Prologue 3 Cipher
When my gaze sweeps the far corner and lands on her, something fractures inside my chest.
Small—impossibly small—she’s pressed against the metal wall like she's trying to disappear into it. Blonde hair tangled around a heart-shaped face, wide eyes that hold too much for someone so young. Torn dress, filthy.
She's the one . Mine.
The thought hits me like a fucking freight train, completely derailing my tactical assessment. I’m not one to notice beauty. I categorize threats, assets, and variables.
"You hurt?" My voice sounds gentler than I’ve heard it in over a decade.
She shakes her head, unable or unwilling to speak, but those eyes—Christ, those eyes. They're studying me like I'm something other than a deadly weapon. Like I’m somebody .
I’m not. There’s nothing inside this meat suit but cold, hard steel.
Unsure how to proceed, I extend my hand. When her small fingers slide into mine, the contact sends an electric shock through my entire system. Her skin is soft despite everything she's endured, and warm, and alive in a way that makes my chest constrict.
Every rational thought screams at me to back away. To hand her off to Saint or Ghost or literally anyone else. To maintain distance.
Instead, I lean forward and lift her into my arms.
The moment she's pressed against my chest, something fundamental shifts in my neural pathways. Her scent—beneath the dirt and fear—floods my senses. Her slight weight in my arms feels right in a way that terrifies me. Like she was made to fit there.
Mine. The word blazes through my consciousness with such intensity that it physically hurts.
"No one will ever hurt you again." Where the fuck did that come from?
I don't make promises. I state facts, assess probabilities, and eliminate threats.
I don't comfort frightened civilians with words I might not be able to keep—except I know intrinsically this is one promise I’ll either keep or die trying.
Looking down at her upturned face, seeing her expression of hope and awe as she gazes up at me, the words just spill out, "I got you, Baby Girl."
Baby Girl? What the hell?!
The endearment hits me like a physical blow. I've never called anyone that. Ever. The term implies protection, affection, possession—things I'm not capable of feeling. Things that would be toxic coming from someone like me.
Yet the words felt natural leaving my lips.
I need to extract myself from this situation immediately.
But even as my rational mind calculates exit strategies, my body refuses to release her.
My arms tighten protectively around her small frame, and some deeply buried part of my brain starts cataloguing threats to her safety, potential defensive positions, ways to eliminate anyone who might try to take her from me.
She's not mine.
She can't be.
I'm a weapon. A tool designed for violence and destruction. The blood on these hands will never be washed clean.
Yet, as I carry her toward the container exit, feeling her heartbeat against my chest, I’m well aware my world has just been irrevocably altered.