Page 9 of Shadows of Steel

The second time I’ve taken a life.

The universe must be laughing at my expense.

I stare at his lifeless body.

Numb.

My pulse is thunder in my ears, and yet, I feel nothing.

No guilt.

No remorse.

Just a grim sense of inevitability, as though this moment was always going to happen.

The distant sound of shouting jolts me back to reality. Someone must have heard the gunshot, and called the cops.

The distant wail of sirens grows louder, the sound clawing at my nerves as they draw closer. Blue and red lights flashagainst the cold walls, casting eerie shadows across the chaos. Everything feels distant, muted, like I’m moving through water. I barely register the paramedics rushing past me toward the body sprawled on the ground. Somehow, I’m the one being led away, wrists bound, shoved into the back of a police car as though I’m the criminal.

The irony burns. The real monster lies unconscious on the pavement, blood spreading beneath him, yet I’m the one in chains.

The ride to the station is a blur, the city lights streaking across the windows in a dizzying cascade. By the time they shove me into the interrogation room, my body feels like it doesn’t belong to me. The room is sterile, harshly lit, with a single metal table and two chairs. A glass of water sits untouched on the table, condensation dripping down its sides. I ignore it, my hands resting loosely on my lap, nails pressing into my palms hard enough to sting.

My breathing is shallow, the weight of the room pressing in on my chest, but I force myself to focus.

Inhale.

Hold.

Exhale.

The method kicks in automatically, a reflex I’ve honed over years of keeping panic at bay.

Inhale.

Hold.

Exhale.

My eyes fix on the table, the smooth, reflective surface grounding me in the present.

I won’t fall apart.

Not here.

Not now.

Not ever.

Burn me, break me, bury me but I’ll rise from the ashes sharper than before, my fire too fierce to extinguish.

The silence in the room is deafening, but my thoughts are louder. Each breath steadies me just enough to hold it together, but the memories claw at the edges of my mind. They linger like shadows, refusing to be silenced.

The door opens, and a man steps in. Middle-aged, wearing a uniform, and an attitude that enters the room before he does. He looks at me like I’m a bug he’s deciding whether to squash.

He takes a sit across from me, dragging a chair with an obnoxious screech. He doesn’t speak right away, just stares like he’s waiting for me to crack.

Finally, he leans forward, his lips curling into a sardonic smile. “Self-defence,” he says, his tone laced with sarcasm, his faint accent drawing out the syllables. “That’s your story? You’re just a fragile little girl who had to protect herself?”