7
CASSIAN
My office is a fortress within a fortress.
Dark wood. Leather. Bulletproof glass. First editions I’ve never read and maps I’ve memorized. It smells of old paper, gun oil, and expensive scotch—the scent of a man who has everything but peace.
I walk straight to the wet bar. Every step sends a dull throb through my leg, a phantom reminder of old wars, syncing with the new chaos rattling in my skull.
I ignore the coasters and grab the crystal decanter of Macallan 25, pouring three fingers into a thick tumbler.
My hand is shaking.
It’s a micro-tremor, barely visible, but I feel it. It vibrates in the tendon of my thumb, a subtle betrayal of my nervous system.
I stare at it. I hold my hand up to the light, watching the tremor ripple through the muscle.
I’ve held a sniper rifle steady in howling wind. I’ve stitched my own skin shut in the back of moving cars while the world burned around me. I’ve killed men while keeping my pulse low enough for the cold to settle in my veins. I don’t panic or hesitate.
But tonight, my hand shakes.
Because tonight, I didn’t fight a soldier. I fought a girl.
I didn’t disarm a combatant. I cut the clothes off a civilian who was armed with a bottle of soap.
The image of her standing there, shivering in her underwear, her eyes full of hateful tears, flashes behind my eyelids. The bruise on her neck, my mark. The scar on her hip, her history. The smell of her skin...
It clings to me. It makes me feel unclean. It makes me feel like the monster the world says I am, instead of the soldier I tell myself I am.
I had to know, I tell myself. I had to check for wires.
It’s a valid, tactical excuse.
And it’s a lie.
I enjoyed the power of it, and that sickens me.
I lift the glass and down the whiskey in one swallow. The burn is good. It’s sharp, medicinal. It scorches the back of my throat and settles in my gut like a hot stone, grounding me.
This whiskey is supposed to be savored, sipped slowly by men who have nothing to fear. But I’m drinking it like water. I’m drinking it like a man trying to put out a fire in his own chest.
I pour another and walk to the desk. It’s a slab of reclaimed teak, scarred and dominating the center of the room.
I drop the bundle I’m carrying onto the leather blotter.
The ruined clothes land in a soft, dark heap. Beside them, I toss the file folder I confiscated from her room. I haven’t looked at it since the museum.
I stare at the clothes. They look alien against the dark wood, artifacts from a world I don’t inhabit. A world of soft fabrics and floral scents. A world I violated.
If she lied about being a florist, the proof will be in these pockets.
I sift through the pile, treating the fabric like hazardous material.
First, a single silver house key on a plain ring.
I pull it from the pocket of the leggings. No keychain. No pepper spray. No cute little charm. Just a functional key. It suggests she lives alone or values utility over decoration. It’s the key to a door I dragged her away from. A door she might never open again.
Next, a tube of lip balm.
