Page 23 of Vicious Doll

The phrase hits like a physical blow—meaningless, yet sending shivers of recognition through my body that make no rational sense. My muscle memory responds before my conscious mind can process why.

My shoulders straighten, my breathing evens out, my stance morphs to something more balanced, more lethal. Combat-ready, without a single conscious command.

Jesus fucking Christ.

"Who am I?" I whisper, the question stripped of everything but raw need. Three words that contain every existential crisis in human history, distilled into one desperate plea.

"You were Nova Cross before you were Landry James," Vahnya says. "Asset classification Vixen-09. Deep coverspecialist. You died in Budapest three years ago. Or so it was made to believe."

My eyes snap to Killion, searching for confirmation or denial. He remains statue-still, face unreadable. But there's something in his eyes—a watchfulness, an intensity that speaks volumes. He's waiting to see if I remember, if the shell he built around me cracks entirely or just enough to let the truth seep in.

"The Vahnya Initiative," I press, stepping further from Killion, though not far enough to lose sight of his hands. "What is it?"

"A perversion of the Resurrection program," she says, each word precise as a bullet. "Reclaiming operatives believed killed in action. Wiping. Reprogramming. That night at Malvagio? The club? The extraction? All theater for your benefit. You weren't recruited, Nova. You were recovered."

The words land like body blows, each one finding vulnerable tissue. But with each hit comes clarity—pieces clicking into place with sickening precision.

The strange comfort I felt in the Dollhouse despite its brutality. The way Killion's training methods seemed tailor-made for my responses. The way three months turned me from suburban housewife to efficient killer.

Because I wasn't learning. I was remembering.

My fingers tighten around the phone until my knuckles bleach white. "Isaac," I whisper, the name suddenly foreign on my tongue. "Is he even real?"

"He's one of ours," Vahnya says, her tone matter-of-fact. "A handler disguised as a husband. Assigned to monitor you while your memories stabilized. The Landry identity needed anchoring—a domestic environment was ideal for our purposes." She pauses. "The original programming is designed to resurface gradually during training. Notice how naturally you took to killing?"

The observation lands like a sledgehammer to the sternum. The way combat training felt like remembering rather than learning. The way my body responded to danger without conscious thought. The way death came so easily to my hands.

I think back to the first man I killed in the safehouse—how I didn't hesitate, didn't falter, my body moving with the mechanical precision of someone who'd done it a hundred times before.

Because I had.

Now I feel bad for being such a bitch to my fake husband. Babysitting a sleeper assassin while she cheated and treated him like wallpaper had to be the worst assignment ever.

He probably breathed a sigh of relief when I disappeared. Although, now it made perfect sense why he never pitched a fit when I told him I was going on an extended girls' trip.

No, actually, that’s a lie, I don’t feel bad at all. I’m pissed.

Who was I before? What happened in Budapest? Why did they need to put me on ice for three years? Why thaw me out now?

"Where are you?" I demand. "I need?—"

“Go with Killion. Now.”

The line goes dead, connection severed. Whether by Vahnya's choice or someone else's, I can't tell. I stare at the screen, willing it to reconnect, to provide the answers that will stitch my fractured identity back together. But there's nothing. Just deafening silence and the distant wail of sirens.

I lower the phone, mind racing through implications faster than I can process them. Killion watches me with the careful attention of someone monitoring an unstable explosive.

Which, let's be honest, is exactly what I've become—a ticking bomb of conflicting identities and unleashed muscle memory.

"She's telling the truth, isn't she?" I ask, though it's not really a question. The answer is written in the tense set of Killion'sshoulders, in the calculated distance he maintains, in the way his hand hovers near his concealed weapon.

Before he can answer, movement catches my eye through smoke and chaos. Volkov, materializing like a ghost from winter fog, bleeding from a shoulder wound but still moving with predatory purpose.

His eyes lock onto mine, then flick to Killion with undisguised hatred. The kind of hatred that requires a personal touch—not professional rivalry but intimate betrayal.

"You motherfucker," he hisses, his gun trained straight at Killion's head. "Where's Vahyna? Take me to her or you die like the traitorous dog you are."

Despite staring down the snub-nosed barrel of certain death, Killion doesn't flinch. The air between them crackles with history—Budapest, Vahnya, whatever came before. A triangle of betrayal with me as the unwitting fourth point.

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