Chapter 19
The Bloodletting
The warehouse loomed against the night sky like a corpse.
I'd been watching it for hours—or maybe minutes, or maybe days, time had stopped meaning anything except the space between heartbeats.
The building was old, a relic from when this part of the city still manufactured things, still produced goods, still hummed with the industry that had long since moved elsewhere. Now it was empty. Dark. Waiting.
Waiting for me.
I'd found the address in the dispatcher's phone, buried in a thread about "special shipments" and "VIP clients." The man inside was a broker—someone who connected buyers with sellers, who facilitated transactions, who took a cut of every woman sold through Mercy Logistics.
His name was Viktor.
Or maybe Yuri.
Or maybe something else entirely.
I couldn't remember. The name kept slipping, changing, rearranging itself into different letters. I'd stopped trying to hold onto it. Names didn't matter. Faces didn't matter. Only the information mattered—what he knew, where Gabriel was, how to find him.
"You're ready."
Gabriel's voice.
Or maybe my own.
Or maybe something I'd read once, in a file I shouldn't have opened.
I pushed the thought away and moved.
The warehouse door was rusted, the lock ancient, and it yielded to my tools in seconds. The hinges groaned as I pushed it open, a sound like something waking from a long sleep. I slipped inside, and the darkness swallowed me whole.
The interior was vast.
Catwalks stretched across the ceiling, their railings lined with dust. Crates were stacked against the walls, their contents long since removed or looted. The floor was concrete, cracked, stained with oil and something darker.
I could smell him.
Blood.
Sweat.
Fear.
He was here.
He knew I was coming.
He was waiting.
I walked toward the back of the warehouse, my footsteps silent on the concrete, my knife in my hand.
The blade was cool against my palm, familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
Gabriel had given me this knife. Gabriel's hands had placed it in mine.
Gabriel's voice had told me how to use it, where to cut, how deep to go.
"A good girl knows how to end things cleanly."
I wondered if he'd meant me.
I wondered if he'd known what I would become.
I wondered if he'd care.
The office was in the corner of the warehouse, a glass box that had been added sometime in the past decade.
The lights were off, but I could see him inside—a silhouette hunched over a desk, his hands shaking, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He'd heard me. He knew I was here. He was trying to decide whether to fight or run.
He wouldn't have time to do either.
I kicked the door open.
The glass shattered. The sound was deafening, echoing off the walls, and the man screamed—a high, thin sound that made me think of animals caught in traps.
"Please—"
His voice was shaking.
"Please—I have money—I can pay you—"
"I don't want your money."
I stepped through the broken glass, my boots crunching on the shards, my knife held low.
"I want information."
"What kind of information?"
"Gabriel Mire. Where is he?"
His face went pale.
"I don't—I don't know—"
"You're lying."
"I'm not—I swear—I've never met him—"
"You've done business with him."
"No—I—"
"Mercy Logistics. Shipment 47-B. You were the broker."
He stared at me, his mouth open, his eyes wide.
"How do you—"
"I know a lot of things."
I walked toward him, and he backed away, stumbling over a chair, falling to the floor.
"Please—"
"Where is he?"
"I don't know—I swear—I only facilitated the transaction—I never met him in person—"
"Someone did."
"Yes—someone—a woman—she handled the arrangements—"
"What woman?"
"I don't know her name—she used a code—a number—"
"What number?"
"47—I think—47 something—"
Batch 47.
My batch.
My number.
My designation.
Someone else had used my number.
Someone else had been watching.
Someone else had been helping Gabriel hide.
"You're lying."
"I'm not—please—I'm telling you everything—"
"The woman. Where can I find her?"
"I don't know—she always contacted me—I never had a way to reach her—"
"Then you're useless."
I raised the knife.
The torture was methodical.
Almost artistic.
I started with his fingers—small cuts, superficial, enough to make him scream but not enough to make him pass out. He begged. He pleaded. He offered me money, women, information, anything to make me stop.
I didn't stop.
I couldn't stop.
The voices were getting louder.
"He never loved you."
Rue's voice, soft and cruel.
"He'll discard you."
Sasha's voice, flat and tired.
"I'm doing this for him."
My own voice, desperate and broken.
"He'll be proud."
"He'll be proud of me."
"He'll come back."
"He promised."
"He promised."
"He promised."
I don't remember how many cuts I made.
I remember the blood. The way it welled up from his skin, dark and thick, tracking down his chest in paths that looked like rivers on a map. I remember the sounds he made—whimpers, sobs, pleas that blurred together until they were just noise, just background, just the static of a dying radio.
But I don't remember deciding to keep going.
I don't remember choosing each incision, each question, each moment of pressure that made him gasp and beg and promise things he couldn't deliver.
I was operating on instinct.
Gabriel's training.
"When you need information, you don't ask. You take. You peel away the layers until there's nothing left but the truth."
Or maybe he'd said something else.
Maybe he'd told me to be merciful.
Maybe he'd told me that pain was inefficient, that there were better ways, that a skilled interrogator didn't need to draw blood.
I couldn't remember.
I couldn't remember anything except the man's face and the blood and the way his voice cracked when he said the words I didn't want to hear.
"There's a compound in Moscow."
His voice was barely a whisper.
"A place where he might be hiding. I heard... I heard he went there. After the Institute fell. After his brother's people closed in."
"Who owns it?"
"I don't know. Someone connected to the family. Someone who owed him a favor."
"Where in Moscow?"
"I don't know—I swear—I only heard rumors—"
"You're lying."
"I'm not—please—I'm telling you everything—"
The knife pressed deeper.
"Where?"
"I don't know—"
"Where?"
"I don't—"
"WHERE?"
He didn't answer.
He couldn't answer.
He'd stopped breathing.
I killed him.
Clean. Efficient.
The way Gabriel had taught me.
Or maybe the way I'd always known.
I couldn't remember.
I never could.
The knife slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor. I stood over the body, my hands red, my clothes red, the floor red. The blood was everywhere—on the walls, on the desk, on the broken glass that sparkled in the dim light like stars.
I couldn't remember why I'd come here.
I couldn't remember his name.
I couldn't remember anything.
"Daddy."
The whisper was soft.
"Daddy, I found something."
"A compound in Moscow."
"A place where you might be hiding."
"Is it real?"
"Is it another lie?"
"I don't know anymore."
"I don't know anything anymore."
I started laughing.
The sound came out of nowhere—high and broken and wrong, the laugh of someone who'd forgotten how to laugh. It echoed off the walls, bounced off the ceiling, filled the warehouse with something that wasn't joy and wasn't grief and wasn't anything I recognized.
I laughed until I cried.
I cried until I laughed.
I couldn't tell the difference anymore.
The door opened.
I didn't look up. I didn't need to. I knew who it was.
"Bunny."
Matt's voice, soft and steady.
"Bunny, look at me."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can."
I looked up. He was standing in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the light from outside, his expression unreadable.
"How did you find me?"
"Your phone. I tracked it."
"I didn't know you could do that."
"There's a lot you don't know about me."
He walked toward me, stepping over the broken glass, avoiding the blood.
"Come on. We need to get you out of here."
"I can't leave."
"Yes, you can."
"I haven't finished."
"Yes, you have."
He knelt beside me and took my hands. They were red, still wet, still warm.
"Bunny. Look at me."
I looked at him.
"You're in shock. You need to eat. You need to sleep. You need to let me take care of you."
"I don't deserve—"
"It's not about deserving. It's about surviving. And you're going to survive, Bunny. I'm going to make sure of it."
He helped me to my feet. My legs were shaking. My hands were shaking. Everything was shaking, and I couldn't make it stop.
"The body—"
"I'll take care of it."
"How?"
"The same way I've been taking care of things for thirty years. Quietly. Without questions."
He led me out of the office, through the warehouse, into the night.
The car was warm.
Matt helped me into the passenger seat and buckled my seatbelt. The leather was soft. The heater was on. The world outside was dark and cold, but inside the car, it was warm, and I was shaking, and I couldn't make it stop.
"I killed him."
"I know."
"I don't remember his name."
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"Why?"
"Because I want to remember. I want to remember all of them. I want to carry them with me. I want to know that their deaths meant something."
"They meant something."
"What?"
"They brought you closer to the truth. Closer to Gabriel. Closer to whatever comes next."
He pulled away from the curb, and the warehouse disappeared behind us, swallowed by the darkness.
"Where are we going?"
"Home."
"I don't have a home."
"Yes, you do. The bar. The back room. My couch. That's home, for now. It's enough."
"It's not enough."
"It's all we have."
The back room was warm.
Matt helped me to the couch and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. The same blanket. The same couch. The same room that had become my sanctuary, my refuge, the only place I felt safe.
"I need to clean you up."
"I can do it."
"I know. But let me."
He went to the kitchenette and ran the water until it was warm. He brought back a bowl and a cloth and knelt in front of me.
"Give me your hands."
I held out my hands. They were red, still wet, still warm. He took them in his and began to wash them—slowly, gently, wiping away the blood.
"You're shaking."
"I know."
"It's the adrenaline. It'll pass."
"It doesn't feel like it's passing."
"It will. Just give it time."
He cleaned my palms, my fingers, the spaces between. The water in the bowl turned pink, then red, then brown.
"Matt."
"Yeah?"
"Why do you do this?"
"Do what?"
"Take care of me. Clean up my messes. Pretend I'm not a monster."
"You're not a monster."
"I killed him."
"You killed a man who sold women. Who profited from their suffering. Who would have killed you if he'd had the chance."
"That doesn't make it right."
"No. But it doesn't make you a monster either."
He set the cloth aside and dried my hands with a towel.
"You're someone who's been through something terrible. Someone who's trying to survive. Someone who's trying to find answers. That's not monstrous. That's human."
"I don't feel human."
"You don't have to feel it. You just have to be it."
He made me tea.
Chamomile, with honey.
The same kind he always made.
I wrapped my hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into my bones. The shaking had slowed. The tears had stopped. The laughter had faded into something quieter, something that felt almost like peace.
"I remembered something."
"What?"
"A compound in Moscow. He said Gabriel might be there. A place where he went after the Institute fell."
"Do you believe him?"
"I don't know."
"Does it matter?"
"It's a lead. It's something to follow."
"And you're going to follow it."
"Yes."
"When?"
"When I'm ready."
"When will that be?"
"I don't know. Soon. Not yet. But soon."
Matt nodded.
"Then we'll plan. Together."
"You don't have to—"
"I know. But I will."
I finished the tea and set the mug on the table.
The blanket was still around my shoulders. The couch was still warm. Matt was still in the chair across from me, his eyes on my face, his presence steady and calm.
"Matt."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For finding me. For bringing me home. 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."
"Family."
"Yeah. Family."
I lay back against the pillows and closed my eyes.
The darkness behind my lids was soft and warm.
I thought about the compound in Moscow.
I thought about Gabriel.
I thought about the bodies I'd left behind.
I thought about the blood on my hands, washed away now, but never really gone.