“Sir, we should consider evacuating,” a nervous doctor said, fingers tapping against a clipboard. “All emergency protocols triggering simultaneously.”
“It’s a system malfunction,” Brock cut him off, voice cold and certain. “There is no scenario where every alarm would activate at once unless someone were manipulating the system. Find Security Chief Anders and have him implement countermeasures.” His eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. “Now stop wasting time and administer the injection.”
The doctor swallowed hard but didn’t move. “The subject is approaching critical thresholds,” he argued, gesturing at monitoring equipment. “The compound is meeting unprecedented resistance. Her system is fighting back somehow.”
Brock’s voice carried the same cold detachment I remembered from my own conditioning, the tone that accompanied unimaginable pain. “Time is critical. Give her more compound.”
“You’re too impatient, sir. It could kill her. The readings are critical.”
Brock leaned forward, his expression hardening to granite. “The resistance reaction means the programming is working. Breaking through neural barriers. She’ll become the perfect handler-asset match with her brother. Complementary skills. Increase dosage. Now.”
The tone of his voice suggested he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and the doctor must haveknown the price he would’ve paid for any more debate. The doctor hesitated, then reached for the IV drip control.
I calculated odds, mapping personnel positions, exit routes, and defensive capabilities. Every scenario ended with high casualty probability and uncertain extraction. The time window narrowed with each passing second.
Maeve’s body arched against the restraints, a silent scream contorting her face.
The sight tore through my programming like a blade through flesh.
Decision made.
I crashed through the medical chamber door with explosive force, metal hinges shearing under impact. The first guard pivoted toward the noise, training betrayed by startled instinct. My hands found pressure points at his neck before his weapon cleared the holster, rendering him unconscious.
The guard dropped, and the room froze in tableau: surgical lights casting harsh shadows across faces locked in terror.
A doctor and nurse stood paralyzed beside Maeve’s convulsing form. Their wide eyes darted between me and the fallen guard. Medical equipment beeped frantically, monitoring Maeve’s erratic vital signs as amber fluid pumped steadily through IV lines into her veins.
“Get out!” I yelled.
They didn’t need to be told twice. White coats fluttered as they fled, abandoning stations with practiced urgency. Thesepeople had seen what happened when assets malfunctioned. Professional ethics crumbled beneath the survival instinct.
Across Maeve’s trembling body, Brock stared at me. His expression transformed from clinical detachment to recognition, then something I’d never seen on his face before… fear. For the first time in my fractured memory, I saw genuine terror strip away his careful control. I fought the urge to allow my lips to curve upward. Oh, how much I had wanted to see this expression on his face. Back then, when he had turned me into an asset, and right now, when he had taken Maeve away from me. I had proved to be wrong. Brock was more stupid than I anticipated. Hedidn’tsee me coming. That was my advantage right now.
“Impossible,” he whispered, knuckles white against the surgical tray. He looked like he had seen a ghost. “She said you were dying.”
We stood motionless across Maeve’s prostrate form—handler and asset, creator and creation, partners before he betrayed me.
“Kill him,” he ordered the remaining guards, already backing toward a reinforced exit door. “I have preparations to make elsewhere.”
Three guards advanced towards me, weapons raised. Brock retreated, keycard already in hand.
“She’ll be like her brother soon,” he called over his shoulder, voice steady despite his rapid retreat. “I always collect the complete set.”
“You will not get away with this, Brock,” I called out, my voice cold.
“You were always the weapon,” Brock continued, punching access codes into the security panel, “but I was the brain behind our operations. I made you what you are. Now I’ll finally have the recognition I deserve.”
The reinforced door hissed shut behind him. The metallic click of the lock engaging ignited something primal within me.
The first guard fired. I moved before the sound completed, my body flowing between bullets with inhuman speed. Not the mechanical precision of Reaper, but something more primal—the desperate efficiency of a man fighting for something irreplaceable. His larynx yielded beneath calculated pressure, and unconsciousness was immediate.
The second guard backed away, weapon trained on center mass. I vaulted over a monitoring station, driving my knee into his solar plexus. Air whooshed from his lungs as he crumpled, unconscious, before he hit the floor.
The third guard emptied his magazine in panicked bursts. I positioned myself to draw fire away from Maeve, dodging with controlled movements. One bullet grazed my shoulder, hot pain that registered and dismissed in the same moment. Three strides closed the distance between us. My hand found the nerve cluster at the base of his neck, pressure applied. His eyes rolled back as consciousness left him.
No unnecessary deaths. Maeve would want that. The thought surfaced with absolute certainty—her influence already changing how I operated.
The blood from the guards coated my hands, spattered across my face. I stood amid the carnage, breathing heavily—notfrom exertion but something I rarely allowed myself to feel: rage. The cold calculation of the assassin gave way to something raw and protective—something human.
