Page 4 of Ravaged By the Reaper
“What is it like?” he asks after a moment.
I lift my head with effort. “Like drowning in fire. Like being inside every mistake I’ve ever made all at once.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Poetic.”
I blink hard, forcing my eyes to water. “Please... I’ll talk. Just… please don’t put it back on me.”
He rises slowly, his boots silent on the matte floor. He comes to my side and leans down, searching my face. I do my best to look broken. Defeated. Like I’ve accepted my fate.
It takes everything I have not to flinch when his hand brushes my cheek. His touch is clinical, almost reverent, like I’m some rare artifact he’s cataloging before destruction.
“See?” he says, almost fond. “You humanscanbe taught.”
I let my lip tremble.
“Help me,” I whisper. “Help me and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
He tilts his head. “That’s not how this works. But… we can adjust our methods.”
He steps away, back toward the workbench, turning his back to me.
I shift—just a fraction. My right wrist is raw where the strap bites in. If I can just…
There’s a tray of instruments a meter away. Nothing dramatic. But one of the blades looks sharp. Delicate.
I take a slow breath. Let the air fill my lungs. Think.
“You’re wrong about me,” I murmur, projecting just loud enough to carry. “I’m not a spy. I’m not anything special. Just… someone no one will miss.”
A lie.
But a lie he’ll believe.
He turns halfway. “Loneliness is useful, in espionage. Makes it easier to sever ties.”
“No ties,” I say, more firmly. “My parents sold me. My clients lease me. The Academy owns me.”
He nods. “Then perhaps it’s time someone…freedyou from all that.”
There’s something in his voice—an edge. Not kindness. Control. Ownership.
That’s fine. I can work with that.
“You could,” I say, blinking up at him like he’s my only hope. “Please.”
He walks back, slow and measured. Kneels beside me, face close. His breath is mint and metal. His eyes—gray as old snow—watch me like a scientist watching a test subject poised to fail.
“I will free you,” he whispers. “But not yet.”
His fingers drift to the side of the table where the extractor rests in its recharging cradle. The tendrils twitch, as if sensing its next feeding.
He turns, moves to enter data into a nearby panel.
I use that moment to test the right restraint.
A tiny give.
Barely anything. But enough.
