I hesitated.
The realization stunned me. Ineverhesitated.
“One of whom?” The question escaped before I could stop it. Why did I ask? Why wasn’t she dead yet?
Her eyes widened. Not just fear now. Something else. Recognition. Her pulse hammered against my palm.
“The people who took you,” she whispered. “Who broke you apart and put you back together wrong.”
The words made no sense. She should have been begging, threatening, bargaining. Not this… whatever this was.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice sounded strange. Uncertain. My grip loosened some more. This had never happened before.
“I know you don’t.” A small whisper left her lips. I thought she was playing tricks with me…trying to mess with my mind, but as I stared into her eyes, I saw nothing but conviction. She wascertainshe knew who I was. And how could she, when I didn’t even know it myself? “That’s the fucking tragedy of it. You don’t even know who you were before they got hold of you.”
The question struck like a physical blow. Something shifted behind my eyes, pupils dilating, straining as if trying to read invisible text. My vision blurred, fragmented. Images flashed—white rooms, restraints, voices saying, “Again.” Pain beyond description. Someone screaming. I didn’t sleep much, but sometimes, when I did, I’d see distant nightmares of moments like these. They would move in a blur, just out of reach, like fragmented clutter of my tortured mind. Considering my job, it was no surprise. This, however, was the first time something likethishad happened.
“What’s your name?” she asked, voice gentler now despite the tears.
“Reaper.” The response was automatic. Programmed.
Her face softened, despite the fear in her eyes. “No, not your code name. Your real name.” More silence followed. I didn’t fully understand the question. “You don’t remember, do you? Not a single thing from before.”
My grip tightened instinctively, then loosened. Wrong response. Inefficient. What was happening? System malfunction. Operational error.
“How do you...” I started, my voice unfamiliar to my own ears. Rough. Uncertain. Wrong.
Her hand moved slowly toward her coat pocket. I should have stopped her. I should have completed the mission. Instead, I watched, caught in the undertow of something I couldn’t name.
“I was investigating them,” she said, a little louder now, like she was gathering the courage to speak up in front of the predator himself. “Human experimentation. I found evidence of their program. Found you.”
“Impossible.” But even as I said it, something fractured behind my eyes. Pain exploded behind my eyes. White-hot, blinding. A drop of warmth slid down my upper lip. Blood. I let out a loud groan, feeling the urge to let go of her and yank on my hair to feel some release. Everything around me blurred, but somehow, I kept my grip tight. The episode passed after several seconds.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
I almost laughed. For what? The pathetic knife attack? The inevitable failure of her escape? But the laugh didn’t come because her knee drove upward, connecting perfectly between my legs.
Pain exploded through my body. Unexpected. Effective.
My stance wavered—another operational failure—and I staggered back half a step. Not debilitating, but… disruptive. My body hadn’t registered pain like this in… I couldn’t remember. Did I feel pain during missions? The question itself was disturbing. Of course, I felt pain. I was human.
Wasn’t I?
She didn’t waste the opening. “I’m really sorry,” she said again, then bolted past me toward the exit ramp. I should have pursued her immediately. The protocol dictated zero tolerance for mission compromise. My muscles twitched to respond, but I remained still, processing what had just happened.
The injury itself was inconsequential. My response to it was not. The questions forming in my mind were not.
Her footsteps faded. In the distance, I heard the metallic thunk of an emergency exit door. Then silence.
I straightened, touching my temple where pressure built. Something had ruptured inside my skull. Not physically. Something worse.
What if she was right?
I’d eliminated targets across thirty-seven countries. Never questioned my purpose. Never failed. I recalled each face with perfect clarity. Yet I couldn’t conjure a single memory before my first mission. Before Reaper.
Why her? What made Maeve Durham different? And what was she talking about?
The name triggered another spike of pain, bringing with it a flash—glass observation walls, men in lab coats, my own reflection showing vacant eyes.
