and I know nothing about you except your name and your favorite color.”
He looks at me. Those pale eyes, the color of glacial ice.
“Seven,” he says. “I was seven years old when the program acquired me.”
Seven. The same age I was when my mother died.
“Did you have a family? Before?”
“I have no memory of them. They took the past away first. Then they taught me what to be.”
“The scar on your wrist,” I say. “When did that happen?”
