"He'll be proud."
"He'll be proud of me."
"He'll come back."
"He promised."
"He promised."
"He promised."
I don't remember how many cuts I made.
I remember the blood. The way it welled up from his skin, dark and thick, tracking down his chest in paths that looked like rivers on a map. I remember the sounds he made—whimpers, sobs, pleas that blurred together until they were just noise, just background, just the static of a dying radio.
But I don't remember deciding to keep going.
I don't remember choosing each incision, each question, each moment of pressure that made him gasp and beg and promise things he couldn't deliver.
I was operating on instinct.
Gabriel's training.
"When you need information, you don't ask. You take. You peel away the layers until there's nothing left but the truth."
Or maybe he'd said something else.
Maybe he'd told me to be merciful.
Maybe he'd told me that pain was inefficient, that there were better ways, that a skilled interrogator didn't need to draw blood.
I couldn't remember.
I couldn't remember anything except the man's face and the blood and the way his voice cracked when he said the words I didn't want to hear.
"There's a compound in Moscow."
His voice was barely a whisper.
"A place where he might be hiding. I heard... I heard he went there. After the Institute fell. After his brother's people closed in."
"Who owns it?"
"I don't know. Someone connected to the family. Someone who owed him a favor."
"Where in Moscow?"
"I don't know—I swear—I only heard rumors—"
"You're lying."
"I'm not—please—I'm telling you everything—"
The knife pressed deeper.
"Where?"
"I don't know—"
