Page 13 of Broken Doll

For the first time, I’m the one being strung along, and I’ve got a fuck-ton to learn.

The training drags on—hours of drills, scenarios, his voice a relentless drone of orders and corrections. He doesn’t touch me again, but his eyes never leave me—tracking every shiver, every twitch, stripping me bare in ways I can’t fight.

My body’s raw, muscles screaming, skin slick with sweat, lungs burning, but beneath it, there’s a fire—restless, hungry, sick with the need to win him over, even as he proves I can’t.

Finally, when my legs buckle and I think I’ll collapse, he steps back, nodding once, curt and cold. “Enough.”

I slump against the wall, sweat soaking my hair, dripping into my eyes, chest heaving. My body’s a wreck—nerves frayed, every inch throbbing—but there’s a buzz under it, hot and twisted, a satisfaction I don’t want to name.

“You’re ready,” he says, voice neutral, eyes assessing.

I shove damp hair off my forehead, glaring through the haze. “For what?”

“For the field.” He holds my gaze, unyielding. “Real targets. Real stakes.”

“You still haven’t told me who I’m working for,” I snap, voice rough, pushing one last time.

“You’re working for me,” he says, steel in every word. “That’s all you need.”

I straighten, legs shaking but spine stiff, and try one more jab. “And if I want out?”

His expression hardens, eyes narrowing to slits. “You don’t.”

The words sink deep, heavy as lead, locking into place. He turns, strides to the door, pausing just once to glance back, eyes dark and cold. “You did well tonight. Rest. Tomorrow, you level up.”

The door slams, a metallic clang that rings in my skull, leaving me alone with the echoes of his voice and the hum of the lights. What happens tomorrow? My heart kicks, a wild thud against my ribs, and it’s not fear—not even close. It’s excitement, sharp and sick, a drug I can’t quit.

The mess hall—if you could call it that—is underground like everything else in this concrete maze. Institutional lighting buzzes overhead, casting everyone in a sickly pallor that makes the food look even more unappetizing.

I'm at a corner table, picking at mystery meat and what might generously be called potatoes, when I notice her.

She enters silently, a ghost in tactical black, moving with liquid grace. Early thirties, maybe. Asian, with a sleek bob that frames cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. But it's her eyes that catch me—flat obsidian pools that scan the room with mechanical precision. Cataloging exits, threats, weaknesses.

"That's Yumiko," a voice says beside me.

I turn to find a man sliding onto the bench across from me. Tall, lean, with the kind of face that would be handsome if it wasn't so hollow. His smile doesn't reach his eyes, which are a startling blue against his dark skin. "Viper-Six asset. Been in the field five years."

"And you are?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.

“Halloran. Extraction specialist." He pushes his tray aside, leaning in. "You're the new one. Killion's pet project."

I bristle at 'pet project,' but keep my face blank. "Word travels fast."

"In places like this? It's currency." He nods toward Yumiko, who's now sitting alone, back to the wall. "She's what success looks like, if you're wondering. Three confirmed kills. Seventeen major extractions. Fluent in six languages."

My eyes drift back to her. She eats with mechanical precision, no pleasure, no waste. A perfect machine.

"And the failures?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

Halloran’s smile turns grim. "You don't see them. They don't come back."

As if sensing our attention, Yumiko looks up. Our eyes meet across the room, and something passes between us—recognition, maybe. A shared understanding of what we are. What we're becoming.

She nods, almost imperceptibly, before returning to her meal.

"She was like you once," Halloran says, voice dropping lower. "Civilian. Had a life. Now she's..." He trails off, but I hear the unspoken words: Not human anymore.

"How many of us are there?" I ask.

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