Page 9 of Shadow Waltz

The threat was clear, but I'd heard worse. Had worse done to me, too. Fear was a luxury I couldn't afford anymore.

“What about Miguel?” I asked. “What's his story?”

“Santos has been through the system twice before. Different operation both times, smaller scale. He's proven himself to be... adaptable.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he knows how to survive, how to give his owners what they want while keeping enough of himself intact to be worth keeping around. It's a useful skill.”

I thought about Miguel's defiant grin, the pride that burned in his eyes despite everything he'd been through. If that was what “adaptable” looked like, maybe there was hope for both of us yet.

“Any advice?” I asked.

Carina stood up, smoothing her suit jacket. “Don't be stupid. Don't be a hero. And don't try to save anyone who doesn't want to be saved.”

She moved toward the door, then paused. “For what it's worth, Carter, I hope you find a situation that works for you. You've got potential, and it would be a shame to waste it.”

After she left, I sat back down on the cot and tried to process what had just happened. They knew everything. My real name, my history, probably my shoe size and favorite color. Three years of careful anonymity, blown to hell by whatever sophisticated tracking system they were running.

But knowing was one thing. Controlling was another. I'd learned that lesson the hard way during my time with Whitmore, during the years of psychological manipulation and carefully orchestrated “training” designed to break down my resistance and rebuild me as the perfect pet.

It had worked, for a while. I'd learned to smile when he hurt me, to thank him for privileges that should have been rights, to compete with the other boys for his attention like it was a prize worth winning. I'd learned to be grateful for my cage and to fear the world outside it.

But I'd also learned to watch, to listen, to remember every detail of how his operation worked. And when the opportunity finally came, when age and overconfidence made him careless, I'd used that knowledge to disappear into the night with nothing but the clothes on my back and a head full of secrets that could destroy him.

Now I was back where I started, but I wasn't the same person who'd been dragged kicking and screaming into this life eight years ago. I was older, smarter, harder. I knew how the game was played, and more importantly, I knew how to lose it on my own terms.

Guards brought dinner, more of the same cardboard food and chlorinated water. The crying from down the hall had stopped, replaced by an eerie silence that was somehow worse.

When night fell, or what passed for night in a place without windows, a new voice crackled over the intercom. Smooth and cultured with an accent I couldn't quite place. Eastern European, maybe, but polished by years of expensive education.

“Good evening, lots. Soon, you will have the opportunity to show our clients what you have to offer. Some of you will find new homes, new purposes, new reasons to exist. Others will learn that their value lies elsewhere.”

I'd heard speeches like this before, back at Whitmore's estate and at the smaller operations I'd been sold through over the years. They were all the same, really. Pretty words designed to make slavery sound like opportunity, to convince the merchandise that they were lucky to be here.

“Remember,” the voice continued, “you are no longer individuals with histories and hopes and dreams. You are products now, and your worth will be determined by market forces beyond your control. Embrace this reality, and your transition will be painless. Fight it, and you will discover new definitions of suffering.”

The intercom clicked off, leaving silence behind. But the words echoed in my head, mixing with eight years' worth of similar threats and promises. I'd heard them all before, had believed some of them, had learned to fear others.

But this time was different. This time, I wasn't a scared kid who thought rescue was coming. This time, I was a man with a plan and nothing left to lose.

I pulled my knees to my chest and closed my eyes, not trying to sleep but thinking. Planning. Remembering every detail of every operation I'd been part of, every weakness I'd observed, every moment when the system had shown cracks.

Because somewhere in all that accumulated knowledge was the key to bringing this whole thing down. Not just escaping, notjust surviving, but actually destroying the machine that had been feeding on people like me for decades.

It wouldn't be easy. It might not even be possible. But I owed it to seventeen-year-old Ash, who'd died screaming in a cell just like this one. I owed it to Cass, who'd never gotten the chance to see what they could become.

And I owed it to every kid who was going to end up here after me, who'd be processed and catalogued and sold like I had been, who'd learn that the world was full of monsters wearing human faces.

Because the waltz was about to begin, and I intended to change the music.

2

WAITING FOR THE HAMMER

ASH

The marks I'd scratched into the mortar beside my cot told a story I wished I could forget. Four vertical lines, then a diagonal slash. The days bleeding together like watercolors in the rain, each one indistinguishable from the last except for the growing weight of what was coming.