14. Keira #2
I take the paper, sign with the stub of a pencil, and pocket the receipt.
When he leaves, Lena is already at the door.
She blocks the path, just long enough for the man to know he's made an impression, then lets him by.
I watch his back as he disappears down the corridor, the vendor logo on his jacket flexing with every stride, the outline of the star burned into my memory.
I linger in the cold storage, pulse thrumming under my jaw, and replay the scene until I've extracted every detail.
New man.
New tattoo.
No words exchanged, but a message delivered all the same.
The old paranoia kicks in, a familiar cocktail of adrenaline and calculation.
Was he sent for me?
For the house?
For the bundle of cells currently rewriting my genome from the inside out?
Back in my room, I drop the invoice on the desk and sit at the edge of the bed, hands curled into fists.
I count to ten, then twenty, then lose the thread.
The nausea is back, the world tilting just enough to make the light vibrate in my peripheral.
I focus on the routine—sit, breathe, catalogue the sensation, do not let it show.
When the feeling passes, I get up and go to the bathroom.
The mirror is still streaked from the last cleaning, but I can see enough to know the story hasn't changed.
I look tired, but not suspiciously so.
The bump is imaginary, visible only to me in the tightness of my waistband and the way the blouse pulls at the buttons.
I touch my stomach again, then pull the shirt up, just to be sure.
Flat.
Almost.
The paranoia is a comfort—better to expect disaster than be surprised by it.
I lean over the sink, bracing myself against the cold porcelain, and stare into my own eyes until the tremor in my hands stops.
Then I practice, just once, what I would say if Ruairí walked through the door at this moment.
"There's something I need to tell you."
I try it again, this time with the proper intonation, as if it's an ordinary admission, like a gambling debt or a broken window.
I imagine his face—bored, then alert, then alarmed.
The way he would close the distance, never raising his voice, never letting the threat show unless it was tactical.
I try to picture the next step, the argument or the threat or the promise of protection that would follow, and I can't.
The simulation always ends with silence or with Ruairí's hand on my shoulder, squeezing too tightly.
I want to cry, but I don't.
Instead, I open the tap and let the cold water run over my wrists until my skin goes numb and the urge passes.
The mirror offers no judgment, just the fact of my existence, multiplied by the wet gleam of tears I will not shed.
After, I dress in layers—camisole, blouse, cardigan, scarf.
I want the armor, even if it's just cotton.
The weight steadies me.
I go back to the desk, pull out the notebook, and update the page with the new information.
—Vendor—replaced, no warning.
—Tattoo—red star, left wrist, possible Syndicate.
—Behavior—trained, not local.
I add a line to the map of the house, noting the sightline from the loading bay to the back stairs.
If someone wanted to track my movement, this is the route they would take.
I wonder if the man will be back or if this was just a test run—an audition, maybe, for the job of watching me up close.
Lunch is a performance.
I make a plate of cold meats and salad, skip the bread and cheese, drink two glasses of water and pretend to enjoy them.
The kitchen staff are subdued, glancing at me with a new wariness, as if I might report them for the sin of existing.
I want to reassure them, but the best thing I can do is act like nothing has changed.
That is the rule of survival in this house—never let anyone know what you're actually thinking.
After lunch, the symptoms return with a vengeance.
My breasts ache, tender and hot, and the nausea comes in pulses, each stronger than the last.
I grip the edge of the table, knuckles blanching, and ride it out.
The hormone swings are impossible to predict—one minute I am dead calm, the next I want to throw a plate at the wall.
I breathe through the rage, let it simmer and settle, and then walk it off in the garden, boots crunching in the fresh gravel that someone has laid while I wasn't looking.
By afternoon, I am exhausted and planning a long nap when there's a knock at the door.
When I open it, Ruairí is already stepping back to give me space.
There is a softness at the corner of his mouth that suggests restraint rather than coldness.
He looks tired, as he often does now.
"I'd like a word," he says, and I step aside.
He enters and moves to the window, glances out at the hedges, then back at me.
"You've been restless," he says.
I nod.
"I'd like to go out tomorrow. Not to the city. Just somewhere with air. Trees. Something that doesn't smell like chlorine and steel."
He studies me for a long moment, and I do not flinch.
I keep my hands loosely clasped in front of me, as though I am asking politely, though both of us know that this is more than a request.
I am beginning to fracture.
I need a reprieve before I do something reckless.
"Where?" he asks.
"I don't know the name. But there's a hill outside of town, past the farms, near the bend in the river. I went there once as a child. It was quiet."
He turns the idea over in his head like a coin, testing its weight.
"Lena will go with you."
"I assumed," I say.
"And no detours. You're to stay on the main road. No switching vehicles. No sudden changes."
"I'm not trying to run. "
His eyes settle on me then, steady and unblinking.
"I know."
There is a pause, delicate as thread.
"Thank you," I say, and I mean it.
He nods, once.
Then he reaches out—not fully, not quite a touch, just the brief sweep of his fingers along the sleeve of my cardigan, the way someone might touch a flame to see if it burns.
I do not move.
He leaves without another word.
The next morning is gray and clean, the sky hung with thick clouds that promise nothing, not even rain.
Lena waits by the car in the side courtyard, dressed in her usual black, her hair tied back so tightly it makes her features look sharper than usual.
I nod to her, and she opens the door.
We slide inside without speaking.
The drive begins in silence, the hum of the engine and the distant ache of the world passing by.
The city peels away slowly, fields widening at the edges, fences giving way to hedgerows, the roads narrowing and curling like ribbon.
"You sure about this place?" Lena asks, her voice low.
"Not really," I say.
"But it's far enough."
We are twenty minutes into the countryside when it begins.
The van behind us has been keeping pace for too long, too steady.
Lena's eyes flick to the rearview mirror, then again.
I feel the shift in her posture before I see anything—her hand tightening on the wheel, her foot easing off the accelerator.
"They're close," she says. "Too close."
I twist in my seat just as the van surges forward, clips our rear bumper, and swerves to block the road ahead.
Another vehicle appears from the hedges—sleek, black, windows tinted—cutting off any retreat.
"Out," Lena barks, already reaching for the handle.
"Now."
I stumble out behind her as the doors of the van slide open.
Two men emerge.
One is wide, built like a slab of granite, the other wiry and fast, already moving.
Lena shoves me backward toward the ditch.
"Run," she says and turns to face them.
I freeze for a heartbeat, then do what I'm told. Behind me, the sounds begin.
The crack of bone against flesh.
The grunt of impact.
The brief, sharp rip of clothing.
I hear Lena snarl—an animal sound—then a body hit the gravel.
I look back once.
She is holding her own.
For a moment, she is brilliant—elbows sharp, footwork flawless, drawing blood from the wiry one with a knife she must have kept in her boot.
But the bigger man catches her at the shoulder, slams her back against the hood, and drives his fist into her ribs with a sickening sound.
I do not scream.
I do not run far.
Another pair of hands grabs me from the hedgerow.
I thrash, land a kick, but it does nothing.
A cloth presses to my face—sharp with chemicals—and the world pulls inward like a closing eye.
The last thing I hear is Lena's voice, breathless and furious, shouting my name like a curse.
Then silence.