Chapter 29 - Ace
ACE
Keira enters her dance studio on the security feed on my screen, her movements stiffer than usual.
The cuts we left on her body must sting with every step, though we were careful to place them where clothing would cover.
Cyrus and I insisted she stay home today, but she refused.
“Normal,” she’d said. “I need something normal.”
Normal. As if that concept still exists for any of us.
“She shouldn’t be there,” Cyrus mutters, spreading maps of Henderson’s Boise property across our dining table. “Not after everything.”
“She’s trying to compartmentalize.” I zoom the camera view, studying Keira’s face as she greets her dancers. The mask she wears is flawless, but I can detect the cracks beneath. “It’s what we do, remember?”
Cyrus grunts, stabbing a red marker at the building’s rear entrance. “Extraction point. We’ll need a vehicle here.”
I split my attention between the maps and the live feed from the studio.
Felix placed micro-cameras there last week—something Keira would eviscerate us for if she knew.
On screen, she demonstrates a sequence, her movements technically perfect but lacking their usual fire.
She stops mid-turn, seeming to forget what comes next.
“She’s breaking pattern,” I observe.
Cyrus glances up. “The confession cracked her open. Just like it did to us.”
I nod, remembering our own fractured revelations when we were fifteen. On screen, Marco approaches Keira, concern evident in his body language. His hand touches her shoulder. I feel my jaw tighten.
“That fucker’s getting handsy again,” Cyrus growls.
“Focus,” I remind him, though I feel the same territorial surge. “All that matters is tonight. When Henderson gets our full attention.”
We return to our planning, but my eyes drift repeatedly to the screen where Keira shakes her head at whatever Marco is asking. She tries again to demonstrate the sequence, but her movements remain disconnected, hollow.
“She needs this over with,” I murmur. “We take care of Henderson tonight, then she starts healing.”
“And we’ll be there for every second of it,” Cyrus adds, his voice carrying an unfamiliar gentleness.
I watch Keira on the screen, vulnerable yet determined, and my mind drifts to another type of vulnerability I’ve witnessed my entire life.
“Her revelation is particularly difficult for you,” I say, almost to myself.
My brother looks up from the maps, eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I meet his gaze. “You know exactly what I mean. You’ve always been more willing to inflict pain, to push boundaries. I’ve always known why.”
Cyrus’s jaw tightens. “Don’t.”
“Henderson reminds me of him.” I can’t stop the words now. “Handler Seventeen.”
The marker in Cyrus’s hand snaps in two, red ink bleeding across his fingers like fresh blood.
“We promised never to speak of that,” he growls.
“Keira’s past is making me think about ours,” I admit. “About what you endured that I didn’t.”
We were both subjected to the Collective’s brutal training methods, but Cyrus experienced horrors I was spared.
Handler Seventeen was a sadistic bastard who specialized in breaking children’s spirits, and unfortunately, he had taken a particular interest in my brother.
While I was beaten and starved, Cyrus was taken to private sessions that left him hollow-eyed and silent for days.
“He took a shine to you,” I continue, my voice flat to mask the rage that still burns. “The things he did to you in that room...”
“I survived,” Cyrus cuts me off. “And then we killed him. Together.”
I remember Handler Seventeen’s death most vividly of all the handlers we eliminated. How Cyrus had insisted on taking his time, how I’d stood guard to ensure no interruptions. Seventeen had died screaming, begging for mercy that never came.
“You know why Henderson matters to me,” Cyrus says. “Men like him, men like Seventeen—they deserve everything we’re going to give them.”
“You know what that bastard deserves,” I agree, watching Cyrus’s knuckles turn white around the broken marker. “And we’ll give it to him.”
A heavy silence falls between us, filled with the ghosts of our past. In the quiet, I can almost hear the echo of metal doors slamming shut, of Handler Seventeen’s voice calling for Cyrus. The sound of my brother being led away while I remained, helpless.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the words inadequate against the weight of what happened.
Cyrus’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking at the corner. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault, Ace.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I move closer, placing my hand on the table near his ink-stained one—not touching, but close enough. “We were always in it together. I should have fought harder when he took you. I should have stopped him from taking you anywhere.”
“We were children,” Cyrus says flatly.
“We were trained killers by twelve,” I counter. “I could have done something. Anything.”
Cyrus looks up, meeting my gaze. “And then we’d both be dead. Or worse—separated. The only reason I survived those sessions was knowing you were waiting. That we’d find a way out together.”
“And we did.”
“We did,” he echoes. “And now Henderson gets to experience exactly what Handler Seventeen did.”
I nod, understanding flowing between us. The silent communication that’s been our lifeline since before we could speak. “Together,” I promise.
“Always,” Cyrus responds, and for a moment, I see a flicker of that young boy—frightened but determined—behind his eyes.
I move toward Cyrus without thinking, something I rarely do. Right now, watching him struggle with the memories of our past and the similarities in Keira’s story, I need to bridge the physical gap between us.
“Come here,” I say, pulling him into an embrace.
It’s not unusual for us to touch. We’ve spent our lives in proximity—fighting together, training together, sleeping together, killing together.
Physical contact between us has always been as natural as breathing.
But the moment my arms wrap around his shoulders, I feel a subtle stiffening in his frame, a barely perceptible hesitation before he returns the embrace.
The tension hangs between us like an invisible thread, thin but unmistakable. Neither of us acknowledges it, but we both know its origin. Keira’s fantasy has created a self-consciousness that never existed before.
I hold on longer than necessary, stubbornly refusing to let this new awkwardness dictate our interaction. Cyrus eventually relaxes, his arms tightening around me. When we break apart, his eyes meet mine briefly before sliding away.
“We should finish the preparations,” he says, his voice deliberately casual as he returns to the maps.
I nod, moving back to my position at the table. The moment passes, but it leaves a residue—like the powder burn after a shot. Unspoken and invisible, but unmistakably there.
On the tablet screen, Keira continues her rehearsal, unaware of how deeply she’s changed the most fundamental relationship in our lives. Not by what she’s asked for—but by making us conscious of something that had always existed in the spaces between us, undefined and unexamined.