Is he one? I replay the fragmented stories I managed to pry from him so far.
I have no doubt he did POP’s dirty work. He broke things. He hurt people. He did things that the Fischer I grew up with, the one who taught me to ride a bike and cried when our dog died, would never, ever do. He did it all with my face in his mind. He became a shield, a weapon, a monster…all for me.
Coerced.
Forced.
I understand the logic. I do. It was the only choice he thought he had. But understanding doesn't erase the image that’s now burned onto the back of my eyelids—the look in his eyes when he confessed the truth. Not pride, not even satisfaction. Just a profound, hollowed-out emptiness. A piece of his soul chipped away, ground to dust.
I wonder whether he can ever get that piece back. Or if you break something that badly, does it stay broken forever?
The question turns inward, sharp and accusatory.
What if it were me?
What if it was him they had threatened? If they’d come to me with pictures of Fischer, with their veiled promises of what would happen to my brother if I didn’t cooperate?
My mind supplies the images without permission. Fischer, with his easy laugh and his stupidly kind heart. Fischer, helpless. Fischer, hurt because I was too weak, too scared to do what needed to be done.
A cold dread, slick and oily, rises in my throat. I think of my mom, my dad. I think of the men I love more than life itself. I picture their faces, their safety, their lives hanging in the balance, contingent on my actions. On my willingness to crossthe lines that separate decent people from…people like Aria. Like what Fischer has become.
And I know.
The certainty is a rock in my gut. I would do it. I would shatter. I would burn. I would walk into the fire and let it turn me into something unrecognizable if it meant keeping them safe. I would lie, I would steal, I would hurt.
I would become the very thing I fear in him.
I look back at Fischer’s rigid spine. He isn't a monster because he's evil. He's a monster because he loved me too much. And in that moment, I realize the capacity for that kind of monstrosity isn't just in him. It's in me too. It’s sleeping in my blood, waiting for a reason to wake up.
And that is the most terrifying thought of all.
“She hates me,” he says suddenly, pulling me out of my macabre thoughts.
I look up. “Aria?”
“She despises me because I’m not hers,” he says. “I’m useful, but I’m wrong. A flaw she tolerates.” His voice drops. “She never lets me forget it.”
Something sharp lodges in my throat.
“We may not be biological siblings, but youaremy little sister. That will never change. Some ties are stronger than blood,” he says. I think of my guys, of Fischer, and can’t help but nod. Yes. Some ties are infinitely stronger than blood. “I’ve been trying to spare you from this fate,” he adds. “As much as I can without tipping my hand.”
I shake my head. “You shouldn’t have had to.”
“No,” he agrees softly. “But here we are.”
“We originally sought you out because we thought you would have information on Aria’s little black book,” I begin, and when he gives me a befuddled stare, I know it’s pointless. “Rumor has it that Aria keeps extensive blackmail material on all themembers of POP, in case one of them steps out of line. Do you have any idea where that information would be?”
Fischer’s laugh is sharp and humorless, a bark of sound in the sudden silence that permeates the room. “Fuck no. Do you think that crazy bitch would tell me anything? I’m just…” He holds up his chess piece, turning it over and over in his hand. “A pawn.” He drops it back onto the board with more force than necessary, causing the entire table to rattle. “I’m the pawn, she’s the queen, and you’re the…”
“King,” I answer evenly, sliding my bishop across the board. “I’m the king.”
A wry smile tugs at his lips. “All hail King Ellie.”
I tamp down my amusement as I give the board a once-over. At this point, I’m not even truly playing—simply moving random pieces across the board. “Do you know why Aria wants me to pretend to be Cassia? I know what she claims, but how much of it is the truth? What is her end goal?”
He leans back, the chair creaking under his weight. For a moment, he stares at the ceiling like the answers might be written there.
“I don’t know enough,” he admits. “But Cassia is a construct. A symbol. A rallying point. Something bigger than a person.” He looks back at me. “POP is mobilizing. Quietly. For something massive.”
