His hands curl slightly in his lap.
“That information is not relevant.”
“I’m not asking because it’s relevant. I’m asking because I want to know you. Show me. Please.”
He doesn’t move. For a long moment, I think he’s going to refuse. But then his right hand moves to his left sleeve, and he pulls the fabric back.
The scar is worse than I remembered. It runs from the base of his palm almost to the crook of his elbow, a raised ridge of tissue that speaks of deep damage and incomplete healing.
“I was fourteen,” he says. His voice is flat. “The advanced conditioning protocols require subjects to demonstrate pain tolerance. The standard test involves self-infliction to measured depths across specified timeframes.”
My stomach turns.
“They made you cut yourself.”
“They made me prove that I could damage my own body without hesitation when ordered. The healing was deliberately incomplete to serve as a permanent reminder.”
I look at the raised tissue. I think about what I said to him in the Processing Room—about needing to know if he could still feel anything.
My hand moves before I can stop it. I reach for his wrist. My fingers hover just above the scar.
“May I?”
He doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t pull away either.
I take that as consent.
My fingertips make contact with the raised tissue. It’s warmer than the surrounding skin. I trace the length of it slowly, feeling every ridge and valley, mapping this piece of him the way he mapped my body with his scalpel.
His breathing has changed. Faster. Shallower. His pulse is visible in his throat, hammering.
“They made you a weapon,” I say softly. “And they made me a prince. Neither of us had a choice.”
My other hand moves to my own body, pulling the thin fabric of my smock aside to expose my ribs. The belt-buckle scars are there, faded but still visible—crescent shapes where metal met bone.
“Different methods,” I continue. “Same result. You were trained to hurt yourself. I was trained to believe I deserved it.”
His eyes track to my scars. I watch his face as he processes the information. But there’s something different in his expression now. Something that isn’t clinical.
Recognition. He sees himself in my marks the way I see myself in his.
“My father called it character building,” I say. “He said pain was the only teacher that didn’t lie.”
Alexei’s hand hasn’t moved. His breathing has gone shallow.
“The conditioning was different,” he says. His voice is rough. “Your damage was incidental. Mine was designed.”
“Does it matter? We both came out broken. We both ended up here.”
His hand moves. I think he’s going to pull away. Instead, his fingers find mine on his wrist. He presses my palm flat against the scar, holding it there, his hand warm over the back of mine.
The contact is electric. This isn’t interrogation. This is two damaged people touching each other’s wounds.
“I should not be doing this,” he says. “You are still classified as an active asset. Physical contact outside of maintenance is a deviation.”
“I’m a ghost,” I remind him. “And you’re lying to Ivan to keep me alive. We’re past protocols.”
His grip tightens on my hand.
