Page 49 of I’m The Worst

Another delay.

Another fucking day stuck in this shithole. Too many people. Not enough space. Too many variables. The back door opens, grating on my patience.

If it’s Savva starting his shit again about pushing through the storm, I’ll put a bullet in his head⁠—

AJ steps out.

She’s wrapped in a sleeping bag, arms tight around herself. Her eyes are red and her face is blotchy. I can hear every breath she takes. Every time her teeth clench as she fights back tears.

“Can we⁠—”

“Go back to the room.”

She exhales harshly and drops onto the steps. Snow begins to collect in her hair.

“Please. Can we just talk? About you. Or me. Or something. I just…I need something.”

“Go back to the room, AJ.”

She doesn’t move.

“It’s nice out here,” she mutters, staring out at the tree line. “Even if everything else is fucked.” She wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

The silence stretches between us, broken only by her sniffles. I don’t want to hear her cry. I don’t want to hear her breathe. I don’t want her voice in my head at all.

“Why are you like this?” Her eyes stay locked on the trees.

“Like what?” I flick my knife open, running the edge under my thumbnail, scraping out dirt.

She’s quiet for a second before she looks at me.

“Like such an asshole about everything? I mean, I get it. You’re a Sovereign, whatever. But I just—” she cuts herself off, shaking her head. “You know what, forget it.”

She pushes to her feet, turning toward the door.

My grip tightens around the knife.

Cold air burns my lungs as I stand there, listening until her footsteps fade and the back bedroom door shuts. The quiet settles in, but it doesn’t help. My head is still too loud.

This mission was a mistake.

I shouldn’t have taken it.

I drag a hand down my face and stare out into the snow, but it doesn’t matter. The memory comes anyway.

My boots echo against the polished concrete floors of the Citadel—the North Section’s underground headquarters in Chicago. Three in the fucking morning. I’ve been back from Columbia less than six hours. My eyes are burning. I haven’t slept in three goddamn days.

The Sovereign runs on ranks, orders, and blood.

That’s the pretty story they tell the new recruits anyway.

Truth is, it’s built on generations of bloodlines breeding killers and scraping bastards like me out of the gutters, then pointing us at a target and telling us to pull the trigger until the job is done or we’re dead.

The lower levels are where they usually send me—armory, briefing pits, wherever they need a body dropped into the field. That’s where Sovereigns like me stay. Field agents, we’re disposable. We take the orders, do the dirty work, kill our way through the ranks if we’re lucky, and disappear without anyone asking questions.

Above that are the Commanders. They run the Sections, move Sovereign assets around like chess pieces, and decide which lives are worth spending and which ones aren’t.

And above them sit the High Chancellors—one for each of the five Sovereign Sections—the ones who don’t just give orders; they shape the entire board from their fucking thrones.