I knew that look—he'd gone defensive, braced for impact.
I ground my teeth and growled, "I dragged you out of that hell, and my freedom was the deal."
Ashur still had my wrist, iron-tight. He stepped in. Zombie grabbed my waist in a panic.
"Oh God—don't. Don't come closer…"
Then, harsh in my ear, she hissed, "He's insane… just back down."
I snapped toward Zombie, words squeezed through locked teeth. "So am I."
Her eyes went round; her face fell. "Yeah… that's kind of my problem too…"
Ignoring her, Ashur spoke to me—flat, unfeeling, final. "How have you still not figured it out?"
I stared, shocked. I don't know why, but something in his eyes kicked my heart into a sprint. My breath fractured; a cold sweat iced my spine.
He lowered his head until it hovered near my fist, still hanging in the air. He didn't blink. His voice was slow and cruel, each word cutting.
"Why would they s—s—send you and your friend on the same impossible, high-risk mission?"
Sound tunneled. Underwater. Everything blurred.
I blinked at his blank face, then at his eyes. He wasn't lying; he'd never lied to me.
I thought about the day Steven asked me to run. We were in the car. What if they'd been listening? What if, because he cared about me and planned to bolt, they threw us both into a suicide job?
Did they… send Steven there to die? The way they sent me?
They knew Steven liked me, knew we were close. Freeing Ashur had always been a shot in the dark—maybe a one-percent chance. If it failed? They wouldn't care. Our deaths meant nothing.
Ashur arched a brow and leaned closer.
My breath locked. I was sinking, deeper and deeper, no light left. I was drowning.
"Steven died because of them…" The words scraped out of me.
Zombie let go of my waist like she'd been burned. She stumbled back, stunned. "Steven… is dead?!"
I looked at Ashur through the sting in my eyes. We just stared at each other—something strange sparking in his gaze.
I was never getting out. I'd only ever been a piece on their board, punishment dressed up as purpose.
Still holding my hand, he dipped his head, whispering against the shell of my ear,
"You're coming to Tokyo with me. You don't have a choice. Or I'll ta—take you."
I let out a bitter laugh, and a tear slid free.
I yanked my hand from his grip and took a step back.
Zombie's face froze me where I stood—shock, disbelief… and tears streaming down. Her mascara had bled, smudging black beneath her eyes.
She choked out, "Steven is dead?"
I set the burgundy wig over my hair, and Zombie covered the cuts and bruises with make-up so nothing would show up in the photos. She'd scrubbed our trail clean and spent the whole night preparing our papers.
In her hidden room, behind a concealed curtain, she took separate shots of each of us. She even picked our fake names and identities herself—her taste, her call. It didn't really matter; neither Ashur nor I said a word. Strange—Zombie was quiet too. Ever since she'd learned Steven was dead, she'd been subdued. She'd only ever met each of us once before, but she felt strangely close to us. She believed we'd saved her life; I believed I'd hauled her out of a pit only to throw her into a deeper one.
After dinner I peeled off the wig and took a towel from Zombie for a shower.
My mind wouldn't stop. I was so deep in thought I barely registered anything around me. I had to consider everything: every path ahead, every roadblock, every twist. The Rose Organisation had betrayed me in the worst way; they'd used Steven's love for me to send him on that mission. So the biggest reason he died wasn't the Union, wasn't Patrick or the doctor, and it wasn't me. The main culprit was the Organisation—the very one we'd given our lives to.
Under the spray, I scrubbed hard, vanilla curling through the steam, and mapped my route. Like a chess player, I needed to test every line, every move. And I wondered—how much did Zombie believe she owed me? That was the big unknown, and guessing wouldn't solve it.
As I worked shampoo through my hair, I thought back to the first day I saw her. How many years ago? Five, I think. I was a few months past nineteen, back in England after a long stretch in Russia. For an important meet, I'd gone to a club with the Tailor and Steven.
That's where I met Zombie for the first time—she was called Emily. Long dark hair, heavy-lidded brown eyes. A short evening dress. She was on the pole. Only eighteen.
Later I heard she worked there with her mother. Her mother had it worse—she was in a private room with the client we were meeting. Orders were to take out the Vietnamese man who'd sold weapons to the Union against Organisation rules—but before we reached him, he'd killed Emily's mother and was trying to force himself on Emily beside the body. I got there in time and shot him before it was too late.
Steven grabbed a fluffy pink throw off a chair, wrapped it around Emily's shoulders, and lifted her up.
The Tailor said Emily and her mother had been sold to Kwan. He'd heard Emily played cards at Kwan's table and always won, which was why Kwan kept them. Emily's uncanny poker sense made the Tailor think that if we left her there, the losers—or Kwan's own men—would come for her. I thought his idea of "help" meant sending her somewhere safe. Not handing her to the Organisation's IT wing to train her as a hacker and slapping the name "Zombie" on her. Not turning her—like us—into a marionette dancing for their filthy cause.
I rinsed my hair and reached to shut off the water. Steam fogged the room; the drip-drip of water on the tiles was the only symphony left.
Eyes closed, breath ragged, I whispered, "How much do you think you owe me, Emily?"