Going to find clothes to wear, I despised how everything in my wardrobe seemed dirty; even if I knew they were clean, they somehow managed to look dirty.
I succumbed, selected a standard button-up, and ironed it even though it was already well-ironed. I performed that action—over and over and over and over again, burning myself on occasion and swinging the machine into a nearby wall out of anger. I went back to pick it up, inspected it for damage, and returned to ironing.
I had woken up at around eight in the morning and was leaving for the torture rooms at noon.
I could not eat anything. I did not crave food. I craved alcohol, anything that would make me feel numb.
I decided to finish with the Elite group on time, but after I saw them, it took two hours to kill five people completely. Torture and maiming—blood, opened flesh, screams, cries, terror, and gore—somehow, I wasn’t satisfied.
Blowing out the smoke, I tilted my head, studying the one with strawberry-blond hair, now soaked in blood, his fingers still twitching.
“Gun.”
It was in my grip in an instant, and I angled the barrel to thedying man’s head and rapidly pulled the trigger until his brain particles started to slip out of his scattered head.
Angling the gun back up, I studied my work for almost a minute before nodding. “Hm.” I stretched out my hand that held the gun to the soldier who had given it to me. But for some reason, the weapon remained in my hand.
Slowly, I turned to look at the soldier; his face was pale, eyes on the man I had just shot.
“Was he a friend?”
The soldier snapped upright, blinking back as he looked at my forehead, unable to meet my eyes, body shaken up. From his young face, I could tell he was in his early twenties.
He shook his head fiercely, fear in his eyes. “No, sir. No, sir, I—I am sorry, sir.”
I frowned, irritation biting at my skin. “What in God’s name am I looking at?”
Dread tainted his eyes at the disdain and irritation in my voice.
“Sir, I’m—”
“Go, get out. Make sure I never see you again. Ever.”
“Yes, sir,” he said before hurriedly rushing out of the room.
I looked at the other soldiers, their faces stoic, eyes ahead, awaiting orders.
I stretched my gun toward one, and he quickly collected it. Body firm, trained.
That was what I liked to see.
“Inform the recruitment manager that I would like to meet with him. I will not tolerate little mistakes like this.”
“Yes, Marino.”
“Pass a message across to the data team. Tell them that if they do not locate the whereabouts of the last member in the Elite group before the day ends, I will seek out anyone and everyone they care about, and then I will pay them a farewell visit.”
“Yes, sir.”
I stepped out without another word, two soldiers following automatically behind me as I walked from the torture room to my house. Everyone who passed by avoided my eyes and stayed out of my way; some had fear in their eyes, and some were stoic.
I itched to pick out the ones who cowered—in fact, I would add it to my agenda to do a personal inspection of every man in the empire. It would take more than a day and even more than a week—but the urge to pluck out blunt thorns was very strong—or maybe the anger simmering underneath my skin compelled these thoughts because usually, I would not care.
When I entered my house, the soldiers didn’t follow.
I headed straight to my bedroom, discarded the cigar, and started taking off the dirty clothes on my body—entering the room half naked, I walked into the bathroom and straight to the sink, turned on the water, and placed my hands underneath it. The water that came out clean and clear from the faucet was tainted with blood when it met my hands. I cleaned and cleaned, wiping off dried blood with soap as the bloodied water went down the drain.
When I was satisfied after what seemed like the longest time, I turned off the faucet and went to the bathtub, turning on the cold water as it filled up.
