God, myeyes.
Heterochromatic genetics courtesy of my mother's fucked-up DNA—one blue like summer sky, one green like toxic poison. They don't match, just like the shoes, just like my brain chemistry, just like every goddamn thing about my existence.
The teardrop tattoo near the corner of my left eye —the green one— sits like a permanent bruise. A beauty mark in ink. A reminder that I've killed people and probably will again. Sometimes I switch it up with fake teardrop tattoos to give some sort of illusion…as if anyone would notice the difference if they dared survived my blades long enough to care.
I lean closer, studying my face with clinical detachment. When did I start looking so hollow? When did the dark circles become permanent? When did my smile become something that looks more like bared teeth?
When your parents were slaughtered in front of you, the logical part of my brain supplies helpfully.When you watched them beg. When you were powerless. When you became this.
"Shut up," I whisper to my reflection.
She doesn't listen. She never does.
I grab the lip gloss from the desk—cherry flavored, sticky-sweet, another stolen item because everything good in theRuthless sector is stolen—and swipe it across my lips. The color is obscene against my pale face. Too bright. Too alive.
Perfect.
My gaze travels down to my arms, to the tattoo sleeve that wraps around my left forearm and bicep. Flowers—roses, lilies, carnations—tangled with thorns that draw blood from stems. And winding through it all: a snake.
Not just any snake.
A viper.
The symbol of my family legacy. The Eastman bloodline. Old money built on older secrets, on botanical poisons and political machinations, on knowing exactly which pressure point would make someone stop breathing.
The viper represents vengeance. Silent. Patient. One fatal strike.
That's me now. That's what I've become.
I trace the ink with one finger, feeling the slight raise of scar tissue beneath. I got this tattoo during my first month in the Ruthless sector, sitting in an underground parlor while a man with more scars than skin asked if I was sure.
I was sure.
I'malwayssure about destruction.
It's healing I'm uncertain about.
My dual blades come next—matched daggers with black handles wrapped in leather, curved edges sharp enough to split atoms. I've killed three people with these. Maybe four. The last one gets fuzzy because I was having an episode and adrenaline makes memory weird.
I slide them into the sheaths built into my backpack—custom modifications because standard bags don't accommodate weaponry—and feel the satisfyingclickas they lock into place.
"Locked and loaded," I announce, doing a little spin. My toe taps against the floor in rapid succession—tap tap tap tap, four times, even number,safe—before I force myself still.
Ro's voice filters through the room's speakers: "Weapons check complete. Exits mapped. Threat assessment calculated at moderate-high. You're either very brave or very stupid."
"Can't I be both?"
"You are, in fact, both."
I grab the miniature Aphrodite unit from my desk—a small robotic sphere about the size of a golf ball, matte black with a subtle pink LED ring that pulses with her processing rhythms. Custom-built during another manic episode, she's my constant companion. My only friend, really, aside from Knox.
And maybe S.W., if he's still alive.
Please be alive, I think, clutching the letter in my bag.Please don't be another death I have to carry.
I loop the thin chain around my neck, letting Ro's sphere settle against my sternum. The metal is cold against my skin, grounding.
"How do I look?" I ask, turning toward where I imagine Ro's main processing unit would be if she were corporeal.
