Page 114 of The Beast's Broken Angel

“Overwatch in position,” came through my earpiece. Marcus and two others with sniper rifles, ready to clear our path if negotiations went sideways.

Not that I planned to negotiate.

“Security patrol approaching from the east,” Viktor reported. “Two guards, standard pattern. Thirty seconds.”

We pressed deeper into shadows, Noah close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck. The proximity was distracting in ways I couldn't afford right now, but I'd be damned if I'd tell him to move back.

The guards passed, oblivious to death waiting in the darkness. We could have taken them, but bodies would raise alarms too soon. This needed to be quiet until it couldn't be.

“Interior team, go,” I commanded.

Viktor and three others peeled off toward the compound's service entrance, their part of the plan simple: neutralise internal security, secure our exit route, ensure no one interrupted my conversation with Harrison.

“North entrance clear,” Dominic confirmed. “Keycard scanner, but I've got the frequency modulator. Fifteen seconds.”

Those fifteen seconds stretched like hours. Noah shifted beside me, and I caught myself hyperaware of every movement, every breath. Fucked up that I could be thinking about him while preparing to kill the architect of my childhood trauma, but apparently my ability to compartmentalise had limits.

“Got it,” Dominic announced as the lock disengaged with a soft click.

We moved inside, weapons ready but encounters unnecessary. Viktor's team had done their job; unconscious guardslittered the hallways like discarded dolls. Non-lethal takedowns at my specific instruction. These men were just doing a job, following orders. They didn't deserve death for Harrison's sins.

“He's in the main office,” Viktor reported. “Alone. Almost like he's expecting you.”

Of course he was. Harrison had shaped me; he knew I'd come for him eventually. Probably had contingencies planned, final manipulations designed to save his life or destroy what remained of my sanity.

“Maintain perimeter,” I ordered. “No one enters. This is mine.”

“Adrian—” Noah started.

“This is mine,” I repeated, but gentler. “But you can watch. Bear witness, like you said.”

The office door stood open,warm light spilling into the sterile hallway. I entered with my weapon drawn but not raised, Noah shadowing me like a guardian angel with medical training.

Harrison sat behind an impressive desk, hands folded, looking exactly as he had in a thousand board meetings. Silver hair perfect, suit immaculate, the picture of distinguished success. Only his eyes betrayed awareness of what was coming.

“Adrian,” he greeted me like I'd come for a budget review. “I wondered when you'd arrive. Tea?”

The civilised offer in these circumstances almost made me laugh. “Seriously?”

“Courtesy costs nothing.” He gestured to a side table with full service laid out. “Though I suppose courtesy is rather hollow between us now.”

“Now?” I kept the weapon ready but didn't aim yet. “Notwhen you murdered my parents? Not when you spent decades manipulating me? Courtesy died long before now, Harrison.”

“Your parents' deaths were organisationally necessary,” he replied with that same calm tone he'd used in the warehouse. “Your father's resistance to modernisation threatened everything we'd built. But the methodology...” He paused, maybe seeing something in my expression. “You found Müller's journals.”

“Among other things.” I pulled out the child trauma documentation, tossing it onto his pristine desk. “Your annotations were particularly enlightening.”

For the first time, something like regret flickered across his features. “Crude work by contemporary standards. Müller understood the mechanics but not the artistry. Breaking a child is simple. Shaping them into something functional afterward requires finesse.”

“Functional,” I repeated, tasting bile. “Is that what I am?”

“You're magnificent,” Harrison said with what sounded like genuine pride. “The perfect synthesis of trauma and training. Capable of necessary violence but maintaining strategic thought. Loyal to useful limits but independent enough to lead. My greatest creation.”

“I'm not your fucking creation!” The words exploded out of me. “I'm not your experiment or your weapon or your goddamn legacy! I'm a person you destroyed before I had a chance to be anything else!”

“Are you?” Harrison leaned forward, genuinely curious. “Strip away the conditioning, the trained responses, the systematic architecture of your personality. What remains? Who would Adrian Calloway be without my intervention?”

The question hit harder than any physical blow because I didn't know. Couldn't know. The fire had happened when I was eight; everything after bore Harrison's fingerprints.Every choice filtered through programming, every relationship coloured by trained responses.