Page 443 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

‘He’s ours,’ the first man declares. ‘He comes with us. He knows things, this one. He’ll co-operate and we’ll take care of him.’

Riley keeps his eyes closed.

It’s not real if he can’t see it.

‘You’re delusional.’

‘This one’s mine. Anyone touches him—’

Another meaty smack is thrown.

Then another.

Then someone fires a gun.

And then the perimeter explodes into violent, suffocating chaos of adrenaline, sweat and hormonal heat that makes Riley want to throw up.

Somewhere out of sight, his Tower is being attacked.

His people are dying.

The Resets are inside, real ones this time.

And all Riley can do is curl up and pretend it’s not happening.

The PMCs are destroying one another.

And Riley, kneeling bloody and terrified in the middle of it, realises with horror that they’re fighting over him.

He smells blood, guts and brain. He smells heated desire and addictive need that confuses the men who fight for something they don’t truly want, but they can’t help it.

This is his curse.

This is his fucking power.

The most sickening self-destruction.

It’s open war above and around him.

They’re not just fighting, they’re annihilating one another.

Rough hands drag him away into the treeline nearby.

Three heartbeats racing like rabbits.

He never saw one.

Never saw a real bunny in his life.

‘It’s OK, you’re OK, shhh, don’t be scared.’ One of them straddles him, pins his wrists. ‘We’re gonna take care of you.’

‘God, I want him so bad and I’m not even… y’know,’ one grunts.

The one pinning Riley down laughs and then shoots his friend in the head at point-blank range. Blood splatters all over Riley, drowning him in the sensory stench of fresh death. Before the other has time to speak, the man does the same to him too.

He killed them both.

And despite the soul-destroying obscenity of what’s happening around him, some part of Riley recognises its brutal order.