“Thirty-eight,” I whisper. His new name. And with that, I leave the room.
From two to thirty-eight, it’s all just a counting problem. The only equation I’ve ever cared to solve.
Ten precise seconds later, Alex buzzes in again, and my irritation is spiking to new levels. The fact that he was spying through the cameras—again—doesn’t help the feeling. I told him a million times that he should wait for my signal, but he takes pleasure in seeing people getting killed almost as much as I do.
Alex has been in my life longer than most people have managed to stay alive around me. Paid help, sure, but loyal. And as much as I like to give him shit, solely because of his shitty personality, he is the best in the field.
We started working together three years ago, right around the time I stopped pretending I wanted to be part of “normal” society. He handles the logistics and gets the contracts, so I can focus on what I really want to do—end lives. He doesn’t bother me outside of work, and I don’t ask why he’s involved in this business. I know nothing about his personal life or his motives, and I prefer it that way.
“Did you see the way he convulsed?! That was too easy.” His voice is drenched in that smug tone he thinks makes him sound funny.
I keep walking, not even trying to pretend I’m entertaining this stupid conversation. The shot of adrenaline I felt not even a minute ago is washing out, and my body is coming down from the high. A cold, familiar truth hits me with the force of a truck.One at a time is not enough anymore. You want to feel something, feel more, and you’ll only feel that if you kill them all.And that is the problem.
“Glad to see you are a fan of my work,” I deadpan, and I hope he can hear my eyes rolling through the call.
He laughs, as if this is funny, and we’re having a normal conversation. But we are not. He is here for the brief, and I can’t wait to get done with it so I can stop pretending I’m okay.
He could never comprehend that I’m in a fucked-up situation where I cannot prolong the high of the kill anymore, and the need for it is a constant, insatiable thought. While I have no problem “working” more, I can’t rely on this forever, or soon enough, I will end up slicing my own throat for the sake of feeling something.
“I’m heading home. I can walk from here,” I add after the quick brief is done. “Clean-up is your department. Try not to fuck it up this time.”
“When did I—” He starts to talk, but I take out the earpiece before he says something else that makes me wish I had an actual reason to shoot him.
CHAPTER 2
VICTORIA
The apartment is quiet and colder than it should be, given the unusually warm spring we’re having.
My body moves on autopilot, going straight to the bathroom. The mirror doesn’t surprise me anymore. I look like I always do after a job: blank and emotionless. I got used to it.
I’m about to turn the faucet on and splash some water on my face when something catches my eye, stopping me in my tracks and drawing me a few slow steps closer to the mirror: liquid red, trailing down my cheek.
For a second, I’m almost…surprised. The fucker cut me. How did I miss it? Did he somehow manage to touch me? With what? Maybe I’m even sicker than I thought, and now, not only does my brain go numb, but my body also loses its senses. But that possibility quickly vanishes when I realize it.
It isn’t mine.
It is his.
It is the sticky blood he left behind. I raise my hand, drawing a line through it with my finger, smearing it like war paint. Ibring it up to my lips, and I pause, my tongue nearly ready to savor it.You promised you’d stop this.
Despite my pleasure being cut out by my consciousness, a shiver crawls up my spine, and that deep satisfaction flares up again.
I marvel at the blood, fascinated by its presence. It is the living proof I was close, close enough to tear off pieces of him and claim them for myself. Proof I reached into his soul and pulled out the life. His blood is mine now.
I move on, resuming the post-kill ritual. It’s the reason my life is still held together, so I meticulously perform it after a job is done.
First, I let the bathtub fill up while I cross the apartment to the kitchen and go straight for the cabinet where the wine bottle waits. It’s dark red, almost black, and its weight in my hand is a tangible reminder of the night’s work.
With a sharp pop, I remove the cork, letting the scent fill the air. I watch the liquid pour into the glass, its color a match of what had been spilled tonight. They bleed the blood so my wineglass can be filled.
Walking back into the bathroom, I step into the tub, letting the water take me inch by inch.
What happened tonight should never happen again. I almost slipped. The self-control that was so easy to maintain in the past now hangs by a thread, and I can’t do a damn thing about it. It’s the battle of my brain against me, and I’m losing.
But what’s the alternative? Replace my life with the one I had fifteen years ago, before all that happened? Very realistic. Running again is also not an option.
Think, Victoria, think. How can your brain be reset?