He advanced on me, fury radiating from him. “You’re trying to compromise me...”
“If Iwantedto compromise you,” I countered, meeting his gaze, “I would have used the full sequence. I only know fragments.”
“You know what I think?” He loomed over me, voice dangerously soft. “I think you’re lying. About everything. The brother. The informant. All of it.”
Something inside me snapped.
“You think I’d make this up?” I shoved against his chest, surprising us both. “You think I enjoy being hunted across continents? Having assassins break into my motel room? I’m here because my brother is suffering just like you are!” tears rushed to my eyes. This was a stupid idea; I should have known. After our initial contact, I had been foolishly confident that I would be able to reach him, even though I knew programming like this took months, if not years. One encounter wouldn’t be enough to convince him I was telling the truth. “I’m trying to fucking help you! You can fight it all you want, but Iknowyou know something isn’t adding up!”
Reaper grabbed my wrist, not painfully, but firmly enough to stop me. We stood frozen for a moment, his eyes searching mine. Something inside me cracked—weeks of fear, frustration, and desperate hope.
“My brother is real.” Each word emerged with painful clarity. “I’ve been shot at, threatened, nearly killed—all to find him. If you think what I’m saying is nonsense,” I challenged quietly, “this shouldn’t affect you.” I took a deep breath and spoke clearly, “Mention. Clockwork.”
The reaction was catastrophic. Reaper’s body went rigid, his back arching as if struck by electricity. A guttural soundtore from his throat—not quite a scream, but something primal and agonized. Both hands clutched his head as blood streamed from both nostrils now.
He dropped to his knees, eyes unfocused and glassy. “What… are you… doing… to me?” Each word seemed to cost him tremendous effort.
Horror washed through me as I watched him suffer. This was worse than I’d expected. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t know it would be this bad. I’m just showing you the truth.”
Reaper tried to rise, muscles straining. For a moment, he managed to get one foot under him, swaying unsteadily. His eyes found mine, filled with something between fury and terror.
“Mae...” he started to say, but couldn’t finish. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud.
“Reaper!” I rushed forward, dropping to my knees beside his unconscious form. His pulse hammered beneath my fingers—too fast, but strong. Blood still trickled from his nose, bright red against his pale skin.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, grabbing a cloth from one of the supply containers to wipe the blood from his face. “But you needed to see.”
With shaking hands, I dragged the mattress closer to where he lay. I couldn’t move him—he was too heavy—but I could make him more comfortable. I arranged his limbs into a less awkward position, then dampened part of the cloth with water.
As I pressed the cool cloth to his forehead, I studied his face—relaxed now in unconsciousness, younger somehow, the hard lines of the assassin softened. Who was he before all this? What life had they stolen from him?
There was no way to tell whether he would believe me once he woke up, much less if he would try to kill me again. This was my one shot—and the rationale in my mind was shouting at me to run. To leave all of this behind and keep looking for my brother. But, no matter how much the logical part of my head told me to do so, my body refused to budge. My heart refused to let go. I decided to stay here with him, and deal with the consequences as they came.
Besides, this could be my only chance to learn more. I hesitated, then carefully searched his pockets. In his pockets was a phone—military grade, probably encrypted. And underneath it, something unexpected: a small, worn poker chip. Not even a valuable one—just a basic red chip like you’d find in any casino. The incongruity of it stopped me cold. Why would a mind-controlled assassin carry something so ordinary, so… personal?
I turned it over in my fingers, wondering.
“Who are you?” I whispered to his unconscious form. “What’s your real name, Reaper?”
Chapter 5
Reaper
White light burned through my eyelids.
I couldn’t move. Leather straps bit into my wrists and ankles. The metal table beneath me leached heat from my body like a corpse drawer. Every muscle strained against the restraints until my tendons threatened to snap.
A mechanical whir came from above. Something descended from the ceiling. I forced my eyes open against the harsh light, blinking away involuntary tears that had nothing to do with emotion.
Masked figures in white coats watched from behind glass. Observing. Evaluating. Their faces were blank—clinical. Like I was a specimen under a microscope. Not human. Never human.
“Subject 27 demonstrates remarkable resilience to standard memory suppression techniques,” a voice announced. It scraped against my mind, familiar yet unknown. “Proceeding to Protocol Prima.”
I pulled against the restraints until blood slicked my wrists. My strength—the power I rely on to kill—had abandoned me.
A woman approached, her face hidden behind a surgical mask. Electrodes dangled from her gloved hands. “This will reset the neural pathways that access episodic memory.” She spoke to someone outside my field of vision. “The pain response helps encode the new programming.”
Cold metal pressed against my temples. I braced myself, but nothing could prepare me for what followed.
