Page 20 of Rogue Doll

The door shuts behind him with a click—quiet, deliberate, and damning. The pneumatic seal hisses like a coffin lid locking into place.

“Don’t trust anyone?”Really? That’s the pep talk?

I’m about to hand over my life to a team of strangers, and my “boss” thinks cryptic doom-posting is helpful.

Figures. Only the government would build a castle out of quicksand and call it secure.

I sit alone in the suddenly too-large room, turning the poison necklace over in my hands. The metal warms against my skin, the weight of it both promise and threat. The surveillance cameras whir softly as they adjust to the change in occupancy, red lights blinking like artificial stars in the ceiling corners.

I'm left wondering which is more dangerous—Volkov, the organization I've sworn loyalty to, or the twisted part of me that's actually looking forward to tomorrow. My reflection in the blank screen shows a woman I barely recognize—harder, sharper, a weapon still being honed.

A strange headache pulses behind my eyes as I stare at the pendant. For a fraction of a second, something feels familiar about it—not just as a tool, but as something I should recognize. The feeling passes as quickly as it came, leaving nothing but confusion and that same dull ache.

My skin prickles along my ribcage, like a hundred ants just marched across my butterfly tattoo. I wince and rub the skin to shock my nerve endings into a different sensation.

A normal person would’ve said, ‘Fuck this shit, I’m out’ but I’m not normal and I gave up hoping for normal a long time ago.

They're making me bait for a shark, and all I can think is: I've always wanted to go swimming with predators.

The necklace dangles from my fingers, catching the light, winking like a deadly promise—a tiny lifeline in what's sure to be a sea of blood.

It’s a good thing I’m an excellent swimmer.

The safehouse is a textbook study in controlled vulnerability—expensive enough for a deep-cover operative, secure enough to seem legitimate, but riddled with deliberate weaknesses that practically beg for infiltration. Nineteenth floor corner unit, views for days, and enough blind spots to make any self-respecting assassin cream their pants.

I prowl the perimeter for the third time, cataloging exits, choke points, and the best places to stash weapons. The apartment whispers of government budgets—high-end appliances with the warranty stickers still attached, designer furniture no one's ever sat on, and pristine white carpets that have never felt the desecration of actual human habitation.

"Nova, sound check," Killion's voice crackles through my earpiece, the microsonic transmitter vibrating against my skull.

"Receiving," I mutter, adjusting the necklace that might save my life or get me killed, depending on how the night unfolds. The pendant sits heavy against my collarbones, a constant reminder of the thin line between mission and suicide.

"Alpha team in position," he confirms. "Bravo standing by in the service corridor. Surveillance is live."

I glance at the innocuous painting on the wall, knowing there's a thermal camera hidden behind the canvas, watching my heat signature pulse with a combination of adrenaline and something darker, hungrier.

"Copy that," I respond, moving to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Nineteen stories below, the city sprawls like a circuit board, car headlights tracing electrical currents through the veins of downtown. Somewhere out there, Volkov is getting hard just thinking about peeling my skin off in strips.

"Remember," Killion's voice crackles in my ear, tension tightening his usually controlled tone, "when Volkov shows, we let him get close enough to confirm identity, then Alpha team moves. Your job is to stay alive until extraction."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm just the cheese in the mousetrap. Look pretty, act vulnerable, don't get dead before you nab him." I adjust the designer dress they've poured me into—midnight blue silk that costs more than most people's monthly rent, slit high enough to reach my hip holster. "Though I gotta say, if this is what bait looks like, I should've been fishing years ago."

"Focus, Nova," he growls, but there's something beneath the command—concern, maybe, or just professional irritation at my inability to take imminent death seriously. Hard to tell with Killion. The man emotes with all the enthusiasm of a tax auditor on Xanax.

I check my watch—custom Cartier on loan from whatever black-budget wardrobe department outfitted me for this charade. The face shows 21:37, but a subtle press of the stem reveals the real data: extraction teams' positions, emergency protocols, the countdown until the fake meeting I'm supposedly arranging to sell Volkov's secrets.

"Think he'll bite?" I ask, moving to the wet bar to pour myself two fingers of bourbon. Liquid courage, or maybe just something to steady my hands. The crystal tumbler feels cold and solid, a touchstone in a situation built on smoke and mirrors.

"He'll bite," Killion confirms. "Digital breadcrumbs are too tempting. Money transfers, communication intercepts, hotel arrangements for buyers. Our mole confirmed he accessed the files three hours ago."

I sip the bourbon, letting it burn a path down my throat. "Your confidence is touching."

"Just don't get cocky. Volkov didn't survive two decades in wetwork by being sloppy."

"Pot, kettle," I mutter, but he doesn't respond. Professional to the bitter end.

The waiting is the worst part. Each minute stretches like taffy, sticky and endless. I circle the apartment again, restless energy burning through my veins like cheap vodka. Something doesn't feel right—a whisper of wrongness I can't quite place, like catching movement in your peripheral vision that vanishes when you turn your head.

The bourbon glass is empty again, though I don't remember draining it. I set it down carefully, watching my reflection distort in the crystal—elongated, fragmented, a funhouse mirror version of whoever the fuck I'm becoming.

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