Page 19 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

Reaper

Mission parameters. Focus on mission parameters.

But for the first time in my memory, the familiar mental checklist yielded nothing but static. I uncurled my fist, revealing the red poker chip embedded so deeply in my palm it had drawn blood. When had I taken it from my pocket? Who had given it to me? What did it mean?

More importantly—what would remain of me without the programming so thoroughly inserted into every part of my persona?

I slipped the chip back into my pocket. My body went rigid.

Muscles locked as if resisting the question itself.

The programming—designed, enforced, and burned into me through cycles of agony, blood, and the echoes of distant screaming—had once been my structure, even without me knowing it.

My logic. My comfort. It was the only framework I had ever operated within. The only directive I had trusted.

I had always reached for it without hesitation. It had given me a clear objective. A role. A purpose. And now… that structure had fractured. And with it, so did the sense of what—or who—I had been.

My thoughts drifted—off pattern, unstable. I attempted to force a recollection. I searched for memory fragments, anything that existed before they took me. Before they rewrote me, remade me, and removed everything that made me human.

But nothing surfaced. Only pain.

The act of reaching backward in time was met with immediate resistance—a spike of agony behind my eyes, like an old failsafe trying to prevent access. That, too, had been part of the design. And it still worked. Too well.

I paused.

Once, I would have defaulted to speed. A fast solution. Direct action. Input, response, result. That was my process. That was how I was made.

But maybe… this wasn’t a problem to be solved with speed. Maybe this required something I wasn’t built for. Patience. Adaptation. Finesse.

Time .

And that was unfamiliar territory.

I walked with a sigh. One foot in front of the other. Simple mechanical function.

My head continued to pound with each step, glass shards shifting behind my eyes. The narrow pathways of the favela stretched before me like a labyrinth I couldn’t escape. Concrete and corrugated metal. Satellite dishes clustered on rooftops. Electrical wires strung in haphazard webs overhead.

I cataloged essential escape routes. Blind corners.

Camera placements. The data scrolling through my mind fragmented, dissolving into static like a radio losing signal.

I tried to focus on the things that were always my focal point during missions, but I couldn’t, because all of my rationale kept drifting toward one question.

Who am I?

The mystery tore through me like a hollow-point round, expanding on impact. Something ruptured behind my eyes again.

Pain spiked behind my left eye. I pressed my palm against it. Came away wet. Blood. Malfunction. Source unknown. Pain threshold exceeded. Report to the handler for recalibration.

My fingers closed around the poker chip again.

Red plastic, worn edges. I couldn’t understand its relevance, still…

but if, after all I had been through, I somehow managed to keep it—it must have been important.

A crucial part of the man I once used to be.

My thumb traced its ridges in a pattern that felt… practiced. Necessary. Like breathing.

“Double down, jackass. You’re not folding with that hand.”

A voice. A memory? Gone before I could grasp it, leaving behind the taste of expensive whiskey and the lingering scent of cologne that made my nose wrinkle with…

disgust? Familiarity? The sensation of sitting at a felt table flashed through me, cards in hand, someone laughing beside me. Then nothing.

Was this what it felt like to lose one’s mind ?

It most certainly felt that way.

I found myself positioned against a wall, back protected, sight lines clear to three intersecting pathways—standard defensive positioning. I didn’t remember stopping. Another system malfunction. Failure to maintain continuous situational awareness. Critical error.

The rain had tapered to a drizzle. Steam rose from the pavement. Children emerged from doorways, splashing through puddles, their laughter bouncing between buildings. A soccer ball made of taped-together plastic bags rolled past my feet.

One boy retrieved it, looked up at me, then ran back to his friends without fear.

Something twisted in my chest. Sharp. Unfamiliar. Like a blade between ribs.

They’re free.

The thought blindsided me. Free from what? From whom?

Failure to control unauthorized thoughts. Recommend immediate psychological recalibration. Last recorded instance: Asset JD-2399. Termination required.

The memory slammed into me—a man strapped to a chair, eyes wild as they pushed the needle into his neck. His screams cut off mid-breath. A demonstration. A warning.

My vision blurred again. Not from blood this time. Something else. Something I couldn’t—

Maeve.

Her name cut through the chaos in my head. I’d left her alone. Unprotected. Vulnerable .

Mission compromised.

No.

This was different. Not mission parameters. Something else. Something that made my heart rate accelerate beyond acceptable tactical response levels.

I turned back toward the safehouse, pulse elevated, movements quick but controlled. The sun broke through the clouds, catching on the puddles, temporarily blinding me.

My pace increased. Houses and shops blurred together. I scanned for surveillance, for followers, for threats. Nothing. But the certainty grew with each step: leaving her was a critical error.

What if they found her?

The thought sent a surge of something cold through my system.

Not just mission failure. Something worse.

Something that made my chest constrict until breathing became difficult.

I didn’t know when that feeling had taken root in my head, but it was undoubtedly there.

Mistakes were unacceptable during my missions—each one could bring a fatal outcome.

Now, for the first time, there was something for me to lose.

Something other than the red chip that I held onto.

I scaled the back of the building in eighteen seconds. The half-broken window remained as I left it. No signs of forced entry. No disturbance to the makeshift alarm I’d set—a thread stretched across the frame that remained unbroken.

Relief flooded my system. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome. I’d never felt relief before. Never needed to. Emotional response detected. Protocol violation .

I slipped through the window soundlessly, weapon already drawn. Cleared the bathroom first. Empty. Moved to the main room, checking sight lines, corners, positions of advantage.

The safehouse hadn’t changed—still the same cracked plaster walls, the single bulb hanging from frayed wires, the mismatched furniture collected from who-knows-where. But it felt different now. Like something sacred rather than tactical.

I found her at the table, face pressed against her arm, hand still resting on the closed laptop. The room lay quiet except for her soft breathing. A chair sat wedged under the doorknob.

I paused. The improvised security measure wouldn’t stop anyone truly determined to get in.

But something about the gesture caught in my chest. She had tried to protect herself while I was gone.

Because I left her alone. She could have run.

In fact, it would have been the logical response—driven by fear, by instinct.

Prey runs when threatened. That was the natural order. And yet… she hadn’t.

Yes, fleeing would have been a mistake. She would have exposed herself, made herself easier to catch, easier to hurt. But even knowing that, most would still choose escape. Most do. It was hardwired—fight or flight. Survival. But she chose neither.

She stayed. She waited.

For me .

My first scan was automatic. Target status assessment: Breathing pattern: regular. Posture: collapsed from exhaustion, not injury. No visible threats in immediate environment.

But then my assessment… shifted.

Her hair spills across the table in dark waves. One strand clings to her cheek, rising and falling with each breath.

Tactical analysis irrelevant. Focus on mission parameters.

She looks peaceful. Vulnerable.

Emotional entanglement detected. Report for recalibration.

My thoughts warred against each other, programming versus something else breaking through like roots cracking concrete.

A small scrape marked her wrist where she must have caught it during our escape through the maintenance passage. Her fingers curled slightly, as if still holding onto something even in sleep.

I moved closer, steps silent from years of training. She didn’t stir. The laptop was closed, but a notepad beside it showed her handwriting—names, dates, connections. She had continued working after I left. After I abandoned her to face those videos alone.

The realization sat heavy in my stomach. Not a tactical disadvantage. Something else.

Guilt.

Emotional response detected. Guilt classification: Level 3 violation. Immediate handler contact required.

The voice in my head sounded like Brock now. I could almost feel the needle that would follow such a confession. The chair. The restraints. The void where memories should be.

My handler would call this mission compromise. Emotional entanglement with the target. But my handler had lied. About everything. About what I was. About what I had been.

Everything was a lie except her.

I stood over her now, caught between instincts I understood and ones I didn’t.

The tactical part of me categorized her as vulnerable, unprotected.

The other part—the part breaking through the programming—noticed how her eyelashes cast faint shadows on her cheeks.

How one hand twitched slightly as she dreamed.

I reached out, then stopped myself. What was I doing? What impulse drove me to brush that strand of hair from her face? To wake her? To apologize?