Page 7

I woke to fingers digging into my bicep, yanking me upright. Sleep evaporated instantly as my brain fired into defense mode. Pure instinct took over. I came up swinging, a wild haymaker aimed at the shadowy figure.

"Up and at 'em, hotshot." Hector's gravelly voice sliced through darkness, his calloused hand catching my fist mid-air. "Still sloppy when you first wake up. I taught you better than that."

The sudden jerk sent my blanket sliding to the floor, leaving me gloriously, defiantly naked with impressive morning wood standing at full attention.

Hector recoiled, dropping my arm as if burned. "Jesus Christ, put that thing away. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me ?" I snapped, now fully awake and reaching for boxers. "You're the one who broke into my fucking room while I was sleeping."

"Not breaking in when I have override clearance," he said, flicking on the light without warning .

From across the room, a knife whizzed through the air, embedding itself in the wall inches from Hector's head with a solid thunk.

"For fuck's sake, some of us were sleeping," Lo's sleep-rough voice called from his bed.

He pushed up a pink silk eye mask emblazoned with "BEAUTY QUEEN" in glittering letters, another knife already in hand.

"Take your macho bullshit to the hallway before I put the next one through both your skulls. "

Hector turned his back to me. "We're going hunting. Your target has waited long enough. Get dressed."

I didn't respond, just continued dressing. "I have three days. Frankie said—"

"And I say we're going now," Hector countered, voice flat. "Consider it a performance review."

"At five in the morning?" I tucked my backup knife into my boot.

"Perfect time to catch a target unaware." Hector moved to my closet, yanking it open as if he owned the place. He pulled out my tactical vest. "You'll need this. We're doing this properly."

"I have my own methods," I said, ignoring the vest.

"Yes, I've heard all about your methods." His words dripped contempt, acid eating through my defenses. "What happened to you, Luka? You used to be the best."

"I still am the best."

"Prove it," Hector challenged, tossing gear onto my bed. "Right fucking now."

Rage bubbled beneath my skin. Years of resentment, decades of being treated like equipment rather than a person. It all threatened to boil over. Each breath burned in my lungs as I fought to maintain composure, to hide the rebellion brewing inside.

"What's so special about this therapist, anyway?" Hector asked, voice dropping to something almost curious beneath the contempt .

I thought of Vincent watering his plants, Vincent's genuine smile as he greeted the homeless woman, Vincent leaning forward during our session, seeing right through my bullshit with those perceptive eyes.

"He's just a contract," I lied, words tasting like ash on my tongue.

Hector snorted. "A contract you can't seem to fulfill. Prometheus thinks you've gone soft. I think it's worse than that."

I adjusted my shoulder holster, using the moment to control the rage building in my chest. "And what's that?"

"I think you've forgotten what you are." Hector stepped closer, invading my space. "You're not a person, Luka. You're a weapon. My weapon. The best one I ever crafted. And now you're risking everything over some fucking therapist."

The way he said Vincent's profession like it was dirty made my blood boil.

Vincent was the first person who'd seen me as more than a weapon, who'd looked past the killer to the broken person beneath.

The thought of Hector taking that away, of Vincent's gentle eyes going empty and lifeless, twisted my stomach into knots that threatened to snap my spine.

"Maybe I'm tired of being your fucking weapon," I said, words escaping before I could stop them.

Hector's eyes widened slightly. "Then you're of no use to anyone. And we both know what happens to tools that no longer serve their purpose."

The threat hung between us, tangible as Lo's thrown knife.

I forced a smile, all teeth and no warmth. "Good thing I'm still the best tool in the shed, then. Let's go see what this therapist is made of, shall we?"

Every cell screamed in rebellion against Hector, against Prometheus, against the entire fucking Pantheon. Against the system that had stolen my childhood and molded me into this perfect killing machine.

The ride to Vincent's neighborhood stretched endlessly. Hector insisted on driving, trapping me in the passenger seat while I stoically endured his commentary on my failings.

"You were my greatest achievement, you know," Hector said, navigating pre-dawn streets. "When they brought you in, you were just this scrawny little Bosnian kid with a homemade knife. I'm the one who told Prometheus you had potential."

"How generous of you," I muttered, checking my weapon for the third time.

"I wasn't wrong," Hector continued, as if I hadn't spoken. "So what changed?"

I stared out at passing streetlights. "Nothing changed."

"Bullshit." The word cut through tense air. "Three weeks on a contract? That's not the weapon I forged."

"Maybe you didn't train me as well as you thought," I shot back.

Hector's laugh emerged cold, mirthless. "I trained you perfectly. Broke you down and rebuilt you exactly as ordered. You remember those early days, mijo? When you'd cry yourself to sleep every night?"

My jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. "Fuck you."

"You stopped crying eventually," Hector continued, pride in his voice making my skin crawl. "That was when I knew we were getting somewhere. When the tears stopped and the real work began."

I remembered. God, I remembered. Hector waking me at all hours, throwing me into training scenarios without warning.

Hector holding my head underwater until my lungs burned, teaching me to "embrace the panic.

" Hector making me memorize every bone in the human body by breaking each one on a medical skeleton, over and over until I could recite them in my sleep .

Hector had been the architect of my evolution from traumatized child to perfect killer.

"Lucky for both of us, I'm a quick study," I said.

"Quicker than most. But I'm starting to wonder if you're slipping. Getting sentimental in your old age."

"I'm thirty-two."

"Ancient in our business," Hector replied. "Most don't live past thirty."

We lapsed into silence as Hector parked two blocks from Vincent's building. Dawn broke, sky transitioning from black to deep blue. Vincent would be up soon, starting his morning routine with the plants.

My chest tightened at the thought of Vincent's morning ritual playing out with Hector watching. It crawled under my skin, invasive in a way my own surveillance never had. Like I was betraying Vincent by letting someone else witness those private moments.

Which was completely fucked up. I was supposed to kill the man, not protect his conversations with houseplants.

"Here," Hector said, handing me a rifle case. "We'll set up on the east roof. Good sightline to the target's kitchen and bedroom."

My usual spot. He'd done his homework.

"I have a better location," I lied. "Northwest corner building. Less exposed."

Hector studied me. "Show me."

The northwest building was actually decent, just not my preferred one. The angle was slightly off, making precision shots more challenging, but it would do while I figured out how to escape this nightmare.

I assembled my rifle, hyper-aware of Hector's critical gaze.

"Still using the Remington?" he asked, setting up his own weapon .

"It works for me," I replied, adjusting my scope.

Hector snorted. "Sentimental. Didn't I teach you better?"

"It's reliable," I said flatly.

Hector made a noncommittal sound, peering through his scope. "Target's apartment is still dark."

"He gets up at six." The words tumbled out automatically before I could stop them. I clamped my mouth shut, cursing internally. Too familiar. Too invested.

Hector's sideways glance burned cold, packed with judgment. "You've certainly memorized his schedule."

"It's called being fucking thorough," I countered, jaw tightening. "Something you pounded into me for twenty years."

Hector lowered his rifle. "And is that why you've been seeing him for therapy? Thoroughness?"

Ice slid down my spine. "Frankie told you."

"Frankie didn't have to tell me anything. I do my own research. Interesting approach, getting him to psychoanalyze you. What's the endgame? Stockholm syndrome?"

"It's called building trust," I said, the lie tasting weak on my tongue. "Getting close to assess potential complications."

"Complications like what? He's a civilian therapist with no security detail and a predictable routine. The complication appears to be you, mijo."

I bristled at the endearment. "Don't call me that. I'm not your son."

"No," Hector agreed, something almost like regret flickering across his features. "But you are my creation, which is why this behavior is so disappointing."

"Fuck your disappointment," I snapped. "You don't know anything about—"

"Light's on," Hector interrupted, attention snapping to his scope. "Target's up."

My heart performed its own combat drill against my ribcage as I swung my scope toward Vincent's apartment. Bathroom light first. Three minutes, then the kitchen. Both comforting and terrifying how well I knew his rhythm.

As soft kitchen lights illuminated pre-dawn darkness, my mouth dried to desert sand. From this angle, I could see him moving, still in pajama bottoms, chest bare as he filled his kettle. The sight of him alive, breathing, and beautifully unaware sent nausea clawing up my throat.