Page 132 of Damsel in Disguise

For a fleeting second, it aligns too closely with something else—the night I realized what I love to do. Playing with their insignificant lives till I chopped them to death.

Seeing the body today like this—red glistening against her bodysuit, red spreading on the floor, vividly reflecting light—it awfully reminds me of how I found my mother that night.

Surprisingly, I feel calmer. Sober even.

It feels good to finally tear off the leash. The next is the chains—the head Triarchs.

“Thanks,” I say at last, lifting my gaze back to Ariella. “But you made a mistake.”

“Thanks?” she repeats, the word slipping out softer this time, edged with confusion rather than accusation.

“That’s the only part you focused on?”

“Yeah, because I just killed your wife and you… thanked me,” her voice dips, searching for something in my expression. “Why?”

A humorless chuckle leaves me. “Well, thanks because you killed my wife, and a mistake because you killed my wife,” I clarify, holding her masked gaze.

The words settle between us, carrying more than what sits on the surface.

“I don’t understand you, Alistair.”

The knife falls from her grip and clatters aloud amidst the tranquility as she slowly backs away. “I never did,” and turns around to leave.

Ariella steps into the corridor, her movements almost detached, as if she’s leaving something far more personal than a fresh crime scene.

She doesn’t look back, just strides toward the main door as fast as she can with steady feet.

Each step leaves bloodied imprints on her wake, trailing after her in uneven, darkened marks.

41. REGENERATE

alistair

Death, I’ve learned, is rarely instantaneous.

Not even when it’s deserved.

The human body resists the end with a persistence that borders on being pathetic—muscles locking, lungs clawing for air, neurons firing long after the outcome has already been decided.

Synthètes, however, they glitch.

A subtle twitch in one of the fingers or a minor flutter of eyelashes, and voilà, the regeneration is about to begin.

My unblinking eyes track for the slightest disruption in the stillness of the body sprawled across the floor.

Blood has stopped spreading. More accurately, Delilah has stopped letting it.

Now that Ariella is gone, or Delilah thinks so, her fingers twitch. Barely there. A tremor that would be easy to miss if I weren’t already watching for it. Her eyelids follow, a subtle flutter beneath the weight of false lifelessness.

Then, within seconds, her eyes snap open.

They burn brighter than ever before. Unnatural light sharpens the irises as the blood that spilled from her throat begins to retract.

It doesn’t flow back so much as it’s taken, drawn inward through the slit like the hungry wound itself is breathing.

Not all of it returns, though. Some of the blood has already dried into the leather bodysuit. It doesn’t matter.

Synthétes metabolize efficiency itself. Every nutrient, every fragment—optimized, consumed, repurposed. Recovery is not a concern for them.