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"Alright then." Ansel’s jaw clenched as he resigned himself to my decision. "Just remember, I warned you."
"Warnings are for people who have something to lose," I muttered and thought about the trail of destruction my life had become. "And let's face it, I'm not exactly holding a winning hand here."
Kylo watched me, his expression hard to read. Was it concern? Disapproval? Whatever it was, it stoked the fire in my belly, a reminder that he was there, with me, in this fucked-up moment.
I shot a glance at Ansel, who looked like he'd rather dive into a pool of piranhas than crack open Oswin's skull with his mind. But this wasn't about comfort zones; it was about digging up the skeletons that had been buried under layers of deceit.
"Get ready, Oswin," I warned. "You're about to become an open book."
"Thrilling," Oswin cooed. "Do try to keep the drooling to a minimum while you're rummaging around in there."
Ansel shifted uncomfortably and looked anywhere but at me. “We'll remember that when we're dodging bullets or whatever shitstorm we're calling to our doorstep.”
"Invitations are for tea parties and pity fucks, neither of which we'll be engaging in tonight boys."
Chapter
Twenty-One
"Alright, Ansel, let's see if your parlor tricks are worth a damn," I eyed him dubiously while Kylo gave me a reassuring nod and Oswin... well, he just smirked, the same way a cat does before it pounces on a particularly stupid mouse.
Ansel stepped closer, his brow furrowed. "You asked for this, Averill," he warned, his tone somber like he was about to perform a fucking exorcism instead of some mental hocus-pocus.
With a deep breath Ansel's lips parted, and from them flowed a cloud of mystical green smoke. It swirled around us, thick and smelling like a mix between eucalyptus and something way older, and way more strange. The smoke surrounded us, tingling against my skin like static, and the world shifted underneath our feet.
Suddenly, the air was colder, and the scent of antiseptic stung my nostrils. Harsh fluorescent lights flickered above and cast long, ominous shadows across the concrete walls of what appeared to be an underground government facility—a memory, a slice of hell from Oswin's childhood.
"Jesus—" Kylo started to curse but choked off when we heard it—the sound of a child's cries, high and desperate.
"Help! Please, someone help me!" The voice was unmistakably Oswin's, younger but just as distinctive. Each scream, each plea, felt like a punch to the gut, and despite myself, I wished some adult had been there to rescue the kid.
"Ah, to be young and tortured again," Oswin smirked from beside me, his voice bizarrely light. He watched his younger self with a detached amusement.
I watched him, really looked at him, and it clicked—this flamboyant, funny act was his armor. Underneath lay a man fractured by his past, pieced back together with wit and sheer willpower. I understood then why Oswin was absolutely crazy, and I felt a twinge of empathy for the guy. Not that I'd ever admit it out loud.
"Can we focus, please?" Ansel's voice cut through the tension and pulled us back to the grim reality that played out before us. "We're here for answers."
"Right, the truth about Mommy Dearest," I muttered, but the sight of little Oswin strapped to a chair with instruments looming ominously overhead, made my stomach churn. It was like watching a horror movie with the added bonus of knowing the victims personally.
Yay me.
"Remember, I'm one of the good guys," Oswin said and met my gaze.
"Your definition of 'good' needs work," I grumbled, but somewhere deep inside, a seed of understanding had taken root. Maybe Oswin wasn't the villain of the story after all. Or maybe we were all just fifty shades of fucked up.
"Here's one for the family album," I breathed as she walked in—my mom. The woman whose lullabies were supposed to have shielded me from monsters was suddenly cast as the lead scientist in this twisted play.
"Progress report, Doctor," my mother demanded. She cooly flipped through a clipboard like she was discussing the weather instead of children being prodded and poked like lab rats.
"Remarkable resilience," replied a voice that was little more than a shadow to me. It belonged to a man obscured by the dark edges of the memory, his stature indicating authority, but his face lost to time.
"Is that so?" My mother's eyebrow quirked with clinical interest. Her gaze scanned over Oswin, who writhed against the restraints with insanity etched into every line of his young face.
"Indeed. And we have another subject ready for comparison." A lab assistant wheeled in a sight that made my heart stop—a little girl, no older than six, strapped down, her eyes wide with terror.
"Sweet Jesus, is that...?" Kylo's voice trailed off and the unspoken realization hung heavy between us.
"Looks like someone's been keeping secrets," Oswin sang the words with his usual flamboyance.
