“She’s not hunting monsters,” the woman said. “She’s hunting ghosts. And when she finally realizes they can’t be fixed, that what’s left is hollow—that’s when we break her.”
The body on the gurney twitched. His jaw clenched faintly.
“Sedation’s wearing thin,” the man said. “I’ll hit him again. If he doesn’t feed tonight, we prep disposal.”
“Start the next one immediately. The girl from the train station?”
“She’s prepped. Tranquilized. Stable.”
“Good. Keep her clean. No bruising. If we want the body found, it has to look like someone else’s work.”
The man nodded and started gathering tools—syringes, gloves, wipes. As he worked, the woman turned back to the glass, watching the body twitch. Her hatred for Charlotte Everhart wasn’t just professional. It was personal. Charlotte made people hope. She made them believe there was still something worth saving beneath all this rot. And hope, to them, was the most dangerous contagion of all.
“She won’t stop,” the man said again, this time softer. “But she’s slowing. You can see it.”
The woman didn’t look away. “Why?”
He handed her a decoded report, redacted lines peeling back like old scars. “There’s tension,” he said. “Between her and Marcel. She called Graham Cullen for help.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Tension? That fast?”
“She’s not fragile,” he said. “Just tired. She’s spent years letting her daughters grow up. Letting go. They’re strong,independent. All in stable relationships. She finally started thinking about herself again. And she chose him.”
“Alex Marcel,” the woman said. “She put her needs ahead of him.”
He nodded. “And now there’s distance. She went to see Gideon without telling him.”
“Source?”
“Nathan Stokes. Inside the task force. Still thinks we’re the lesser evil. He’s careful. Their lead is FBI—wants it quiet.”
The woman smiled faintly. “Let them fight. We’ll collect what’s left.”
“And the prison?”
“Pratt. Med tech. He’s the one who moved Gideon’s body to the morgue. Said Charlotte and Cullen showed up right before he died. Warden was livid.”
The man leaned back. “So now that Gideon’s dead, the government board gives the kids the green light.”
“They always hated Gideon’s theatrics. Monroe’s clean. Efficient. Exactly what they wanted.”
He looked toward the wall of monitors. One feed showed Monroe gliding through a cleanroom, expression sharp, movements exact. “They’re ready.”
The woman nodded. “Then so are we.”
“What about Marcel?”
“We wait,” she said. “Let the space between them widen. Let the job wear her down. When she’s truly alone—then we take him.”
“To kill him?”
“No. To use him. He’s federal. Respected. Let Monroe handle it. Turn him into a husk.”
“And if he doesn’t break?”
She didn’t blink. “Everyone breaks. Eventually.”
Cleanroom – Later
