Page 14 of Broken Doll

"Assets? Dozens. But the ones like you—the specialized ones?" He shrugs. "Few enough to count on one hand. Most don't make it through Killion's training."

Before I can press further, the door opens again. A man enters, older than the rest, moving with a limp he tries to hide. His face is a roadmap of scars, one eye milky white and dead. The room temperature drops ten degrees.

"Nikolai," Halloran whispers, tension radiating from him like heat. "Former Spectre-Three. Field accident in Sydney left him... compromised. Now he trains the hand-to-hand combat program."

“He looks like a polar bear chewed him up and spit him back out,” I quip.

“You better learn real quick not to judge a book by its cover around here,” Halloran warns. “Best way to get your ass handed to you.”

I don’t buy it. I shrug. “We’ll see.”

Nikolai's good eye sweeps the room, landing on me. Something hungry flashes in his gaze, predatory and cold. "Fresh meat," he says, voice carrying despite its softness.

My skin crawls, but I hold his stare, refusing to look away first. This is how it works here—show weakness, and you're prey.

After what feels like eternity, he smirks and moves on, selecting a table far from the others.

"Word of advice?" Halloran says, standing to leave. "When Killion's done with you, pray they assign you to Yumiko's team." He glances at Nikolai. "Some fates are worse than washing out."

As he walks away, I watch Yumiko again. The perfect weapon. The finished product. Is that my future? That empty precision, that mechanical grace?

Part of me recoils at the thought.

But another part—the part that's always craved purpose, always hungered for the edge—whispers:You could be better.

I finish my meal in silence, feeling eyes on me from all corners. Measuring. Assessing.

Judging whether I'll survive.

The steel door's clang still rattles my skull as Killion turns, his boots hitting the concrete with that slow, deliberate thud that's burrowed into my brain like a tick.

"Follow," he says, not looking back, voice flat and cold as a knife's edge. No hesitation, no glance to see if I'm trailing—he knows I'll fall in line, and that certainty burns, a splinter under my nail I can't pry out. I hate how he's got me clocked, a mutt he doesn't even need to whistle for.

I peel off the wall, legs shaking like jelly, every muscle shrieking from hours of training—bent into impossible angles, wrists twisted, his voice a relentless hammer pounding my skull.

Sweat's dried into a crusty film on my skin, tank top clinging like a soaked rag, ripe with salt and musk. My hair's a greasy tangle plastered to my neck, strands sticking to my cheeks, and I can feel the grime—dirt from the floor, sweat-slick filth—coating me like a second skin.

I'm a mess, raw and frayed, a live wire buzzing with exhaustion and that hot, restless itch I can't kill. I followanyway, dragging myself after him, refusing to admit how my entire body felt like it’d been put through a meat grinder.

The hallway's a claustrophobic chute—endless white walls, fluorescents humming overhead like a swarm of pissed-off flies, casting a glare that stabs my eyes. The air's cold, biting, laced with antiseptic and a faint metallic whiff—rust, maybe blood—and my brain's already bouncing, too fast, too loud.

Where's he dragging me? Another room to break me? A hole to dump me in? I keep my face blank, lips clamped, swallowing the questions. Asking's a waste—he'd just shut me down, that uncrackable bastard, and I'm too tired to spar with a brick wall.

We turn a corner, and he stops at a door—steel, unmarked, a twin to every other in this labyrinth. He swipes a keycard, the lock chirping a shrill beep that grates my raw nerves and shoves it open. "Inside," he says, stepping aside, his bulk filling the frame like a goddamn bouncer.

I brush past him, close enough to catch the heat rolling off him—gun oil, sweat, that sharp mint sting on his breath cutting through the damp—and step into the room. It's not what I expected.

No more prison cot, no more steel toilet without a seat. This place has actual furniture—a real bed with sheets that look too clean to be true, a dresser, even a fucking window, though the glass is frosted, a tease of light without the view.

"Your quarters," Killion says, voice clipped, like he's reading off a manual. "For now."

I turn, scanning the space, looking for the catch. There's always a catch. Cameras in the corners? Microphones? A two-way mirror? Or maybe just a door that locks from the outside, a prettier cage but a cage all the same.

"What's this, a promotion?" I drawl, arms crossing over my chest, ignoring how they tremble. "Or are we playing house now?"

He doesn't bite. Just stands there, unreadable, a mountain of muscle and control. "You've earned it."

Something sparks in my gut—pride? Christ, how pathetic is that? Hungry for scraps from a man who'd snap my neck without blinking. I hate it. Hate him. Hate the little glow warming my chest at his almost-praise. I swallow it down, bitter as bile.

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