18. The Obsession Deepens, The Devote (The Mire Institute)

18. The Obsession Deepens

The Obsession Deepens

The photograph had been staring at me for hours.

Gabriel's face was frozen in time, captured at a psychology conference seven years ago, his expression caught somewhere between a smile and something sharper.

He looked younger in the photo. Softer. The lines around his eyes hadn't deepened yet, the silver at his temples hadn't spread, and there was something in his gaze that I couldn't quite name.

Hope?

Ambition?

The ghost of a man who hadn't yet become what he was destined to be?

I didn't know.

I couldn't know.

But I'd been staring at his face for so long that the edges had started to blur, the features shifting, reforming, dissolving into something I almost recognized.

"You're my greatest creation."

The memory came without warning.

I was in the pink room. The lights were dim. Gabriel was holding me, his arms wrapped around my shoulders, his chin resting on top of my head. His heartbeat was steady under my ear, and his voice was soft, softer than I'd ever heard it.

"You're my greatest creation. The best thing I've ever made."

"Daddy."

My voice was small.

"Daddy, don't leave me."

"I won't. I'll come back for you. I promise."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

His voice broke on the word.

I'd never heard his voice break before.

I'd cried, and he'd held me, and I'd believed him.

Because why wouldn't I?

He'd never lied to me before.

Or maybe he had.

Maybe he'd always been lying.

Maybe the memory was a lie.

I blinked.

The apartment came back.

The photo was still in my hands. The edges were soft from being touched too many times, the paper worn thin where my thumbs had traced his jaw.

Had he really said that?

Had he really promised to come back?

Or had I invented it—pulled it from the fog of my fractured memory, woven it from fragments of other conversations, other rooms, other promises that had never been made?

"You're my greatest creation."

The words echoed.

"I'll come back for you."

But he hadn't come back.

He'd left without saying goodbye.

Or maybe he'd said goodbye, and I'd forgotten.

Or maybe I'd never known.

I didn't know.

I couldn't know.

And not knowing was worse than knowing the worst possible truth.

I set the photo down on the desk and stood up.

My legs were stiff from sitting. My back ached. The clock on the wall said it was almost dawn—or maybe dusk, I couldn't tell anymore, the light through the curtains was the same grey it had been for hours.

The wall.

I walked to the far end of the studio, where the patchwork of photographs and documents covered the plaster from floor to ceiling. The red string glinted in the dim light, connecting faces to names, names to places, places to bodies.

Mercy Logistics.

The dispatcher.

The guard.

The warehouse.

The office.

The bodies.

The blood.

All of it connected.

All of it leading somewhere.

Somewhere I couldn't see yet.

But I would.

Soon.

I had to.

I added three new names today.

The first was a buyer—a man in Miami who'd purchased Institute-trained women for his private collection. I'd found his name in the dispatcher's messages, buried in a thread about "special orders" and "premium assets."

Mathew Thorne.

Real estate developer.

Married, two children, active in his church.

He'd bought four women in the past two years.

I pinned his photo to the wall and drew a line to Mercy Logistics.

The second name was a handler—a woman who'd worked for the Institute as a "conditioning assistant," helping Gabriel refine his methods. I'd found her through a contact in Mercy Logistics, a low-level employee who'd traded information for a quick death.

Dr. Heather King.

The third name was a location—a facility outside Prague that specialized in "behavioral modification." I'd found it in the dispatcher's files, listed as a destination for "assets requiring additional conditioning."

The Petrova Clinic.

Run by a woman named Dr. Lina Petrova.

Former colleague of Gabriel's.

Former friend.

Former something else.

I pinned the address to the wall and drew a line to Mercy Logistics, to the warehouse, to the office where I'd killed the guard who'd watched Gabriel work.

The web was growing.

Every thread led somewhere.

Every somewhere led closer to the truth.

The knock on the door was soft.

I knew it was Matt before I looked. He was the only one who visited, the only one who knew where I lived, the only one who cared whether I ate or slept or remembered to drink water.

"Bunny? You in there?"

"Yes."

"You eat today?"

"I..."

I couldn't remember.

"I'll take that as a no."

The door opened. Matt stepped inside, carrying a grocery bag and a paper sack that smelled like warm bread. He looked around the apartment the way he always did—his eyes moving across the wall, the bed, the dishes in the sink—but he didn't comment. He never commented.

"I brought soup. And bread. And some fruit."

"You don't have to."

"I know. But I want to."

He set the bag on the counter and began unpacking. Tomatoes. Apples. A loaf of sourdough wrapped in brown paper. A container of soup that was still warm.

"Sit."

"I'm not hungry."

"Sit anyway."

I sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was soft, worn from weeks of restless sleep, and I sank into it like it was trying to swallow me.

Matt handed me a bowl of soup and a spoon.

"Eat."

"You're bossy."

"Someone has to be."

He sat in the chair across from me—the one he'd brought from the bar, the one that didn't match the rest of the furniture, the one that had become his spot.

"You added more to the wall."

"Yes."

"Who's the new one?"

"A buyer. A handler. A facility in Prague."

"Prague?"

"There's a clinic there. Petrova Clinic. They do... behavioral modification. Conditioning. The same kind Gabriel did at the Institute."

Matt's jaw tightened.

"And you're going after them."

"I'm going to find out what they know."

"And then?"

"I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead."

"Maybe you should."

"Maybe. But not today. Today, I just need to keep going."

The soup was chicken and rice, the same kind he always brought.

I ate it slowly, spoonful by spoonful, savoring the warmth. The bread was soft, still warm from the oven, and I tore off a piece and dipped it in the broth.

Matt watched me eat.

Not in a way that made me uncomfortable—just present, just there, a reminder that I wasn't alone.

"You're getting better at this."

"At what?"

"At being a person. At functioning. At remembering to eat."

"I don't feel like I'm getting better."

"You don't have to feel it. You just have to do it."

He leaned back in his chair.

The sun was setting when Matt finally left.

He stood in the doorway, his hand on the frame, his eyes on the wall behind me.

"You need to sleep tonight. Real sleep. Not the kind where you pass out from exhaustion."

"I'll try."

"That's not good enough."

"It's all I have."

"Then I'll stay."

"You don't have to—"

"I know. But I will."

He walked back inside and sat in the chair. The same chair. The same spot. The same steady presence.

"Matt."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For being here. For not giving up on me."

"I'm not going to give up on you, Bunny. You're the closest thing to family I've got."

The words landed in my chest like something warm.

"Family."

"Yeah. Family."

I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

The wall was watching me.

Gabriel's face.