Page 11 of Rogue Doll

The room they push me into is smaller than a prison cell, with a single metal table bolted to the floor and three chairs. No two-way mirror. No visible surveillance. This isn't for show—this is where real secrets get buried.

"Sit," Killion orders.

I do, because even I know when to pick my battles.

Sienna takes position by the door while Killion towers over me, not bothering with a chair. Power move 101. His face is cast in demonic red from the emergency lighting, turning his eyes into black pits.

"Start from the beginning," he says. "Every detail. Every word. Every person who saw you with Reese."

"I already told you?—"

"Again," he cuts me off. "Someone put a bullet in our mark's head thirty minutes after you left him. Either you were compromised, or you missed something critical."

The implication hangs between us like a grenade with its pin halfway out.

"I wasn't made," I say, fighting to keep my voice level. "Victor suspected a honey trap initially—pulled a knife—but I convinced him otherwise." I smirk, can't help myself. "Thoroughly."

"The bartender," Killion presses. "Who else saw you together? Who noticed you?"

I close my eyes, replaying the evening frame by frame. The mission profile's hardwired into my brain now, every detail accessible like files on a computer.

"The bartender. Carlos, Filipino, early thirties. He nodded at Victor—they knew each other. A woman in red Vera Wang at the corner table kept watching us. Corporate wife type, probably jealous. Three finance bros by the window, Patek Philippe watches and coke-pink gums. One made a comment when we passed."

My eyes snap open. "Wait. There was someone else."

Killion leans in, all predatory focus.

"A man at the bar. Gray suit, expensive but not flashy. I didn't register him at first because..."

"Because what?" Sienna asks, speaking for the first time.

"Because he was too careful not to look at us." The realization crawls up my spine like ice water. "Most people either stare or deliberately avoid staring. This guy had the perfect amount of disinterest. Trained disinterest."

Killion and Sienna exchange a look loaded with more meaning than a CIA cryptography manual. Silent communication perfected by people who've seen too much together—the kind that makes outsiders feel like they're missing half the conversation.

"What aren't you telling me?" I demand.

"Focus," Killion snaps. "The elevator to Reese's suite. Anyone see you enter? Security cameras?"

"Private elevator, keycard access. Victor said no cameras." I remember his hands on me in that mirrored box, his mouthhot against my neck. "But there was a staff entrance nearby. Maintenance corridor, probably."

"And after? How did you leave?"

"Service elevator. Changed clothes in a supply closet on the third floor. Exited through the loading dock at 1:17 AM exactly. No one saw me."

Killion paces the small room like a caged tiger, all coiled muscle and barely contained violence.

"What's going on?" I press again. "If Victor's dead, that means someone else wanted what we wanted. Or wanted him silenced."

"Or wanted to send a message," Sienna adds quietly.

Something in her tone makes my blood run cold. For the first time since this whole fucked-up adventure began, a tendril of genuine fear curls through my chest. Not the fun kind that makes your clit throb and your heart race—the kind that tastes like metal and makes your hands shake.

"Am I in danger?" The question slips out before I can stop it, small and pathetically human.

Killion stops pacing. His expression shifts—just a flicker, gone so fast I almost miss it. Not sympathy, exactly. Recognition. He's seen this moment before in other recruits. The instant when the game becomes real.

"Everyone in this building is in danger, every second of every day," he says, voice flat. "That's the job you signed up for."

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