"We are our own devils; we drive ourselves out of our Edens." — Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  The engine growls as I press my foot against the gas, the speedometer needle shooting upward. The city blurs past in streaks of neon and darkness, the night air rushing through the open window. There’s something about driving—something freeing, exhilarating. It’s the only time I feel like I have control over my life, the only time I can drown out the weight of what I do.

  I weave through traffic effortlessly, my fingers steady on the wheel. I could do this all night, just drive until the road disappears, but instead, I pull into the underground parking of my apartment complex. The satisfaction of speed fades as I step out of the car, the silence of reality settling in.

  When I walk into the apartment, the first thing I notice is the emptiness. The place is a standard two-bedroom unit with a small kitchen and a modest living area, nothing extravagant, just enough to feel like a home we never truly had. Sarah and I bought this apartment with the money the Syndicator gave us—not that it means freedom. They pay us well, but they also keep track of our every move. Where we go, who we meet when we’re not on a mission—constant surveillance. We’re not allowed to date unless it’s part of an assignment, not allowed to form connections. Just tools in their grand design.

  “Sarah?” I call out, but there’s no answer. I glance around, expecting to see her curled up on the couch with some trashy romance novel or cleaning her guns, but the place is still.

  She’s either on a mission, just like me, or she’s with her secret boyfriend from the normal world—the one the Syndicator knows nothing about. They met at a club, where he worked as a bartender, and somehow, a connection happened. The thought makes me smirk.

  I pull out my phone and type a quick message: Mira: When are you coming home? And bring chocolate pie when you do. I’m craving those.

  Setting the phone down, I head toward the bathroom. The mirror greets me with my own reflection, but I don’t recognize the person staring back. There should be regret in my eyes, something human, something to make me feel like what I did tonight mattered. But there’s nothing—just deep, endless darkness.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  I strip off my dress, stepping into the hot shower, letting the steam surround me. The water scalds my skin, but I don’t flinch. I try to wash away the blood that isn’t even there. I do this every time I kill, trying to feel something—guilt, sorrow, anything—but all I feel is heavy. The weight of emptiness clings to me, a shadow that never fades.

  No matter how much I scrub, it will always be there. The stain of what I am.

  When I finally step out, I wrap myself in a towel, ignoring the fogged-up mirror. I don’t need to see my face again. I crawl into bed, shutting my eyes, willing sleep to take me before my mind can wander too far into the darkness.

  The next morning, the sound of a text buzzing on my phone pulls me from sleep. I blink against the morning light, grabbing the device.

  The Syndicator: 10 AM. Meeting. Be there.

  I let out a long sigh, running a hand over my face. No such thing as an off day in this shitty job.

  Dragging myself out of bed, I wander into the kitchen, where the smell of eggs fills the air. Sarah stands by the stove, flipping them onto a plate, a smile brightening her face.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” she teases.

  I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. “That smile says last night was a really good night with your boyfriend.”

  Sarah blushes, biting her lip. “Yeah… it was.”

  I smirk. “Tell me everything.”

  She rolls her eyes, laughing. “Hold your horses, girl. Don’t you have a meeting with Xavier at ten?”

  I groan, rubbing my temples. “Oh, right. I forgot. No rest for the wicked.”

  “Don’t worry,” Sarah says, setting a plate in front of me. “There will be when we burn the whole organization to the ground.”

  We laugh, but there’s a truth hidden beneath the joke.

  I was thirteen when I met Sarah, trapped in the Syndicator’s training facility, where they forged their weapons and molded their slaves. I had been stolen, sold like a piece of property. But Sarah—Sarah was an orphan, betrayed by her own blood. Her uncle handed her over for a quick fix, another gamble. We found each other in the midst of that nightmare, and we held on. We survived together. We fought together. And when the time came, we killed together.

  She’s the only family I have. The only friend I trust.

  We eat in silence, the weight of our shared past lingering between us, unspoken but understood. Then, with a final sip of coffee, we grab our jackets and head to the Syndicator’s office.

  Another day. Another job. Another step deeper into the abyss.