I pushed it open with my shoulder, the knife held low, my body angled to present the smallest target. The office was small—a desk, a filing cabinet, a chair. The walls were covered in shipping manifests and calendars and photographs of women I didn't recognize.
The man was sitting at the desk, his back to me, his hands typing on a keyboard that glowed blue in the dim light.
He didn't hear me come in.
He didn't hear anything ever again.
I don't remember making the first cut.
I remember the knife in my hand. I remember the way his body jerked when I pressed the blade against his throat. I remember his eyes going wide, his mouth opening, his hands flying up in a gesture of surrender or prayer or something in between.
But I don't remember deciding.
I don't remember weighing options, considering alternatives, choosing violence over negotiation. My body moved the way Gabriel had trained it—faster than thought, more precise than intention—and by the time my mind caught up, the man was bleeding.
"Who do you work for?"
The words came from my mouth, but they didn't feel like mine. They were too calm. Too steady. Too much like the voice I'd heard in the pink room, the one that had asked questions while Gabriel watched and waited.
"I don't—I don't know what you're talking about—"
The knife pressed deeper. A bead of blood welled up along the blade, tracking down his neck in a thin red line.
"Where is Gabriel Mire?"
His eyes went wider. Recognition. Fear. Something that looked almost like relief, like he'd been waiting for this question, like he'd known someone would come asking eventually.
"I don't know. I swear. I never met him. I only heard the name—"
"From who?"
"A man. A buyer. He said—he said Mire was developing a new product. Something special. Something that would change the market."
"What product?"
"I don't know. I wasn't high enough. They kept me in the dark. I just processed the shipments—I just moved the girls—I never—"
"Where is he now?"
"I heard he went underground. After the Institute fell. Someone helped him disappear. Someone inside."
"Who?"
"I don't know. I swear. Please—I'm telling you everything—please don't—"
I don't remember killing him.
I remember his begging. I remember the way his voice cracked on the word "please," the way his eyes searched my face for mercy, the way his hands trembled where he'd pressed them against the desk.
But I don't remember the moment it ended.
One moment he was alive, breathing, begging. The next, he was still. The knife was in his throat, and his blood was on my hands, and the blue glow of the keyboard painted his open eyes in shades of electric nothing.
Clean.
Efficient.
Gabriel would have been proud.
