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  A quiet gasp bursts from his lips as he scrambles backward onto his knees. His labored breathing deteriorates to wheezes as if his lungs are beginning to fail, and his eyes turn upward, the emerging realization that he’s going to die clouding their pale blue depths with fear.

  All the while, I feel nothing.

  His screams slice through the air like a knife as convulsions overtake him, limb by limb. Driven to the brink of insanity by the pain, he drags his nails across his face, creating lacerations that cover his cheeks. Specks of blood bubble up from the cuts and coat his skin in a glossy sheen.

  I watch his crazed response with boredom, my mind collected and body still, despite the havoc I’m causing his. The half-formed pleas entering my ears do nothing to deter my purpose.

  At last, the whites of his eyes turn red with a sickening pop, and his body crashes to the ground in a fleshy, disfigured heap.

  The surrounding gunfire ceases at the same moment. I peer over my shoulder before crouching to retrieve the dead man’s pistol, and when I straighten up, I notice the unit’s commanding officer out of my peripheral vision. The trepidation in his gaze is genuine, and his mouth opens several times as he trips over words that refuse to exit his throat. In the heavy silence between us, the terror etched into his face seems to scream how much he fears me.

  With every step I take forward, he takes a step back in response. Panic keeps him moving, but it also cripples his body, causing him to stumble over his feet and collide with the ground. I watch with a vague amusement as he struggles like prey caught in a trap it has no hope of escaping. Finally, as if realizing this battle is over, he submits to me.

  His hands tighten into fists as a stuttering breath breaches his lips.

  My eyes narrow as I raise the pistol and press the front of the barrel against his temple. As my fingers dance along the trigger, I’m reminded of the army still standing around me. Their awed stares follow my every movement.

  Inhaling a long, slow breath, I close my eyes and concentrate. Using my senses to feel out every weapon present in the plaza, I bend them to my will, manipulating their power and turning them back on their owners. The resulting screams are drowned out by the sound of gunfire and explosions. Round after round is fired as blood splatters the dirt and stone.

  My tongue caresses my lower lip as I look down into the eyes of the cowering officer in front of me. Without remorse, my finger finds the trigger—the sound of the shot joining the chorus of death ringing like thunder through the city.

  As I watch the steady stream of red seeping from his head, I’m able to decipher what he said in his final moments. What he whispered to me.

  What he called me.

  I hear it again now, his foreign language no longer hiding that one simple word.

  “Monster.”

  I glance at the Enforcer next to me as he slides a keycard through the panel affixed to the wall beside the door. A small light at the top of the console turns green, and a second later, the lock turns with an audible click. The steel entrance slides open, allowing us to pass into the place that’s become my home.

  The DSD.

  I follow the Enforcer as two more trail behind me. Their footsteps keep in perfect time with mine as if they’re the physical embodiment of my shadow. It should unnerve me, but I’ve become accustomed to this procession. Richter says they’re necessary, and as a result, I’m never alone. Not really. He even insists they’re my personal bodyguards, but I know better than to believe his lies.

  The truth is, I’m nothing more than a glorified prisoner.

  We move along the familiar path through the brightly lit hallways. At one point, the fluorescent lights made me nauseous. Now, they’re just another aspect of my life I’ve learned to embrace—a second skin I have to wear if I’m to survive this hellhole.

  Our steps slow as we approach the security checkpoint that bars further entry into the building. A female guard controls the full-body scanner, and all staff members and personnel are required to pass through it. No exceptions, not even for me.

  The DSD is the one place where special clearance doesn’t exist. The work they do here is considered too valuable to risk, so precautions are taken to the utmost extreme. Although, I suppose these limitations are in place to protect me—their prized weapon.

  Their project.

  Without meeting my gaze, the guard indicates with a subtle nod for me to step into the machine, and the Enforcers stand back as I slip inside the cylinder. The tube is made of glass with steel bands lining each pane and stands flush with the nearest wall, extending from floor to ceiling. A large metal ring pulses along the exterior casing, casting my body in a silver-blue glow.

  The scan only takes around thirty seconds. After which, I’m escorted to the other side of the station where my finger is pricked for blood, and my collar is checked for any abnormalities that could suggest a possible breach. It’s examined multiple times a day, not only for my safety but for the safety of everyone here. My collar is the most cherished object in the entirety of the DSD, and ensuring it remains functional is top priority.

  A part of me is curious how it works while another part of me doesn’t really care. It keeps my powers in control, but aside from that, all I know is what Dr. Richter has said in his incomplete explanations. Something about magnetic signals—probably along the same lines as those lightning-like bolts he enjoys shooting into my head. It would make sense, considering I’m always in some degree of discomfort. Like a persistent headache that refuses to die away, the collar keeps me in check by any means necessary. In this case, through pain.

  As Dr. Richter often reminds me, control comes at a cost.

  “You’re all clear,” the guard informs me, interrupting my train of thought.

  As soon as those words leave her lips, the Enforcers return to my side, ready to escort me along the remaining length of the long hallway. Their footsteps never fall too far behind mine, and each click of their heeled boots is like a beating drum in my head. The reminder of their constant presence is almost unbearable.

  Our route takes us into the main area of the laboratory where I notice an older woman standing on the other side of the lobby. A white coat adorns her body, and her posture is upright and still—except for her fingers, which dance across the surface of a computerized tablet. Her gaze flits to mine as if sensing our arrival, and with a tiny gasp, she pushes herself forward. She waves her hand to get my attention before hurrying over to greet us.

  “Hello, Wynter,” she says through a smile.

  I stare at her but say nothing. Focusing back on her tablet, she seems unfazed by my lack of response. I assume she’s grown used to it by now.

  This exchange is nothing more than a formality anyway—the caretaker playing her dutiful role. I never even bothered to learn her name, which just goes to show how little the people here mean to me.

  After a short pause, she adds, “Dr. Richter is waiting for you in Exam Room B.” Lifting her head, she jerks her chin toward the Enforcers, relieving them of their duty with a pointed look.

  I hear their retreating footsteps as she smiles at me once again.

  In a deceptively warm voice, she ushers me farther into the depths of the DSD. “Shall we?” she asks.

  We traverse the corridors, retracing steps I’ve traveled so many times before. I could walk this path blind if I had to—a thought that leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Familiarity is something I neither want nor need here. Yet, it’s something I can’t avoid, even if I try to.

  As if reading my thoughts, the woman beside me spews a heap of verbal filth in my direction.

  “Dr. Richter is pleased with your performance. You should be proud of your progress.”

  Her pitiful attempt at friendly chatter only makes me dislike her more.

  I can feel her eyes watching me, but I don’t turn to face her. Instead, I keep my attention focused ahead until we reach the entrance to Exam Room B. Her fingers flash across the keypad, inputting the
sequence of numbers to unlock the door. As it clicks open, she gestures with her hand for me to enter the room.

  I brush past her, all too aware of the door closing between us.

  I always hate this part.

  The part where I’m left alone with him.

  Taking a deep breath, I glance up to see Dr. Richter leaning against the examination unit with his arms crossed as he appraises me with those perceptive gray eyes. A cool, detached smile appears on his lips.

  “Welcome back.” He straightens up and indicates for me to take a seat on the table.

  A discomforting chill runs along my skin when he pats the metal surface. Crossing the room and hoisting myself up onto the cold slab of steel, I do as I’m told without question, just like usual. Dr. Richter reaches over my shoulder, and I watch as he retrieves a small device off the shelf behind me. It takes everything I have to keep my face vacant of emotion and not recoil from his sudden and unwelcome proximity. When he leans back, his eyes dart to mine before settling on my throat.

  My airways tighten in the same instant he brushes the scanner against my collar. The handheld device beeps, relaying information to the computer beside us. I swallow when he touches my neck, but his fingers slip away as he shifts his attention toward the monitor.

  “Looks good.” Reaching into the pocket of his white coat, he pulls out a flashlight and shines it into my eyes. “Follow the light,” he instructs.

  Once again, I do as I’m told, observing the blinding glare as it swings from side to side in front of me. I can almost feel my pupils dilating, and the burn of the light forms fuzzy black spots across my vision.

  “Excellent.” Clicking off the light, he stows it back inside his pocket.

  My eyes blink a few times to ease the fiery ache, and as I struggle to regain my sight, I’m aware of Dr. Richter watching me. Peering up to meet his gaze, I find the same sense of approval I suspected from him before.

  “The data from your collar has checked out perfectly,” he informs me. “Your vitals are strong, your reactionary responses are superb, and your abilities are evolving at an extraordinary rate. If you maintain this level of progress, it won’t be long until your power knows no limits at all.”

  My lips press together, locking away my voice. For a moment, I wonder if he expects me to respond, but then I notice the way he looks at me—the way he regards me as a prized object or maybe even a pet. An obedient thing rather than a living, breathing human.

  His fingers skim along my arm, sending another shudder across my skin. “You’ve come a long way. When we first began these experiments, we weren’t even sure you’d survive, and now look at you. The perfect specimen we’ve been dreaming of.”

  He leans forward until our faces are mere inches apart before lifting his hand and caressing my cheek. Staring at me with an unwanted fondness in his eyes, his next words are a soft purr of demented adoration.

  “My own little angel of death.”

  My nostrils flare as I suck in a ragged breath. For a split second, I’m reminded of that foreign officer. I remember the way he looked at me and what he said in those final moments.

  “Monster.”

  Dr. Richter lowers his hand, and a weight lifts off my shoulders as the physical contact between us dissipates. Ignoring my reaction, he focuses back on the computer.

  “Are we done here?” I ask in a hollow voice. “I’d like to return to my quarters now.”

  His fingers tap a few times against the desktop, filling the room with a soft eerie echo. “Not just yet.”

  The intensity of his expression when he looks back at me is overwhelming, and I’m struck with an irrepressible urge to shrink away. I ignore the temptation, remaining as tall and as still as possible.

  His eyes narrow as a rush of words parts his lips. “Who’s next?”

  My brow furrows, bowing under the confusion that sits at the forefront of my brain. I scramble to make sense of his question, but nothing adds up to anything resembling a coherent thought.

  With an irritating smirk pulling at the corners of his lips, he raises his hand to adjust his glasses. Clearing his throat, he clarifies. “I wish to know what our next course of action should be in regards to the countries that still pose a threat.”

  I consider him for a moment before casting an uncertain glance around the room. Whenever I’ve been asked to use my power in this way, it’s always involved hooking my body up to a variety of machines. The information I saw was fed to their computers, which allowed them to extract and verify the data for themselves. Usually, I’m nothing more than a sort of leech, sucking out and retrieving the desired information.

  Nothing more.

  Reaching forward, he grips my chin, and with a gentle tug, he tilts my face until I have no other option except to look up at him.

  “This time, I want you to tell me yourself,” he whispers.

  It’s as if he knows what I’m thinking, but I still can’t comprehend why he’d choose to do things differently. Why ask me when he can just see it for himself? He knows what works, so why change the process?

  Or is this just another one of his games meant to test me?

  “Why?” I breathe.

  He runs his free hand through my hair, twirling the strands around his fingers to hold me in place.

  “I think we’ve come far enough. Wouldn’t you agree? Besides, I trust you to be honest with me.”

  His eyes dart to my collar, and as they do, I see the threat in his gaze. He doesn’t have to say anything more to make his warning apparent. My jaw clenches in an effort to hold my strangled emotions at bay. The thought of lying crosses my mind, but the outcome would be far worse than just telling him the truth.

  Any suspicion concerning my answer would only lead him to conduct a test or two to confirm it. Then, of course, there would be the obligatory punishment for my dishonesty. On top of that, there’s my reason for doing this in the first place. I might not remember why I’m here, but I’m fairly certain risking an attack will put whatever I’m trying to protect in jeopardy.

  Taking a reluctant breath, I nod my head.

  Doing what he asks has become easier with time. What used to cause me agony is now as natural as breathing. All I have to do is allow my thoughts to drift, and then I fall into a dreamlike daze where whatever I wish to see appears before me at will.

  As my eyes close, I descend into a separate level of my mind. I’ve seen many places this way, a number of which I’ve had to travel to as a result of what I saw.

  I try not to remember those places.

  My eyebrows scrunch together as I concentrate on any activity that could indicate a potential mobilization against the State. Soon enough, images of a city flash through my thoughts. I see their military. I see the preparations they’re making. I even see enough to gather when the attack will happen. Above all, I see who they are.

  The air catches in my lungs as I’m brought back to the present. My eyes blink a few times, fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird. I exhale, allowing myself a moment before turning toward Dr. Richter. When I fail to speak, his impatience breaks the silence instead.

  “Well?” he asks.

  My right eye twitches in irritation. “An attack will happen in four days’ time.” The voice that rises from my throat is toneless.

  The haunting reality of these moments always makes me feel sick. This new enemy is only attacking because they don’t see any other option. In a desperate bid for domination, the State has launched an all-out assault against the rest of the world, and it’s only a matter of time before we come for them as well. They know this and hope to catch us off guard by moving first, but they fail to realize that victory is an illusion.

  So long as I exist, the State is unstoppable.

  Without another word, he turns back toward the computer, and his fingers skip in a mechanical rhythm across the desktop. A bright blue light shines up from the glass, forming a large holographic image.

  I stare at the round sp
here, watching as it moves in sluggish rotations. My eyes graze over the tiny names that appear across its transparent surface, scanning them for the one that matches the location I saw in the vision.

  My hand shoots out, pointing to a small speck of light on the globe. “There.”

  Dr. Richter presses a button, freezing the image in place. My heart falters as he leans in close to me, the tip of his nose tickling my arm as he follows my finger to the name positioned just beneath it. Standing up tall, he realigns his glasses before peering down at his computerized tablet.

  As he does, I can’t help noticing how familiar this feels. Staring at the luminescent blue sphere in front of me, I’m reminded of something.

  But what?

  A dull buzz resounds through the room when he shuts off the hologram, interrupting my moment of déjà vu. I clear my throat as he turns back to face me.

  For an extended length of time, we stare at each other. His piercing eyes bore into mine as his hand sweeps along the curve of his chin, and the amusement twisting his lips only fuels my annoyance. I’m unnerved by his silence, but I get the distinct impression that he’s once again pleased with me.

  Releasing a soft breath, he looks down at the tablet and swipes his long finger across the top of the screen. “We’re ready for you,” he murmurs.

  The woman from before re-enters the room, smiling when she sees me. Despite her façade of kindness, I know her expression is just as empty as everyone else’s here.

  “Take Wynter back to her quarters, please. We’re finished for the day.” Dr. Richter waves a hand, shooing me like I’m a dog.

  I lower myself off the table without making further commentary or asking questions. After all, I’m used to the way things are done around here now.

  My feet pad in quiet steps across the tiled floor. Focusing on the woman’s back, I watch as she disappears over the threshold, determined to join her as I’m overcome by the desire to get as far away from him as possible. Bile shoots up my throat when the unexpected sound of his voice prevents that from happening. Reaching out, it drags me back with a tormenting hiss.