I pressed my palm against the concrete wall and breathed.
The stairs creaked under my weight.
I'd learned to move silently—Gabriel had seen to that—but this house was old, and the wood was tired, and every step groaned like something waking from a long sleep. The man inside would hear me. He would know someone was coming. He would have time to prepare, to arm himself, to decide whether to fight or run.
Let him.
Let him try.
I was faster. I was stronger. I was more desperate.
And I had nothing left to lose.
The kitchen was dark. The living room was empty. The bedroom door was closed, a sliver of light bleeding through the gap at the bottom. I could hear him moving inside—footsteps, the creak of a floorboard, the click of a safety being released on something I couldn't see.
He knew I was here.
He was waiting.
I kicked the door open.
The gun went off before I could see him.
The bullet passed close enough to my ear that I felt the wind of it, the heat, the promise of what would have happened if he'd aimed an inch to the left. I didn't flinch. I didn't duck. I moved forward, into the room, into the dark, and I found him with my hands before my eyes could adjust.
He was shorter than I'd expected. Soft around the middle. His hands trembled when I grabbed his wrists, and the gun clattered to the floor, and he made a sound like a wounded animal—high and thin and desperate.
"Please—I have money—I have—"
"I don't want your money."
My voice didn't sound like mine. It was too calm. Too steady. Too much like the voice I'd heard in the pink room, the voice that had asked questions while Gabriel watched and waited.
"I want to know where Gabriel Mire is."
His body went still.
Recognition. Terror. The certain knowledge that there was no escape, no bargaining, no mercy.
"I don't know. I swear. I was just a guard—I didn't work with him directly—I only saw him from a distance—"
"You watched him work."
"I—yes—but I didn't—"
"You watched him condition women. You watched him break them. You watched them cry and beg and fall apart, and you did nothing."
"I was just following orders—"
"So was I."
I pressed the knife against his throat, and he stopped talking.
I don't remember tying him to the chair.
I remember the rope in my hands. I remember the way it felt against my palms—rough, familiar, the kind of rope Gabrielhad used during our sessions. I remember wrapping it around his wrists, his ankles, his chest, pulling it tight enough to bite into his skin.
But I don't remember deciding.
