“How did you...” My voice betrayed me, cracking before I could finish.
His head tilted slightly, studying me with clinical detachment. “Interesting.” The word carried no inflection. “Your survival instincts are so minimal.”
He moved toward me with liquid grace, each step unhurried. The bed stood between us, but it might as well have been tissue paper for all the protection it offered. He glided around it in a single fluid motion that brought him three feet closer without seeming to exert any effort at all. Every movement spoke of lethal efficiency, of a body trained to kill with maximum efficacy and minimal waste.
My odds didn’t look too good right now, but Xavier had taught me to put up a fight. To not go down without a struggle. If it came to that, that was what I’d do.
My breath came in audible gasps, while his breathing remained imperceptible. A chill emanated from him, as though his very presence lowered the surrounding temperature. I forced myself to focus through the panic. Exits, weapons, options—all the things Xavier taught me to catalog instantly.
“You should be dead already.” His voice held a question beneath the statement. There was something new there—a hint of confusion or irritation that wasn’t present during our first encounter. He was talking to himself as much as to me.
My eyes darted to the window—twelve feet away, third floor, concrete below. Bathroom—he’d already proven that wasn’t an escape route. Door—blocked by six feet of lethal operative.
“Why didn’t I kill you?” He circled closer, eyes never leaving mine. It wasn’t a taunt but a genuine question, as if he was searching for an external explanation for his failure.
My back met the wall with a soft thud. The plaster felt cold against my shoulders. I opened my mouth to speak, to say anything at all, but no words came out.
A flicker of something crossed his face—so brief I almost missed it. Not emotion, but… curiosity? He took another step closer, close enough that I could feel the chill radiating from him.
“You asked me a question.” Another statement wrapped around an accusation. “In the garage. No one asks questions.”
The memory of that moment burned bright—his hand at my throat, death in his eyes, my desperate words thrown out like a lifeline:What’s your name? Your real name, not your designation.
With a shaky hand, I pointed my knife in his direction, lifting it a little higher, even though it seemed so unimportant, so tiny, in comparison to the man who stood before me.
“Don’t.” A single word, filled with absolute authority.
The space between us vanished to nothing. Two feet of empty air became charged with menace. He wasn’t touching me, yet his presence alone constricted my breathing like a physical weight on my chest.
“What did you do to me?” His voice dropped lower, colder. “What triggered my hesitation? My operational failure?”
Operational failure. The term pierced through my fear, igniting a spark of understanding. The pieces clicked into place. As I suspected, this wasn’t just an assassin—he was a programmed weapon. A man unmade and rebuilt. Everything I theorized about Xavier confirmed in two cold words. I opened my mouth to speak, but once again, found myself at a loss for words.
His eyes narrowed fractionally. “Explain.”
I could hear my heartbeat thundering in my ears. I needed time. I needed answers. I needed to survive.
“I didn’t do anything to you.” I forced strength into my voice. “You did it yourself. Whatever they programmed you to be, the real you is still in there somewhere.”
His expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his eyes—like ice cracking silently beneath the surface of a frozen lake. I just had to…reach him.
“Did you drug me?” Reaper leaned closer, his voice dangerously soft.
I blinked. “What?”
“In the garage.” His eyes drilled into mine, searching for deception. “Some kind of chemical agent? Slow-release toxin?”
Despite everything, a surprised laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “With what? My journalism degree?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw—a tiny imperfection in his perfect control. The slight motion fascinated me. Proof that a human still existed beneath the programming.
“Something caused operational failure. The parameters were clear.”
I pressed myself harder against the wall, mind racing. Outside, I heard the faint sound of car doors closing. The backup team my source warned about. Minutes, maybe seconds, before they reached my room.
“You hesitated because I asked your name.” I kept my voice steady, watching his reaction. “That’s not chemicals. That’s your mind fighting whatever they did to you.”
His fist moved with blinding speed. One moment it was at his side, the next it was buried in the wall beside my head. Plaster dust rained down onto my shoulder, a sharp contrast to the control of his strike. I flinched as the wall crumbled beside me, but somehow, I kept my composure. I didn’t budge.
