"For fuck's sake, some of us were sleeping," Lo's sleep-rough voice called from his bed. He pushed up a pink silk eye mask emblazoned with "BEAUTY QUEEN" in glittering letters, another knife already in hand. "Take your macho bullshit to the hallway before I put the next one through both your skulls."
Hector turned his back to me. "We're going hunting. Your target has waited long enough. Get dressed."
I didn't respond, just continued dressing. "I have three days. Frankie said—"
"And I say we're going now," Hector countered, voice flat. "Consider it a performance review."
"At five in the morning?" I tucked my backup knife into my boot.
"Perfect time to catch a target unaware." Hector moved to my closet, yanking it open as if he owned the place. He pulled out my tactical vest. "You'll need this. We're doing this properly."
"I have my own methods," I said, ignoring the vest.
"Yes, I've heard all about your methods." His words dripped contempt, acid eating through my defenses. "What happened to you, Luka? You used to be the best."
"I still am the best."
"Prove it," Hector challenged, tossing gear onto my bed. "Right fucking now."
Rage bubbled beneath my skin. Years of resentment, decades of being treated like equipment rather than a person. It all threatened to boil over. Each breath burned in my lungs as I fought to maintain composure, to hide the rebellion brewing inside.
"What's so special about this therapist, anyway?" Hector asked, voice dropping to something almost curious beneath the contempt.
I thought of Vincent watering his plants, Vincent's genuine smile as he greeted the homeless woman, Vincent leaning forward during our session, seeing right through my bullshit with those perceptive eyes.
"He's just a contract," I lied, words tasting like ash on my tongue.
Hector snorted. "A contract you can't seem to fulfill. Prometheus thinks you've gone soft. I think it's worse than that."
I adjusted my shoulder holster, using the moment to control the rage building in my chest. "And what's that?"
"I think you've forgotten what you are." Hector stepped closer, invading my space. "You're not a person, Luka. You're a weapon. My weapon. The best one I ever crafted. And now you're risking everything over some fucking therapist."
The way he said Vincent's profession like it was dirty made my blood boil. Vincent was the first person who'd seen me as more than a weapon, who'd looked past the killer to the broken person beneath. The thought of Hector taking that away, of Vincent's gentle eyes going empty and lifeless, twisted my stomach into knots that threatened to snap my spine.
"Maybe I'm tired of being your fucking weapon," I said, words escaping before I could stop them.
Hector's eyes widened slightly. "Then you're of no use to anyone. And we both know what happens to tools that no longer serve their purpose."
The threat hung between us, tangible as Lo's thrown knife.
I forced a smile, all teeth and no warmth. "Good thing I'm still the best tool in the shed, then. Let's go see what this therapist is made of, shall we?"
Every cell screamed in rebellion against Hector, against Prometheus, against the entire fucking Pantheon. Against the systemthat had stolen my childhood and molded me into this perfect killing machine.
The ride to Vincent's neighborhood stretched endlessly. Hector insisted on driving, trapping me in the passenger seat while I stoically endured his commentary on my failings.
"You were my greatest achievement, you know," Hector said, navigating pre-dawn streets. "When they brought you in, you were just this scrawny little Bosnian kid with a homemade knife. I'm the one who told Prometheus you had potential."
"How generous of you," I muttered, checking my weapon for the third time.
"I wasn't wrong," Hector continued, as if I hadn't spoken. "So what changed?"
I stared out at passing streetlights. "Nothing changed."
"Bullshit." The word cut through tense air. "Three weeks on a contract? That's not the weapon I forged."
"Maybe you didn't train me as well as you thought," I shot back.
