Page 33 of Infamous
He takes one slow step forward, and the air goes cold. That’s the thing about Ironside - he doesn’t raise his voice. The threat moves with him.
“No games,” he says. “You work for me now. That was the deal. No exceptions.”
The smirk stays, but my pulse spikes.
“You always this charming with new hires?”
“Charming gets people killed,” he says. “Fear keeps them in line.”
“And which one do you think I am?” I ask. “Loyal? Fearful?”
His mouth curves, humorless. “Alive. For now.”
We stare at each other. Two men built from ruin.
“And if I decide I don’t like taking orders?”
“Then I put you back where I found you. Next time, that body will be yours.”
I grin. “Yikes. Someone skipped therapy again.”
“You’d know,” he says. “You burned through three shrinks and a priest in holding.”
“The priest was judgmental.”
“He was seventy,” he reminds me.
“He shouldn’t have touched my rosary.”
He exhales, somewhere between amusement and exhaustion.
“Fine,” I say, dropping the smirk. “I’ll play ball. You bought my freedom, you get the use of my knives.”
He studies me. “But?”
“But if you ever threaten me again, Ironside,” I say, voice low, “make sure you take me out fast. Because I have no compulsion to go back to prison and no desire to let live anyone that puts me back there.”
He doesn’t blink. “Then don’t give me a reason to put you down.”
Silence hums between us. No bravado. No masks. Just recognition. Two killers. One debt.
He turns to leave. At the door, he pauses.
“Glad you didn’t die,” he says. “Finding another man with your skill set and total lack of conscience would’ve been a nightmare.”
“Aw,” I call after him, “youdolove me.”
He doesn’t answer.
But he doesn’t deny it either.
The bathroom hums with a sterile,electric buzz. The kind you only find in morgues - or operating rooms. Places where people are carved open or laid to rest.
I stare at the gauze wrapped tight around my face. It’s itchy. Suffocating. Temporary. They said the swelling would fade. That the voice would settle and the nerves would learn my new skin. But I don’t believe them. This isn’t healing. It’s fucking painful as all fuck.
I reach up and peel the bandages away, strip by strip. The fabric drags, clings, resists, as if it knows it’s not supposed to let go. Each piece falls into the sink with a whisper.
When the last strip drops, I look up. And there he is. Theman in the mirror. My heart doesn’t skip. It burns. The face staring back isn’t mine. It’s familiar the way a mannequin is - semi-human, emotionless.
