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prologue

Twenty-two years ago.

Project: Blood Assassin

Subject: Four

Day: 730

Time: 18:03

Subject Four hasn’t been delivering satisfactory results. Until now.

Physical discipline didn’t yield such positive outcomes as psychological distress. The implement of“white torture,” which we started three months ago, finally turned Four unresponsive, nearly catatonic to people and the surrounding environment. We converted the Subject’s cell, clothes, and even food to be entirely white. Guards now wear all white, lights are kept ontwenty-four hours a day, and no words are spoken. No other color is seen.

While the physical pain of sensory deprivation is minimal compared to other methods we have used in the past, the psychological repercussions are substantial. The Subject must be broken, his mind wiped out, made a white canvas, ready to be molded as we please. Four’s present state suggests we can finally make some progress.

Nevertheless, if the Subject’s weak and fearful nature is still present after our countless attempts to eradicate it, perhaps we need to face the fact that Four is not qualified for this experiment.

The Subject’s elimination might be inevitable, same as Subject One.

one

SARIEL

PRESENT DAY

“Did you use sunscreen? The one I sent you the link to. Don’t want you to turn into a roasted kebab.” Lori adjusts the strap of his purse on his shoulder as we walk down one of the sidewalks near Lincoln Park. The grayish blanket of snow is covering most of the asphalt making the sole of my boots crunch with every step I take. I pull up the collar of my coat; it’s a sunny day, but we are still in the middle of winter.

“I forgot to apply it today,” I confess.

“Even your bros haven’t killed as many people as melanoma. Isn’t that reason enough to use sunscreen, Angel?”

My lips curl at Lori’sLoriness. I look down at my pearl white fingernails. We just finished a mani-pedi session. Lori insisted I needed some out-of-the-lab time—which I allow myself regularly to attend Lori’s yoga classes. Today that class morphed into “brunch and drunk,” as Rami called it. That’s why I’mcarrying a bag filled with hand creams and nail polishes to the diner where some of my brothers are waiting.

I spot a woman pushing a baby stroller coming our way. The dog on her leash is so comically cute. Its fur is white as a cloud, has a flat nose, big bat ears, and short legs. I crouch down as it starts pulling excitedly on the leash while panting and gasping with his brown eyes focused on me.

The woman stops with a smile as her dog happily greets me, licking and sniffing my hand. After a few moments, her kid in the stroller starts crying.

“Oh, is it my fault? I’m sorry,” I tell her, giving my furry friend a last pat before straightening up. My braid falls heavily on my shoulder, and I flick it behind my back.

She doesn’t have time to answer me as her child’s cry abruptly halts. The kid is staring at Lori now, seemingly taken aback by my friend’s appearance. Big, soft curls frame his face, red lips are in a pout, and the green cat-eye sunglasses look very cute on him.

Lori is looking with a raised eyebrow at the child now picking his nose. “He’s…charming,” he states with sarcasm.

“She…likes you, perhaps.” The mother touches the pink bow on the child’s head as to emphasize Lori’s mistake.

“She?” My friend soundstoobaffled.

“What?” She glares at him.

“Lori?” I try hesitantly.

“I can give you the name of my esthetician. She can surely help with those bushy brows and mustache.”

The mother makes a growly sound, looking like she is hyperventilating. Her cheeks have turned red and the expression on her face is appalled.

Lori bends down to have a one-on-one with the child, not in the least sorry or intimidated by the woman. “Oh well, kiddo, looks don’t matter. Study hard, and you’ll turn into my dear friend Sari here. Alone and overworked.”