“They,” he repeated, the word emerging like something toxic. His voice dropped to something dangerous, barely audible. “There is no ‘they.’”
I didn’t flinch. Icouldn’tflinch. My body had gone beyond fear into some strange, calm clarity.
His eyes flickered—confusion, pain, anger rippling across their surface like lightning over dark water. Then nothing, like it all shuttered again. His fist remained embedded in the wall, effectively caging me in place.
“I exist to complete missions,” he stated, each word mechanical. “I am a weapon.”
The words sounded rehearsed, programmed—but beneath them, I heard the faintest tremor. A note of uncertainty that didn’t belong in his perfect delivery.
“Everyone has a name,” I said softly. “Even weapons.”
His jaw clenched with such force that I could hear his teeth grinding. The tendons in his neck stood out like steel cables. For a terrifying moment, I was certain he’d kill me—crush my throat or snap my neck with the same efficiency he’d used to destroy the wall.
Instead, he slammed his fist into the wall again, harder this time. More plaster crumbled. The entire wall shook.
“Stop. Talking.” Each word emerged through gritted teeth.
But I could see it now—the war happening behind his eyes. The perfect operative fracturing from within.
His breathing changed—a barely perceptible shift, but I caught it. Two measured inhales where before there had been none. Control reasserting itself over whatever storm I’d unleashed.
“Do it again.” His voice dropped to something dangerous and soft.
I blinked. “What?”
“Make me falter.” He leaned closer, his face inches from mine. “Prove what you’re implying.”
The command hung between us, sharp as a blade. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. The memory of his pain when I’d asked his name in the garage—that flash of agony crossing his features, the blood trickling from his nose—made me pause. I wanted tohelphim, not cause more pain.
“Well?” Impatience sharpened his tone.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whispered. The rest of the world slowed around us—even the danger that I knew was undoubtedly looming over us. He went completely still. Even his breathing stopped for a beat.
“You’re concerned about hurting me.” His voice was flat, disbelieving. “I’ve been sent to kill you, and you’re worried about causing me pain?”
When he put it that way, it did sound absurd. Still, I couldn’t deny the truth in it.
“Yes.”
His eyes narrowed, searching my face. “You’re manipulating me.”
“No.” I shook my head slightly. “Whatever they did to you—whoever programmed you—the process of breaking through it hurts you physically. I saw it happen. I don’t want it to happen again. I want to help you…but not like that.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Just ask me my name again.”
“It’s not that simple.” I swallowed. “Memory recovery isn’t like flipping a switch. It’s not reliable or predictable.”
His hand shot out, gripping my throat. Not enough to cut off my air, just enough to remind me of my vulnerability, of who was in control.
“Then find something that will work,” he growled. “Now.”
My pulse hammered against his palm. What could I ask that might crack through his programming? Something unexpected. Something he wouldn’t have prepared defenses against.
“What’s your favorite food?” I asked.
His expression shifted to confusion. “What?”
“Do you prefer coffee or tea?” I continued.
