I meet his gaze. “You know exactly what I mean. You’ve always been more willing to inflict pain, to push boundaries. I’ve always known why.”
Cyrus’s jaw tightens. “Don’t.”
“Henderson reminds me of him.” I can’t stop the words now. “Handler Seventeen.”
The marker in Cyrus’s hand snaps in two, red ink bleeding across his fingers like fresh blood.
“We promised never to speak of that,” he growls.
“Keira’s past is making me think about ours,” I admit. “About what you endured that I didn’t.”
We were both subjected to the Collective’s brutal training methods, but Cyrus experienced horrors I was spared. Handler Seventeen was a sadistic bastard who specialized in breaking children’s spirits, and unfortunately, he had taken a particular interest in my brother. While I was beaten and starved, Cyrus was taken to privatesessionsthat left him hollow-eyed and silent for days.
“He took a shine to you,” I continue, my voice flat to mask the rage that still burns. “The things he did to you in that room...”
“I survived,” Cyrus cuts me off. “And then we killed him. Together.”
I remember Handler Seventeen’s death most vividly of all the handlers we eliminated. How Cyrus had insisted on taking his time, how I’d stood guard to ensure no interruptions. Seventeen had died screaming, begging for mercy that never came.
“You know why Henderson matters to me,” Cyrus says. “Men like him, men like Seventeen—they deserve everything we’re going to give them.”
“You know what that bastard deserves,” I agree, watching Cyrus’s knuckles turn white around the broken marker. “And we’ll give it to him.”
A heavy silence falls between us, filled with the ghosts of our past. In the quiet, I can almost hear the echo of metal doors slamming shut, of Handler Seventeen’s voice calling for Cyrus. The sound of my brother being led away while I remained, helpless.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the words inadequate against the weight of what happened.
Cyrus’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking at the corner. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault, Ace.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I move closer, placing my hand on the table near his ink-stained one—not touching, but close enough. “We were always in it together. I should have fought harder when he took you. I should have stopped him from taking you anywhere.”
“We were children,” Cyrus says flatly.
“We were trained killers by twelve,” I counter. “I could have done something. Anything.”
Cyrus looks up, meeting my gaze. “And then we’d both be dead. Or worse—separated. The only reason I survived those sessions was knowing you were waiting. That we’d find a way out together.”
“And we did.”
“We did,” he echoes. “And now Henderson gets to experience exactly what Handler Seventeen did.”
I nod, understanding flowing between us. The silent communication that’s been our lifeline since before we could speak. “Together,” I promise.
“Always,” Cyrus responds, and for a moment, I see a flicker of that young boy—frightened but determined—behind his eyes.
I move toward Cyrus without thinking, something I rarely do. Right now, watching him struggle with the memories of our past and the similarities in Keira’s story, I need to bridge the physical gap between us.
“Come here,” I say, pulling him into an embrace.
It’s not unusual for us to touch. We’ve spent our lives in proximity—fighting together, training together, sleeping together, killing together. Physical contact between us has always been as natural as breathing. But the moment my armswrap around his shoulders, I feel a subtle stiffening in his frame, a barely perceptible hesitation before he returns the embrace.
The tension hangs between us like an invisible thread, thin but unmistakable. Neither of us acknowledges it, but we both know its origin. Keira’s fantasy has created a self-consciousness that never existed before.
I hold on longer than necessary, stubbornly refusing to let this new awkwardness dictate our interaction. Cyrus eventually relaxes, his arms tightening around me. When we break apart, his eyes meet mine briefly before sliding away.
“We should finish the preparations,” he says, his voice deliberately casual as he returns to the maps.
I nod, moving back to my position at the table. The moment passes, but it leaves a residue—like the powder burn after a shot. Unspoken and invisible, but unmistakably there.
