My mind is running with so many outcomes. Deimos does not see her as a sister. He sees her as a mistake. And I am the only one who can rewrite that line in his code.
My personality is finally falling apart. Dr. Madeline, the calm and rational woman, is gone. Only this broken creature remains, waiting for the arrival of her killer.
I feel the air pressure in the building change. The door at the end of the hall clicks softly. He is here.
Deimos doesn't move with the heavy thud of the tactical boots the police are wearing; he glides, a silent predator reclaiming his territory.
Despite the sensors he surely has in his head, the internal alarms that must be screaming about the shifted air pressure and the faint, metallic scent of gun oil from the hallway, he chooses to ignore them. He wants to believe me. For the first time in his life, he is letting a flaw remain in his plan because that flaw is me.
He approaches my desk, the silence between us heavy enough to crush my lungs. He doesn't say a word. He reaches out, his gloved hand cold but steady, and cups my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone with a tenderness that shatters what little remains of my composure.
He thinks he won. He thinks that by breaking me, he finally made me his. He looks into my eyes, searching for the reflection of the woman who claimed Lucy was a liability, the woman who said he was her only reality.
I look back at him, seeing the killer, the victim, and the man all at once. I see the boy Charles destroyed, and the weight of the betrayal I am about to execute collapses in my chest.
I burst into tears.
The sobs are violent, racking my body as I lean into his palm. It isn't part of the plan. It isn't the signal. But I can't stop it. I am mourning him while he is still standing right in front of me.
"Madeline," he whispers, his voice low and vibrating with a rare, terrifying vulnerability.
He thinks these are tears of relief. He thinks I am crying because I am finally home. The "kill zone" is only feet away, and Deimos is standing exactly where they need him to be.
I clutch his wrist, my fingers digging into his coat. I want to scream at him to run. I want to tell him that the morgue is full of hunters. But the words die in my throat.
"I'm sorry, my ghost," I choke out through the tears, my voice barely audible.
He freezes. His thumb stops its rhythmic stroking. The softness in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a sudden, glacial realization. He is a master of patterns, and he just recognized the shape of a trap.
The air in the office shatters.
The heavy oak door is kicked inward with a deafening crack that echoes through the sterile halls like a gunshot.
"POLICE! ON THE GROUND! NOW!"
The screams are a wall of noise, followed by the blinding glare of tactical flashlights cutting through my darkness.
Deimos doesn't reach for a weapon. He doesn't fight. The realization of my betrayal is a faster strike than any bullet could be. He freezes for a split second, his hand still hovering near my cheek, the warmth of his skin lingering on mine for one final, agonizing heartbeat.
Then the weight of the strike team hits him.
Three officers tackle him, forcing him down onto the cold linoleum floor. I hear the dull thud of his body hitting the ground and the metallic clink of the handcuffs ratcheting shut around his wrists. They are rough with him, pushing his face into the floor, but he doesn't make a sound.
He doesn't look at the guns pointed at his head. He doesn't look at Sterling, who is barking orders in the background.
He looks only at me.
I collapse to my knees right there on the floor, my legs giving out as if the bones have turned to water. I am inches away from him, my face streaked with tears and my chest heaving with a pain that feels like a physical wound. I sob, my voice breaking into a thousand jagged pieces.
He is pinned down, his cheek pressed against the floor, but his eyes stay locked on mine. There is no rage in them. There is no "Arbiter" left in that gaze. There is only a profound, glacial disappointment. It is the look of a man who finally allowed himself to believe in a miracle, only to find out it was just another calculated lie.
He looks like I just handed him back to Charles, back to the darkness, back to the world where no one can be trusted. Every silent second of his gaze is a knife twisting in my heart.
He doesn't say a word, but his eyes tell me everything:
You were the only part of me that I didn't want to destroy. And you are the one who finished me.
Sterling grabs my arm, trying to pull me away.
